Blue Smoke and Murder sk-4

by Elizabeth Lowell

  Jill looked from the photo to the man whose fingers were arthritic from winters spent chasing stubborn cows out of nameless ravines.

  Were things really simpler then?

  Or does it just seem that way now?

  She put the change in her belly bag, went to the car, pulled back onto the road, and settled in for an unknown time of driving before her sat phone rang with new instructions.

  She’d no more reached cruising speed when her phone came alive. She eased off the gas and answered.

  “What?” she demanded.

  “A sheriff’s car will stop you. Do what the deputy says.”

  The connection ended.

  “O frabjous day,” she said bitterly. “The local cops are friends with the other guys.”

  Silence answered.

  It was all she’d expected.

  78

  SAN DIEGO

  SEPTEMBER 17

  6:18 P.M.

  Grace had watched and listened while her husband peeled away layers of bureaucracy until he got to the man in charge. She stayed silent, because the phone was on speaker.

  Besides, she’d already done her part by calling a retired federal judge and having him talk to the sheriff’s secretary.

  “So what you’re saying, Sheriff, is that you won’t tell me why your deputy singled out that particular young woman and told her to follow him?” Faroe’s voice was mild, gentle.

  Grace winced. She’d learned that when her husband sounded most gentle, he was the most dangerous.

  The sheriff might have to learn, too.

  Faroe’s hand gripped the phone hard. He wished it was the sheriff’s balls.

  “No, I won’t tell you,” the sheriff said impatiently. “None of your business, no matter how many retired judges your wife knows.”

  “Then I’ll guess why your deputy decided to pull the woman over,” Faroe said. “My teenage son did a quick database check of contributions to your last election. You received thirty thousand dollars and change in campaign contributions from a group of law-abiding folks up in Carson City.”

  “What does-”

  Faroe kept talking. Gently. “That’s a lot of money in a little county like yours, so I asked my son to check out those Carson City names. It took him maybe thirty seconds to find links between five of the ten contributors. Seems like they’re all members of the same law firm. Are you following me okay, Sheriff?”

  “You’re wasting my-”

  “My kid could start a court-records search on one of the proprietary databases that covers your state,” Faroe continued gently, relentlessly. “But I’m betting he’ll find that the law firm has only one real client, and more digging would prove that single client is the source of your campaign funds. Do you want me to name that client?”

  Silence, then a sigh. The sound of papers being stacked. The click of high heels on tile as some woman came and went from his office.

  “What do you want?” the sheriff asked.

  “St. Kilda Consulting is engaged in a murder, arson, and robbery investigation in behalf of the young woman who is presently being intimidated by your deputy, acting in behalf of your big-time donor,” Faroe said.

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “Just doing a favor for a big man, huh?”

  “Nothing illegal about it,” the sheriff said. “The deputy has to patrol the area around Beaver Tail Ranch anyway.”

  Quickly Grace typed the destination into her mapping program.

  “Odd name for a ranch in the desert,” Faroe said, watching Grace.

  “We have some odd ranches here. Again, nothing illegal.”

  The printer spat out a piece of paper. Grace handed it to Faroe.

  “You keep telling yourself that, Sheriff. Then you listen real good when I tell you that you’re in danger of becoming accessory after the fact to murder.”

  “That’s a load of BS,” the sheriff shot back. “There haven’t been any murders in my county in nine months.”

  “If you want to keep your record clean,” Faroe said, “you’ll get on the radio to your deputy and tell him to call in as soon as he leads Ms. Breck to her destination. Then you’ll tell your deputy to haul his ass back out to Highway 93 and drive north to”-he looked at the map Grace had printed out-“milepost marker 418. Should I repeat that?”

  “No.”

  “Tell your deputy to stop at marker 418, turn on the light bar, and block all southbound traffic for the next ten minutes.”

  “What for?”

  “Road hazard,” Faroe said. “A small private aircraft will touch down south of him and let off a passenger. As soon as the plane takes off again, your deputy can turn off his light bar and head north.”

  “Why north?”

  “Because you want to keep your job. And if you let your good, rich friend know what’s happening, I will guarantee that you won’t be able to get work anywhere, including picking up trash at a downscale cathouse.”

  “If you’re wrong-”

  “I’m not.”

  Faroe punched out.

  “Will he do it?” Grace asked.

  Faroe let out a long breath. “Zach will be the first to know.”

  79

  OVER NEVADA

  SEPTEMBER 17

  6:22 P.M.

  Contact continues,” Zach said into the microphone that went to the men on the ground who were shadowing Jill, front and rear. “White sheriff’s car with blue-and-red light bar is still behind Jill, about a quarter mile back. He may be looking for company. Keep giving him a lot of space.”

  The sound of microphones popping in agreement came through the small headset Zach wore.

  He looked out through the aircraft’s windscreen at the road ahead, straight and black to the far horizon. Trucks and a few RVs were most of what little traffic there was.

  “What’s out here for the next hundred miles?” Zach asked the pilot.

  “Sand, rock, and rabbitbrush. And maybe a half-dozen whorehouses.”

