St Kilda Consulting 04 - Blue Smoke and Murder

wheels?” he asked.
    “If she did, the bug wasn’t in range for the transaction. But the progress of the locater is right in line with what I’d expect from a car on the road.”
    “That’s the trouble with satellite phones. Too expensive for most people to keep close like a cell phone. It’s probably out of voice range a lot of the time.”
    “She hasn’t used it,” Amy agreed. “Maybe she bought a cell phone.”
    “Not from any carrier in Mesquite or Page.”
    Hacking into business records was Score’s specialty. Cell phones, landlines, credit cards, airlines, hotels, restaurants, jewelry stores, state and federal government—if information was out there, so were Score’s clever employees.
    “Maybe the cell carrier hasn’t registered her account in their main computer yet,” Amy said.
    “Or maybe she got smart and bought a throwaway,” he said.
    “That’ll make it tough for us.”
    Score didn’t answer. He was scanning the second page of the script. “Two voices? You sure?”
    “One female, same pattern as you recorded when you called her,”Amy said, scratching her head with a pencil. “One male, identity unknown.”
    Frowning, Score read the few verifiable words to come out of the mush of sound that the bug had sent to his computer. Then he swore under his breath. The word paintings had appeared more than once.
    Is she talking about them being burned?
    Is she selling them?
    Does she really have them or were the JPEGs pre-burn files?
    Is it all a scam?
    Had the old lady’s grandniece been in on it from the jump?
    The garbled signal didn’t have any answers. Neither did his own experience with Modesty and Jillian Breck. Modesty had died before she talked. Jill had been clever enough to avoid his trap altogether.
    Even ducks know what to keep away from during hunting season. Dodging me in Mesquite didn’t exactly require big smarts on her part.
    But it irritated the hell out of him.
    Score tossed the script aside with a curse. “Keep after it. And if that bug moves from its present location, tell me ASAP.”
    “How far? The government is dicking with the GPS again. Three-hundred-foot radius of error.”
    “Set up a one-mile guard perimeter. Tell me if or when she breaks that fence. Even ten feet beyond that mile. Got it?”
    “Got it.” Amy stood and headed for the door. The green tips of her hair bounced stiffly.
    Score read the script again and again. Nothing new popped. Except his blood pressure. He really needed to hit the gym before someone stupid redlined his temper.
    But more than a workout, he needed to find out what the Breck bitch was up to.
    He looked at his calendar. He didn’t have too many appointments in the next few days that couldn’t be handled by other employees,but he had a few he should handle. He supposed he could assign another operative to Breck.
    Not likely. Not with the old lady dead. Even if they busted it down to manslaughter, I’d do hard time.
    This one I keep real close.
    Silently he rubbed thumb against index finger, wondering if he should get closer to the Breck woman now or risk waiting.
    If she had the paintings, yes, he should be closer.
    If she didn’t, no.
    If. If. If.
    He laughed out loud, the sound as reckless as he’d like to be. But he was too smart to be stupid.
    I should cut back on the ’roids .
    Not yet. It’s too much fun twisting big guys’ dicks .
    He shook his head over the skinny runt he’d once been and went back to his calendar. If he had to, he could handle the Breck woman and not be missed from work.
    He almost hoped she’d make him do it.

19
    RENO
SEPTEMBER 14
1:38 P.M.
    C aitlin Crawford glanced up from the computer in her home office as her husband walked in. He looked out of place among the sleek modern furniture she loved. He was dressed like a weekend cowboy who’d never been on a horse. In the decade they had been married, she still hadn’t gotten used to his wardrobe. But she’d learned to accept it.
    A rich man was entitled to his oddities.
    And it was really odd that Tal had taken her for his third wife solely because she came from an upper-crust Pasadena family who could no longer afford its good breeding. He’d acquired her like one of his paintings, enjoyed parading her “class” in front of his friends and business associates, and kept on wearing his hick cowboy boots and bolo ties.
    And losing money.
    He has a lot to lose, she reminded herself. Anyone who can afford Pollock and Picasso has more