St Kilda Consulting 04 - Blue Smoke and Murder

oils,” she continued, “the more I began to wonder if these paintings weren’t quite valuable. They’re very good. In my opinion, anyway, which isn’t worth a penny.”
    Zach wanted to rip the fat rectangle out of Jill’s hands. But all he did was ask, “Didn’t your great-aunt ever have the paintings appraised?”
    Jill shook her head. “My grandmother never wanted the paintings seen by anyone. Modesty agreed, and kept that promise even after her sister died.”
    “That’s odd.”
    She shrugged. “Modesty raised odd to an art.”
    “Then why did she finally send one of the paintings out to be appraised?”
    “I’m guessing it was the taxes on the ranch. We’re land poor. I just keep wondering…” Jill’s voice faded.
    “What?”
    “If she would still be alive but for the tax bill. It’s paid now, by the way. Back taxes, death taxes, the whole greasy tortilla. It took every head of stock she owned, plus the insurance settlement for the fireand accidental death. Next year…” Jill shook her head. “Next year the land will be on the market. Unless those paintings are worth something, I can’t afford to keep the Breck ranch. And I’m damned if I’ll hand it over to my fundamentalist brothers.”
    Zach looked out the cabin’s open door, across the sloping bench of land the ranch sat on to the dry canyons and low ridges that ran all the way to the north rim of the Grand Canyon ten miles distant. The ranch was beautiful in the way of the arid West, the kind of spare, demanding beauty that most people couldn’t see.
    Jill could. Her eyes and her voice told Zach that she loved the land. She was hoping the paintings would allow her to keep the ranch.
    “Art is a funny business,” he said. “Getting funnier every day.”
    “From what I’ve gathered online, there’s huge money in the art market.”
    “And no way to value a painting but its last auction price,” he said. “Or the second-to-last price—that’s the one two people were willing to pay.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Art is like everything else. It’s worth what someone’s willing to pay for it. Period. In order to make people pay more, much more, auctioneers and experts churn out a lot of blue smoke. The painting being flogged doesn’t change from one decade to the next. Only the volume and quality of blue smoke varies. And the price of the art.”
    “You think my paintings are worthless?” she asked.
    “I haven’t seen them, have I?”
    She smiled slowly. “Thought you’d never ask.”

21
    HOLLYWOOD
SEPTEMBER 14
1:50 P.M.
    S core had barely ushered a rich new client out of his office before Amy strode in, all but slamming the door behind her. The green tips of her hair quivered with anger.
    “The next time you tell me ASAP,” she said, “take my calls.”
    He grabbed his temper before he decked her. He needed Amy’s head right where it was, on her shoulders. He’d always had a temper, but lately it was on a hair trigger.
    ’Roids.
    No. I do steroids, they don’t do me. It’s this damn Breck case that’s jerking me off.
    “The bug on subject Breck has moved about three miles northeast from its initial site,” she said.
    “What’s three miles away?”
    “According to the map you gave me, a lot of nothing. It’s Nowhere, Arizona.”
    Modesty’s taunting words came back to Score.
    This house was built by pioneers, people who lived alone and protected themselves. They built hidey-holes that even the Paiutes couldn’t find.
    “Anything on the phone bug?” he asked.
    “No more than I already gave you. The subject must be away from her sat phone.”
    Score looked at his schedule, swore under his breath, and wished he knew what the Breck girl was up to.
    He didn’t want to leave Hollywood right now.
    And he couldn’t afford to boot the Breck case. That particular client was too important.
    “Tell me if you get anything on the phone bug,” Score said, “or if it leaves the ranch boundaries. And there’s a bonus if you get anything solid out of the phone.”
    “Define solid.”
    “I’ll know when you tell me.”

22
    BRECK RANCH
SEPTEMBER 14
1:58 P.M.
    W ithout a word, Jill unwrapped more paintings and leaned them against the wall.
    Zach was equally silent.
    The paintings were riveting.
    Holy hell. Frost would get hard looking at just one of them. Twelve is staggering.
    The canvases ranged from eight-by-twelve to thirty-four-by-forty inches. Just canvas and stretchers, no frames. If they were