Blue Smoke and Murder sk-4

by Elizabeth Lowell

  Zach ignored Frost and poured out a few more drops before putting the bottle back in the middle of the table. Slowly.

  Frost shook his head. “For years there wasn’t much call for Dunstans. The overall Western art market is fueled by Western money, mostly oil money, and cheap oil cut into the positional wealth of Dunstan fanciers.”

  “That hasn’t been a problem lately,” Jill said.

  “No, but with art, you have to take a long view.” Frost sipped his red wine, then held the glass up to the light and admired the rich color. “The collector impulse is a dark one. At the highest levels, it’s more a competitive sport than anything else.”

  “Edging right into a blood sport,” Zach agreed.

  “At least I have the satisfaction of knowing that I paid for every piece in my various collections with money I made off other collectors.” Frost smiled slightly. “Sometimes I think that collectors are trying to fill a black hole in their soul with all this stuff, but at least I’ve managed to make a living at it.”

  “I can see where Zach got his cynicism,” Jill said.

  “I did what I could for him,” Frost agreed.

  She rolled her eyes. “There’s more to art than cynicism. Objects have an intrinsic as well as an extrinsic value. I suspect Zach has a highly refined aesthetic sense. And I know that you do,” she told Frost.

  “With that and four hundred-”

  “-dollars you can frame a small painting,” Zach finished.

  Frost sent a hard look across the table.

  Zach ignored it. Right now, the only hard thing that interested him was between his legs.

  “Even among avid dealers and private collectors,” Frost said, “Dunstan collectors are an odd lot. There are really only about ten of them, and most of the fifty canvases have been accumulated by them.”

  “Who?” Zach asked, looking up from his second enchilada.

  “First and foremost, Tal Crawford,” Frost said. “Billionaire. Oil magnate. Horse’s ass.”

  “I thought he was a modernist,” Zach said. “Didn’t he pay a bunch of money for a Warhol about the time I left Taos?”

  “That Warhol was for his office in Boston. The Picassos were for his Manhattan office. The Pollock went to his estate in Martha’s Vineyard. Last I heard, he built a castle south of Reno, along with a cattle ranch that takes up most of the Carson Valley.”

  “So, naturally, he has to have some Western art for all those castle walls,” Jill said.

  “Billionaire and mega-millionaire art collectors are remarkably common,” Frost said. “Nowadays they pretty much drive the art market, no matter what the genre. Positional art is sending prices sky-high across the board. More beer?” he asked her.

  “What about me?” Zach didn’t want one, but he couldn’t pass up the chance to pull Frost’s chain.

  “You know where the refrigerator is,” Frost said.

  “None for me,” Jill said.

  “You sure?” Zach asked. “You can crawl over my lap to get out.”

  “You’re such a Y gene,” she said under her breath.

  Grinning, he took a sip of his first and only beer.

  Frost ignored them. “Actually, Tal might not be in the billionaire’s club these days. Rumor is that in the last decade he’s been real good at turning millions into thousands. Maybe that’s why he’s been concentrating on Western art in general and Dunstan in particular.”

  “Easy to make a big splash in a small pond?” Zach asked.

  “Yes.”

  “If the Dunstans go for four mil and up, that’s a pretty big pond,” Jill said.

  Frost shrugged, unimpressed. “Not really. From what I’m hearing, the Dunstans in Las Vegas will go for as high as ten million.”

  “It’s all relative,” Zach said. “Remember the Klimt?”

  Jill drew in a breath, then let it out. “Yeah. Way more than ten million. It’s just…” She shook her head. “That many zeros don’t seem real to me.”

  “Crawford has been collecting for thirty years,” Frost said. “One way or another, especially in the last few years, he’s bought every Dunstan that came on the market, plus some right out of private collections. Word is he’s the Bigfoot behind a Nevada state museum project that will house the best Dunstan collection in existence, mainly because it will be the only Dunstan collection in existence.”

