“That’s her doing,” Zach said, nodding toward Jill. He introduced her and added, “Alton used to be chief detective, but if he’s talking about ‘my men,’ I’m guessing he made chief of police.”
Corrigan looked hard at Jill, then back at Zach. “You two are both friends of Frost?”
“She’s my client,” Zach said. “We were researching some family paintings she owns. Frost was an obvious place to start.”
“First time you’re back in, what, five years?” he asked, looking at Zach.
“Something like that.”
“And Frost didn’t kick your ass right out on the street?” Corrigan shook his head. “Must be pretty special pictures you brought him.”
“That’s what we were trying to find out,” Zach said.
“Are those pictures related to the fire-bombing of your car?”
“One minute I was asleep and the next I heard a gunshot and was up and running,” Zach said. “That’s all I know for sure.”
“Why do I feel like you aren’t telling me everything?” Corrigan asked.
Zach’s smile was as weary as it was real. “Because I’m not. I’m working as an investigator for an attorney named Grace Silva Faroe. Ms. Breck is Judge Silva Faroe’s client, so there’s privilege attached to some of this.”
Corrigan grunted.
“I’ve told the cops everything I know for a fact,” Zach said.
“What do you suspect?” Corrigan shot back.
“Last time I checked, New Mexico law doesn’t require that I tell you any or all of my speculations. But I can guarantee that I want to find out who shot Garland Frost even more than you do.”
“I don’t much care for it,” Corrigan said bluntly, “any more than I care for hard-assing you or Ms. Breck. But if I have to, I will.”
“No news there.”
“Do you really think you shot the perp?” Corrigan asked.
“Not enough to send him to a hospital.”
Corrigan grunted again. Then with a curt nod to Jill, he went back to his men.
53
HOLLYWOOD
SEPTEMBER 16
8:00 A.M.
That’s right,” Score said into the phone. “The six shipping cartons are charcoal, and so is anything that was inside them.”
“Stay with them anyway.”
Score bit down hard on his temper. He really didn’t have the patience for stakeouts, short sleep, and twitchy clients.
“How long?” he asked through clenched teeth.
“Until after the auction.”
“It’s your money.”
“Keep that in mind.”
He looked at the dead phone and slammed it into the cradle in disgust.
“Yo, boss,” a voice said from outside his locked office door.
Score hit the button to release the lock. “Get in here.”
“You look like hell,” Amy said as she walked in. She tossed a printout on his desk.
I should fire the mouthy bitch.
“I work hard on it,” Score snapped.
But not as hard as Amy did. Today her hair was pink and silver.
Score tried not to notice. He was used to the studs and rings she wore in painful places, but the ever-changing hair colors still threw him. It was like employing a chameleon.
“I was up all night with a client.” He rubbed grainy eyes and tried not to wince. His right biceps felt like he’d been branded. Nothing burned like a kiss from a bullet.
Wish that auction was over. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since the bloody JPEGs went out.
He flicked a finger at the printout. “Anything good?”
“Something went down at the other end of the bug. Heard sirens, shouting, what sounded like gunfire.”
Score swallowed a yawn. “Yeah? Anyone hurt?”
“Either it’s real cold there or a dude named Frost bit the big one. The name came up a lot.”
“Huh. He die?”
Amy didn’t bother to hide her yawn. “The last time I heard anything, the female subject was on the way back from the hospital. Frost was stable, but drugged to the max. It’s all in the printout.”
Left-handed, Score flipped through the printout. “Looks like the bug is picking up more than it did before.”
“Yeah. Must have taken the phone out of whatever was wrapped around it. But it’s on and off. The subject doesn’t exactly wear her sat phone as a fashion statement.” Amy yawned again. “Oh, there was some talk about being followed.”
Score’s hand hesitated, then resumed flipping through the printout. “Who?”
“They don’t know. Or if they had any ideas, they didn’t discuss it in range of the bug. All they talked about was how easy it is to get flight plans and if the rental car had some kind of locater system since New Mexico is so close to that great chop shop south of the border.”
Score read the section, frowned, read it again, and decided that Amy was right. So far nothing had happened to the subject that couldn’t be explained by something other than a personal bug.
“Okay,” he said.
“Does that mean I get some time off?”
“I’ll let you know after I talk to the client. Until then, stay with the bug.”
“Hell.”
“It could be worse,” Score said.
“How?”
“You could be looking for a job in a traveling freak show.”
54
TAOS
SEPTEMBER 16
9:00 A.M.
Even though the last cops were gone, Garland Frost’s circular driveway remained off limits. The arson investigators wanted to work with a “clean” scene. Zack looked out the front door of the house and was grateful the paintings hadn’t been inside the rental car. It looked even worse in daylight.
He heard the back door open.
“Zach?” Jill called.
He shut the front door. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen. Coffee should be ready by now.”
“There is a God.”
Zach smiled and rubbed at the beard that had overtaken his face. I really should have shaved before I got in bed with Jill.
But she hadn’t complained. In fact, she’d enjoyed rubbing her palms against his cheeks. And other parts.