  “Whorehouses? Out in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Roger that,” the pilot drawled. “There are thirty accredited brothels in the state of Nevada. I think at least half of them are along Highway 93. Chances are, if you see a settlement beside the road, it will have a name like ‘The Lobster Ranch’ or ‘Kangaroo Court.’”

  “Lobster Ranch?”

  The pilot grinned. “Yeah. Like the sign says, ‘Not too many lobsters but a whole lot of tail.’”

  “Maybe that’s why I never chased classic cars down there,” Zach said, sweeping the landscape with his binoculars. “I thought there weren’t enough people to leave behind junkyards. But from up here, I’ve noticed several small ones off the highway.”

  “Probably old ranches. Everybody down there now is dead or driving through. Truckers, mostly.”

  “Hence the tail ranches.”

  “They’re state-regulated,” the pilot said, glancing automatically at the control panel. “All the girls get checked once a week. Newspapers carry the results in the public notices, just like restaurant inspection reports.”

  Zach laughed out loud at the thought of government-inspected tail. “Nevada. Gamble with your money, not your health. Gotta love it.”

  He kept the binoculars on the patrol car.

  It kept the same interval behind Jill for five miles.

  Zach switched the headphones to his sat/cell and punched in a number. A St. Kilda communications specialist answered instantly.

  “Balfour in Nevada,” Zach said. “We’re still in contact. Still an open tail, county sheriff’s car, quarter mile behind the Caddy.”

  “Roger.”

  “Get ready to coordinate communications if I have to set down.”

  “Standing by.”

  Zach popped the microphone in answer and switched over to the BlackBerry’s bug frequency just in time to hear Jill talking to Mary.

  “The patrol car will lead me to the meeting,” Jill said.

&
nbsp; He couldn’t hear what Mary said.

  “Hopefully the next call I make will be the one you’re waiting for.”

  A pause.

  “Stay close to the phone,” Jill said.

  Zach’s sat/cell vibrated. He switched over to it. “What?”

  “The destination may be Beaver Tail Ranch,” Faroe said. “If the sheriff is smart, the deputy will drop her there and head for milepost 418. He’ll stop traffic southbound. We’ll stop it northbound. Once the deputy turns on his light bar, land ASAP and get to the car that will be waiting by the road. I don’t want to lose this client.”

  “I’m not real happy with the idea myself,” Zach said. “And I’m less happy about seeing the cops on the opposition’s side.”

  Faroe grunted. “Money talks. Crawford has it. After I had a little come-to-Jesus talk with the sheriff, he agreed to stay out of our way.”

  “You sure of this?” Zach asked.

  “No.”

  “Hold.” He turned to the pilot. “Is there a Beaver Tail Ranch close by?”

  The pilot looked at the land and pointed into the distance. “Up ahead where the dead trees are.”

  Zach went back to the phone. “I trust somebody at St. Kilda took apart the state of Nevada to see where Crawford put the fix in?”

  “The governor owes Crawford,” Faroe said. “So does a state senator and a few odd congressmen. So does the sheriff.”

  “Since when are corrupt politicians odd?” Zach asked.

  “The sheriff thought he was doing a favor for a wealthy man who supports the local law. Nothing unusual about that, in Nevada or anywhere else.”

  Zach swept the ground with the binoculars. The shabby ranch surrounded by dead or dying trees came into focus at extreme distance. “Have you heard anything about Garland Frost?”

  “He’s improving much faster than they thought he would,” Faroe said. “He’s even trying to give orders.”

  Zach smiled. “Good for him. He can be a real son of a bitch, but he didn’t deserve what happened.”

  “Child,” Faroe said, “since when has ‘deserving’ entered into life’s equation?”

  “Since-hold it.” Zach saw the light bar on the patrol car flash to life. “Cop car just lit up. It’s going down at the Beaver Tail.”

  “Keep her alive.”

  Easier said than done.

  80

  NEVADA

  SEPTEMBER 17

  6:24 P.M.

  Hi, Mary,” Jill said into her sat phone. “I wanted to make sure you were still awake.”

  “Working on it. How’s it on your end?”

  “Just got a wake-up call from the cop behind me. I’m slowing down and pulling over. I’ll leave the connection open.”

  “Watch yourself,” Mary said. “Friends are hard to find.”

  “Same goes.”

  Jill laid the phone aside. Now that it was happening, she wished she had more time. Something had been bugging her since the service station at Indian Springs, but she couldn’t pin it down.

  Later, she promised herself.

  The wheel bucked in her hands when the two tires on the right side of the Escalade hit rough gravel at the edge of the pavement.

  The cop pulled even, matched speeds, and used the loudspeaker in the car’s grill. “Follow me!”

  The voice sounded like Halloween in hell, but she signaled agreement and eased back onto the highway.

  “Okay, I’m not pulling over,” Jill said into the sat phone. “I’m back on the highway. He wants me to play Follow the Leader.”

  “Keep me in the loop,” Mary said.

  “Don’t worry. I’m feeling real talkative right now.”

  Jill picked up her speed again to match the officer’s. Two miles later, his brake lights flashed once in warning. She slowed as he did.

  The cop’s left turn signal came on.