  Jill glanced toward Frost’s great room. “There are two unquestionably authentic Dunstans he won’t own.”

  “Don’t think I haven’t been tempted by his offers,” Frost said. “I could easily get seven million for my bigger Dunstan, but I can’t afford to sell it.”

  “Why not?” Jill asked. “Besides your love of the painting, of course.”

  “Taxes,” Frost said. “I’d have to shell out a huge amount of money on the difference between the purchase price and the appreciated price, and I’m damned if I think the government has earned it.”

  “I should have tax problems like that,” Jill said.

  “If we can authenticate your paintings, you will,” Zach said.

  “What?”

  “Estate taxes,” he said.

  “Modesty Breck’s estate is officially closed or paid out or whatever the lawyer’s call it,” Jill said.

  Zach looked at Frost, who shrugged.

  “It might fly,” Frost said. “And it might not. Government always wants more money. It’s how they buy votes.”

  “You mean I might have to sell half the paintings to pay estate taxes on the other half?” Jill asked.

  “Or donate them to a museum and thereby hang on to the others for ‘free,’” Frost said. “Donations are about saving taxes, not civic responsibility.”

  “Welcome to the wonderful world of taxes and family finances,” Zach said. “And lotteries. No matter who wins, government always gets about half of the jackpot.”

  She reached for her beer and took a long swallow. “Remarkable. Why haven’t we had a revolution?”

  “Too few winners.” Zach finished off a final bite of tamale and looked at Frost. “Do you have any way to get us in with Tal Crawford?”

  Frost laughed. “It’s easier to get a picture taken with the president.”

  “Maybe Steele knows someone who knows someone,” Zach said.

  “I could get to one of the dealers Crawford uses,” Frost said, “but that’s still a long way from Crawford. Besides, he’s as likely to be in Africa or Venezuela as he is in Nevada or New Mexico.”

  “I’d like to see what his reaction is to a dozen new Dunstans,” Zach said.

  Frost slid out of the nook. “I’ll call some people. If Crawford is west of the Mississippi, I’ll find out. But only because I like you,” he said to Jill. “If it were just for the cowboy you’re traveling with…”

  Zach watched Frost disappear from the kitchen, leaving him with the dirty dishes. It wasn’t the first time that had happened. If Zach stayed, it wouldn’t be the last.

  And he didn’t have much choice except to stay.

  45

  TAOS

  SEPTEMBER 15

  8:05 P.M.

  Score eased open the side door of the van. The dome light didn’t come on, because he’d smashed it. Streetlights were few and far between. Probably because the “sidewalk” was a strip of dirt along the narrow side street between what passed for a curb and the adobe walls of the houses. Despite the cheerful B amp;B, tourism hadn’t really caught on in the neighborhood of high fences and iron gates.

  Two streets over, traffic came and went along a strip of restaurants and galleries. No one turned down the narrow lane lined with thick adobe walls and inward-facing houses in the old Spanish style.

  Time for a little recon.

  His pistol rode uncomfortably in its belt holder. Silencers were always a pain. But they were a useful pain.

  He really wished he didn’t have a bad feeling about this op. Maybe it was just his natural paranoia. Maybe it was the six shipping cartons that had been dri
ven to the house of a Western art expert.

  Maybe it was the adobe walls closing in. Houses like fortresses lining dark lanes. Enough to make a man look over his shoulder.

  Score shook off the uncomfortable feeling and concentrated on his work. Walking casually, like someone with every right to be where he was, he strolled down the dark, rough dirt path.

  When he got to the gate, it was just the way it had looked through his binoculars. Closed. Locked. Good alarm, well installed. From the street side, the electronics that operated both gate and alarm were out of reach.

  He turned to the adobe walls. If they had been meant to keep out intruders, they weren’t very good for the job. Regularly spaced tile niches offered a fast way to the thick tree branches that overhung the walls.

  Score went up.

  No razor wire on top of the thick wall. No sensors. No broken glass. No bells or whistles. Nothing but dust and a few dead leaves.