When he got to the kitchen, Jill was yawning and rummaging in the cupboards for coffee mugs. Her cheeks looked chapped. Her neck looked nibbled.
“Any word on Frost?” she asked.
“Same old same old.” Zach got the mugs, poured the dark, lethal brew, and handed one over to her. “I wish I knew what he was trying to tell me.”
“You can ask him when he wakes up.” She took a sip, said “Hooyah!” and took a bigger swallow. “Now, that’s coffee.”
Zach smiled slightly. “According to the procedure the docs outlined, Frost won’t wake up until the auction is over. They’re pretty much keeping him in a coma.”
“He survived a nicked artery, the random damage of a bullet in his midriff and a long surgery.” Jill said. “Not many men his age would have made it.”
“Silencer.”
“What?”
“A silencer slows down the velocity of the bullet when it leaves the muzzle,” Zach explained. “That’s why Frost survived a hit from a 9 millimeter.”
Jill shivered.
“Cold?” Zach asked. “I could light the fire.”
“This coffee is better than any fire.” She noticed the open computer on the kitchen table. “Working already?”
“Just checking in. Where’s your sat phone?”
“In the guesthouse. Did yours finally die?”
“Thinking about it,” he said. “Singh checked yesterday’s flight plans on all charters out of Salt Lake to Taos.”
“Good news?”
“Depends on your definition of good. Somebody took off from Salt Lake about an hour after we did and landed at Taos about eighty minutes after we did.”
Jill’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying we were followed?”
&
nbsp; “Not like a tail,” he said. “They were too far back. Our flight plan was easy enough to get. The car is on a rental agency’s computer, which sure can be hacked. Faroe’s checking to see if the rental has a locater unit aboard. This close to the border, it’s pretty common.”
“I…” Her voice died. “I’m not used to a road with this many switchbacks.”
“Yeah, some real neck twisters. And the fun would really get started if somehow, someway, we’ve been bugged. On the other hand, it could be a real break.”
“Bugged?”
“Yeah. If we have one, and we can find it, we turn it into an asset.”
“How?”
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Faroe and I are arguing about that.”
“Who’s winning?”
“I am, and he’s not liking it,” Zach said.
She looked at the computer he’d been working on. The screen showed a muddy version of a Dunstan landscape.
“You need a screen with more pixels,” she said. “Like Frost’s.”
“I’m not appraising,” he said. “I’m just exploring the Dunstan art market in view of what we learned from Frost. I’d have St. Kilda do it, but they’re running an unusual number of ops right now. Research is crying. So unless it’s life-or-death urgent, I’m not kicking in their door.”
She stared at the computer screen. “So Thomas Dunstan has his own Web site?”
“Yeah, but this one belongs to Worthington’s Las Vegas auction. I’ve been looking at the online catalogue.”
“Lousy reproduction.”
“Only on my machine. Besides, the interesting thing isn’t the art, it’s the prices.”
She bent over and tilted the screen. Immediately the picture sharpened. Ruby Marsh was the name of the painting. The scene was of thrusting mountains, clean blue sky, and a marshy valley turned gold with autumn. The dimensions of the canvas were huge, definitely museum size.
The price was six to eight million dollars.
Zach watched Jill’s eyes widen and knew that she’d reached the bottom line.
“That painting is one of the centerpieces of the Las Vegas Auction of Fine Western Art,” he said.
“Wow.”
“That’s one word for it. Worthington has pulled out all the stops on this one. Russell, Remington, Howard Terpning, Joseph Sharp, Blumenschein. If you believe the hype, this will be some of the best Western art in a generation to go under the gavel.”
“Does Whatshisname—the big Dunstan collector—own this?” she asked, pointing to the painting called Ruby Marsh.
“Talbert Crawford?”
“Yes.”
“No, this belongs to Dunstan’s son.”
“The one who savaged Waverly-Benet’s reputation?”
“The same,” Zach said.
“The one who said my paintings were frauds?”
“Yeah.”
“Jerk,” she said.
“Probably.” Zach leaned over her and scrolled back through some Web pages on the computer. “Take a look at this.”
Jill sat at the table, angled the computer screen again, and began reading an article with a Carson City logo and yesterday’s date.
Leading figures in the State’s art community are expected to announce major donations to the collection of paintings that will be showcased in a new wing of the Museum of Nevada and the West in Carson City.
Announcements planned for later in the week will involve contributions by such well-known collectors as Tal Crawford, prominent investor and owner of a large ranch east of the Carson Valley.
Crawford has been engaged in discussions with state arts officials about his plans to contribute a number of major works to the museum.
A spokesman for Crawford would not confirm specific donations but did acknowledge that the collector has accumulated “probably the biggest collection of Western art in the state, particularly a large number of works by Thomas Dunstan, who is regarded as one of the most important landscape painters in the West.
“Mr. Crawford has always prided himself on sharing these important works with the rest of the world,” the spokesman said.
Sources in the governor’s office said they hope to have an announcement regarding the exact donation by next week.