  “We’re turning left,” Jill said. “Old gravel road, mostly dirt and weeds now. Buildings about a half mile away. Dead trees around. Could have been a ranch once. Or a resort. Or-”

  Her voice died as she focused on a battered, sun-faded sign next to the dirt road.

  “Okay, this is weird,” Jill said into the sat phone. “It’s a cathouse. Or was. The sign reads ‘Beaver Tail Ranch, Lots of Both Right Here. Y’all Come.’ The place looks like it’s been a long time between lube jobs.”

  Mary choked off laughter. “Anybody there?”

  “So far, all I see is me and the cop. Why don’t I feel good about that?”

  “Because you’re smart.”

  “Yeah?” Jill asked. “Then why am I here?”

  Mary didn’t answer.

  Jill didn’t expect her to.

  81

  BEAVER TAIL RANCH

  SEPTEMBER 17

  6:25 P.M.

  Score watched the deputy park at the end of a row of rickety cottages whose doors opened onto the dried, rocky area surrounding an equally dry swimming pool. The pale, curving body of the pool was pocked by dark holes where tiles had fallen out. The dying light gave the cement a creamy glow.

  “Alert the ops in the barn,” Score called over his shoulder.

  A voice from another room called, “Yo.”

  Score watched the deputy go to the Escalade and circle his finger, silently telling the Breck woman to lower her window. Her words carried clearly from the bug to the headset he wore.

  “I don’t like this, Mary,” Jill said. “It looks deserted. And the deputy wants me to roll down the window.”

  “Your call.”

  “I wish.”

  Score grinned. He knew it was his call all the way.

  The deputy was a middle-aged man with buzz-cut hair beneath his uniform hat. He hitched his utility belt up over his belly, leaned in, and spoke through the partially open window.

  “The man you wanted to meet is in the fourth cottage down the row,” the deputy said, pointing.

  “Who’s with him?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “I was told to bring you here. I’ve done it. That’s all I know.”

  “That’s right, you dumb putz,” Score said in a low voice. “Now go back and sit in your car until we call and tell you to arrest Ms. Breck on extortion charges.”

  The deputy got in his car, made a U-turn, and sped back down the gravel road to the highway.

  “What the hell?” Score said. “Dumb as a brick. Can’t remember even simple orders.” He hissed through his teeth. When the time came, he could get the deputy back here quick.

  Through the partly open window, a surge of wind shifted dust into the Escalade.

  “C’mon, babe,” Score said in a low voice, pulling a black ski mask over his face. “Come and get it.”

  82

  BEAVER TAIL RANCH

  SEPTEMBER 17

  6:26 P.M.

  I’m going in,” Jill said to Mary. “I’ll call you once I check the money.”

  “Be safe. If that doesn’t work, be matte-black bad.”

  Jill almost smiled. Someday she’d like to meet Mary. “Same goes.”

  She hung up and tossed the phone in back with the aluminum suitcases. It banged and clattered.

  Hope your ears are ringing, whoever and wherever you are.

  She picked up the BlackBerry and put it in one of the cargo pockets of her hiking pants. The belly bag hung around her waist. She opened the top zipper, shifted the pistol so that she could reach it with one grab, and checked the safety.

  Matte-black bad.

  And the mother of all rapids is just ahead.

  The idea of rowing with a black pistol was unnerving.

  It can’t be any worse than my first trip alone down a class-five rapids.

  Can it?

  Jill got out of the car and looked at the cribs arrayed around the dusty pool. The “cottages” looked shabby, abandoned.

  Looks like the sex business isn’t real good out here.

  Beyond the ranks of cottages, more than half a mile down the rutted r
oad, several sagging barns and outbuildings silently stated that once this had been a working ranch, rather than a working girls’ ranch. The distant buildings were even more beaten down by time and sun than the cribs, where sex had come with time limits and a price list.

  The door in the fourth cottage away from her banged open with more than the force of the wind. There was a flickering blue light showing inside. Somebody was watching TV.

  Got bored waiting, did you? she thought with grim satisfaction. Too bad. I’m tired of being your puppet.

  Besides, she didn’t know how much time it would take St. Kilda’s people to close in on the ranch. She wanted to give them every second she could.

  Slowly, like a woman with all the time in the world, Jill stretched, loosening muscles that had been confined too long in a car. The stretch felt so good that she repeated it, held it, and did it all over again a third time, breathing in the fading heat and exhaling clammy manacles of fear.

  She could fairly taste the impatience radiating out of the fourth cabin.

  You can just wait for it, dude, she thought. I certainly have.

  Ignoring the primitive unease that slid down her spine from her nape to the bottom of her hips, she pressed down on part of the key fob. The Escalade’s cargo area opened. She pulled out one suitcase and locked the vehicle again, leaving two cases inside. No way was she going to be shuffling three suitcases when she needed a hand free for the pistol.

  The open door on the fourth cottage banged in the wind again. Despite the nerves jumping in her stomach, Jill didn’t flinch at the sound. Wind rattling around old buildings was as familiar to her as her childhood.

  Neither fast nor foot-dragging, she walked toward the open cottage.

  And wished she was somewhere else.

  Anywhere.