  Frost might as well put out welcome mats.

  Score smiled. People that careless deserved whatever happened to them.

  He dropped lightly down into the yard behind a tree trunk. After a few minutes of listening and watching, he glided up to the Dodge Magnum.

  Locked.

  Electronic security.

  The St. Kilda op isn’t careless, even if Frost is.

  Since there was no light coming through any of the windows on the street side of the house, Score risked a quick flash of his penlight into the Magnum. Shipping cartons, just the way the man at the airport had described. Six of them. Closed up tight.

  Looks like Frost wasn’t real eager to help out by appraising the paintings.

  Assuming they’re paintings in the cartons rather than something to throw anyone who cares off the trail. St. Kilda has more tricks than a school for magicians.

  Score turned off the penlight and faded back into the cover of the tree trunk. He could steal the car, but that was a fool’s game. Even if he got through the gate security, this close to the Mexican border a lot of the more expensive rental jobs had a hidden locater built right into the vehicle.

  Trying to take the shipping cartons out of the Dodge one by one didn’t appeal to Score. Six trips up and over the wall with a crate was begging for trouble.

  No matter what he decided to do, he’d have to wait until everyone inside the house was asleep. Or gone. There was nothing to guarantee that the op and the Breck woman wouldn’t leave the house at any moment. Frost’s reputation for being a difficult bastard was part of his record. He was more likely to throw out the op than he was to help St. Kilda.

  Score smiled thinly. He’d wait and see what happened. A motel parking lot would be a lot easier to work with than Frost’s driveway.

  He went back over the wall as silently as he’d come.

  Nobody noticed.

  He eased back inside the van and resumed watching the only vehicle entrance and exit to the old adobe house. If no one in the house moved out by midnight, he’d leave long enough to get some supplies from the 24/7 mini-mart/gas stations near the edge of town. Then he’d come back, make a commotion, and pick off anyone who was stupid enough to run outside.

  If nothing else, it should slow down the opposition long enough for the auction to take place.

  After that, he didn’t care what happened.

  46

  TAOS

  SEPTEMBER 15

  8:30 P.M.

  That hasn’t changed,” Zach said, disgusted.

  “What?”

  “Lupita won’t be in tomorrow and Garland will do anything to avoid dishes.” Zach began collecting dirty plates. “Figures it’s beneath him, I guess.”

  Jill laughed. “How long have you two been pretending to dislike each other?” she asked as she joined him in clearing the table.

  “Pretending?”

  “Pretending. You’re not fooling anyone except yourselves.”

  Zach scraped plates into the garbage disposal and stacked them on the counter. Jill opened the dishwasher and began loading it.

  “I went to work for Frost my last few years of college,” Zach said. “Unpaid intern, and worth every cent, he used to say. I finally got a paycheck after six months. I stayed for five years. But…” He shrugged. “The place wasn’t big enough for both of us.”

  “Two captains on a ship is one too many,” she agreed. “First thing you learn on the river.”

  Smiling, Zach opened a drawer and pulled out an old brass key. “C’mon. I’ll walk you to your room. I put your backpack in there earlier.”

  “What about my belly bag?”

  “Stuffed in the backpack. You need it?”

  “No.”

  She followed him into the crisp, high mountain air. A breeze shifted dead leaves across the Spanish tiles of the courtyard. The splash of a fountain was like soft laughter in the darkness.

  Zach opened the door of a small cottage and stepped aside for Jill to enter. As she brushed by him, her warmth and subtle fragrance made his body tighten even more.

  He shut the door behind him. The only light in the room came from a wall niche holding a small, ancient pottery cup.

  “When I left Frost,” Zach said, hanging the key on a nearby nail, “I wasn’t planning on coming back. Ever. One of Frost’s old business associates hired me on at the CIA, advising people on the international art market.”

  “I wouldn’t think the CIA would have much use for art,” Jill said, going to the fireplace.