“So that’s what Frost meant by Bigfoot,” Jill said, looking at Zach.
“Saturday. That’s the auction, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Day after tomorrow,” he agreed absently, his mind on Crawford, Western paintings, politics, and auctions.
“I keep thinking that what Frost was trying to tell us had something to do with the paintings.”
“A thumbs-up for authenticity?”
She frowned. “Maybe. Or maybe it had to do with the auction itself. Got any more coffee?”
“I’ve been meaning to speak to you about your caffeine habit,” Zach said, reaching for the pot.
“Yeah, I know. I really should drink more coffee. Beginning now.” She held out her empty mug.
Smiling, Zach refilled it. “I don’t think Frost gave me a thumbs-up for the authenticity of the paintings.”
“Why?”
“As long as I knew Frost, he never used that particular gesture. He’d spent too much time in Australia, where it means something entirely different.”
“Really? What?”
“Up your arse.”
Jill sputtered, swallowed hard, and cleared her throat. “I’d like a spew alert when I’m having morning coffee.”
Zach smiled, kissed her slowly, and rubbed his bristly chin. “I’ll let you drink in peace. I’m going to call Faroe and have him put something on research’s pile. Then I’m going to do what I should have yesterday.”
“What?”
“Shave.”
“Itchy?” she asked.
“How’d you guess?”
“Guys on the Colorado always complain about grow-out itch. But not as much as they whine about monkey butt.”
He paused before he took a final drink of coffee. “Monkey butt?”
“You ever been to the zoo and seen the butts on female baboons when they’re in heat?”
He nodded warily.
“You sit on a rowing bench in a swimsuit, rubbing back and forth as you go down the river, getting doused with gritty water at the rapids,” she said, “and pretty soon you have monkey butt.”
“Bright red and tender as hell?”
She nodded.
“Shaving doesn’t help?”
She cringed. “Don’t even think it.”
“Okay. I’ll go shave my monkey face.” Zach started to leave, then stopped when he saw Jill eyeing his computer. “If you want to play, use Frost’s computer. Mine has some tiger traps built in.”
“Tiger traps and monkey butt. We’re quite the pair.”
Zach’s whiskey-colored eyes met hers. He smiled, but his eyes were very serious. “Yeah, we are.”
55
SAN DIEGO
SEPTEMBER 16
9:10 A.M.
Lane Silva Faroe watched his tiny baby sister sleeping in the antique cradle next to a bank of high-tech computers. His father was talking in one phone, had a second on hold, and was participating in a conference with Ambassador Steele via computer.
His mother was up to her ears in legal texts at a nearby desk. Something about the rights of foreigners in Zimbabwe. Or maybe it was Venezuela.
And every time his little sister twitched, his parents looked at her.
Must be some kind of built-in parental radar, Lane decided.
As much as he enjoyed having a new baby sister, he was getting restless. With everyone around him so overwhelmed by work, he felt useless.
Like a baby.
Faroe hung up one phone, picked up the other, listened, and said, “I’ll add it to the pile at Research, Zach. But since it isn’t a code three, don’t hold your breath.” He hung up and made a note.
“Dad?” Lane said.
“Yeah?” Faroe answered without
looking away from his notepad.
“I’m done with my homework, I’ve wrapped up my special project, and I want to help with the Jill Breck, uh, project.”
“How?”
“Well, I heard you telling Zach that Research was jammed up and he’d have to get in line unless it was a balls-to-the-wall code three.”
Faroe’s mouth curved in a small smile. “Did I say that? Hope little Annalise was asleep.”
“All she does is sleep and poop. And eat.”
“Living is a full-time job for a baby.”
“I could swarm Zach’s topic.”
Faroe blinked and turned toward his son. Like him, Lane was long and lanky. Unlike him, Lane hadn’t grown into his frame.
Or his patience.
“Run that by me again in English,” Faroe said.
“Whatever Zach wants to find out about is a topic,” Lane said with exaggerated patience. “Swarming is getting together with a bunch of other key jockeys and researching a topic using all the different search engines.”
“Swarming.”
“Yeah. Can I? All I need is some search words.”
“Give it to him,” Grace said without looking up from the legal reference she was reading. “He wants to help the lady who saved his life.”
Faroe checked the computer screen again. Nothing new. He looked at the notes he’d taken from Zach, then ripped off the piece of paper and handed it to his son.
“Swarm on,” Faroe said.
Lane snatched the piece of paper and ran back to his room, mentally listing the online buddies he could get to help him. He knew five for sure. And each of them probably knew four or five.
And each of them…
Swarming.
56
TAOS
SEPTEMBER 16
9:14 A.M.
Jill gave up on the paintings and the black light. No matter how hard or long or where she looked, she didn’t see anything exciting. She glanced toward Frost’s computer. It was either shut down or sleeping. The screen was dark.
Maybe it wasn’t something he found in the paintings.
Maybe it was something he found online.
She went to Frost’s computer. Unlike Zach’s, this was a Mac, the kind she owned. Except this one was twice as big. The screen was huge. But the OS was the same. She could use it with her eyes closed.
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