St Kilda Consulting 04 - Blue Smoke and Murder

from the truck bed, followed by Jill’s backpack. Her belly bag was looped through one of the backpack’s many fasteners.
    “You want your ‘purse’ with you or with the rest of the luggage?” he asked her.
    “If it’s with the luggage, can I get to it during the flight?”
    “Not easily.”
    “Give it to me, then.”
    He unfastened the waist pack and tossed it toward her. Though stuffed to bursting, the pack didn’t weigh much.
    “Any special reason you’re keeping the canvas scraps?” Zach asked. “Even if the rest of the paintings are solid gold, the shredded one isn’t worth anything.”
    “When I want to strangle you, I think of the rags. My temper improves dramatically.”
    Zach smiled. “Good plan. Let’s go.”
    He headed toward the plane.
    “Where are we going?” she asked.
    “Up, up, and away.”
    “Zach—”
    “Try something new,” he cut in. “Trust me.”
    “I’d rather count canvas rags,” she shot back.
    “And I’d rather be reconditioning the muscle car I left in the Eureka’s parking lot. In or out, Jill. Your choice.”
    Without a word she headed for the plane.

27
    OVER CALIFORNIA
SEPTEMBER 15
6:30 A.M.
    T he small plane took a sudden downward swoop, then settled into a bouncy kind of stability as it cleared the Cajon Pass and rushed toward the high desert country. Below, a freeway unrolled in two wide, curving bands covered with traffic.
    Score woke up, rubbed his eyes, and booted up his computer. The first thing he opened was the latest script summary Amy had e-mailed. There were a few more words this time, but paintings still weren’t mentioned. Something about scraps and rags, canvas and belly pack. He switched to the GPS file.
    They’re on the move.
    The subjects had stopped somewhere outside of Colorado City. Then suddenly they’d started making good time, heading north to Utah, way too straight a travel line for a highway.
    He turned on his microphone and asked the pilot, “Is there an airstrip near Colorado City?”
    “Yeah. Not much to it, but it’s there.”
    “Do you have to file a flight plan for it, coming and going?” Score asked.
    “These days if you fart, you file a flight plan. Why?”
    Score didn’t answer. He switched to e-mail, sent a blast to his office, and waited.
    He didn’t have to wait long. Flight plans, no matter how small the strip, were of interest to Homeland Security and the FAA, and quite available on the public record.
    “We need to file a new flight plan,” Score said to the pilot.
    “What?”
    “We’re going to Snowbird, Utah.”
    The pilot started to say something, then shrugged. If the wind cooperated, there was plenty of fuel to make Salt Lake City and still stay within safety regulations. If not, they could refuel in Las Vegas.
    She entered the new destination into the onboard computer, filed the change, waited for the okay, and adjusted course.
    “The additional cost will be added to your credit card,” the pilot said.
    “Just get me to Snowbird.”

28
    OVER UTAH
SEPTEMBER 15
9:30 A.M.
    Z ach switched his headphone from sat/cell input to the plane’s passenger intercom. As he did, he frowned at the battery reading on his sat/cell phone. No way to recharge in the air. Hopefully, there wouldn’t be any need.
    Leaning over, he switched Jill’s headphones from canned music to passenger intercom. She glanced at him in silent question.
    “Nothing on Blanchard,” he said.
    “I’m shocked.” She tried not to yawn.
    “Ramsey Worthington is the new big thing on the Western fine arts circuit. He’s planning to go public, turning himself into a kind of Western Sotheby’s.”
    “Fascinating.” She covered another yawn.
    “No blots on Worthington’s record. Not so much as a speeding ticket. Big on the charity circuit, whether it’s Mormon or Catholic or Hollywood.”
    “Hollywood is a religion?”
    “Believe it,” Zach said. “If you don’t genuflect at the altar of Hollywood’s latest cause du jour, you’re dog food.”
    “Good thing I don’t plan to be a movie star.”
    He smiled. “Yeah. No one has responded to your JPEG queries.”
    That got her attention. “I didn’t give you my e-mail password.”
    “Looks like you’re being ignored by the Western art literati.”
    “Zach, I didn’t give you my—”
    He kept talking. “A few months ago, one of Worthington’s colleagues sold a Charles M. Russell oil. It was described as ‘one of his better, but certainly not his best work.’ It