  “You’d be wrong. There’s a lot of diplomacy and international intelligence work involved in the art trade. The Russians alone have laundered hundreds of millions of black dollars through high-end auction houses in London and New York.”

  A long match flared in the darkness. Jill touched flame to the dry tinder and small branches in the fireplace.

  “Whatever happened to art for the sake of art?” she asked, straightening.

  “Reality.” Zach walked until he stood close to her and the graceful dance of flames. “But I wasn’t any happier being a bureaucrat than I was as a gofer for an arrogant genius. So when Ambassador Steele made me an offer of contract work, I jumped.”

  Jill turned and looked at Zach. Really looked at him.

  She liked what she saw.

  “What?” he asked. “Is my nose on backward?”

  “I didn’t get to read your dossier, so I’m at a disadvantage.”

  His whiskey eyes were nearly gold with the reflection of fire. “You didn’t miss anything worthwhile.”

  “For work, probably not. But for play…?” She waited.

  He went still. The tactile memory of her hard nipples was burning at the edges of his mind like fire.

  “Ask away.” His voice was too husky, but he could no more change that than he could the fit of his jeans, tighter with every heartbeat.

  “Are you involved with anything other than St. Kilda and old muscle cars?” Jill asked.

  “Like what?”

  “A woman.”

  “No. You?”

  “I prefer men.”

  “Plural?” he asked, deadpan.

  “I think one of you is all I can handle.” Probably more than I can handle, she admitted silently, but finding out will be a wild ride.

  Just the way she liked it.

  Zack wrapped his hand around the back of Jill’s neck and drew her close, then closer still, until he could feel her from his mouth to his knees.

  “Are you thinking what I hope you’re thinking?” he asked.

  “If your thoughts include two of us and one bed, yes.”

  “Bed, floor, wall, whatever. I’m easy.”

  “You’re hard,” she said against his neck, “which makes you easy.” And too tempting to pass up.

  The feel of her tongue lightly tasting him made Zach’s breath break. “You’re making me forget my lecture about the dangers of mixing business and pleasure.”

  “Running rivers is my passion and my work. Where’s the downside?”

  “
Damned if I know.”

  Jill went up on tiptoe as his arms closed around her. The kiss was like Zach-strong, hot, hard, as exhilarating as the moment when the rapids took the raft.

  All the anger and fear that Jill had been working to control since she’d found her vandalized car flashed into passion. The hunger that shook her was unlike anything she’d ever felt before. After her virginal curiosity had been satisfied in college, she’d rarely taken a lover. The river had been much more exciting than any man.

  Until now.

  Zach felt the passion trembling in Jill, heard her husky sound of hunger, and forgot everything but her taste, her heat, her skin sliding beneath his hands and tongue.

  The bed was across the room.

  Way too far.

  He tossed her blouse over his shoulder and bent to the hard nipples that had been driving him crazy since dinner. Just as he sucked one of them into his mouth, he felt the cool breath of the room on his back as she peeled off his shirt and threw it aside.

  The feel of her hands on the fly of his jeans made him flush with heat.

  “Condom,” he managed.

  “Where?” she said against his bare chest, biting him with tiny little movements of her head.

  “Back pocket.”

  “I was hoping for the front.”

  His laugh became a groan as one of her hands opened his fly and the other hand fished slowly for a condom in one of his back pockets.

  “You’re a tease,” he said.

  “You’re worth teasing.”

  The approval in her voice and her hand stroking him almost made him lose it right there.

  “Other pocket,” he said hoarsely.

  Her hand slid inside his underwear and emerged a few seconds later wrapped around him. He said something low and rough as her fingers and then her mouth caressed him.

  “That’s it,” he said. “School’s out.”

  A few seconds later Jill found herself naked and on her back next to the fire. Zach went to his knees between her legs, slid the condom into place, and tested her heat with his finger. Her liquid response and the scent of her arousal made him glad he was already on his knees, because sure as hell she would have brought him there. She was slick and hot and tight, her skin flushed with passion, her hips lifting to meet his touch.