Elizabeth Lowell - Blue Smoke and Murder

“Jillian Breck just called for Joe.”

“What?” Lane said. “Is she all right? Is she hurt? Does-”

“Belt up, Lane,” Faroe said. He knew his son had a crush on Jill-what healthy young man wouldn’t?-but that wasn’t the point. “Where is she?”

“Mesquite, Nevada. Eureka Hotel. Room 435. Safe enough for the moment. She’s had a death threat.”

“Craptastic,” Faroe said, checking the intersection again as he accelerated through a yellow-going-red light. The Mercedes SUV gave a happy roar. “Never rains but it bloody pours.”

Grace started to say something, then shut up as her abdomen clamped down back to front, hard and long, pushing the baby closer to the moment of birth.

“Time,” she said to Lane between her teeth.

“Oh, god,” Lane said, his voice thinning. “They’re coming too close!”

Grace felt the same way herself. This baby was in one big hurry. She knew that for most women a second baby came faster than the first, but with a sixteen-year-gap between pregnancies, she hadn’t expected the rule to apply to her.

“Zach Balfour is our closest free operative,” Steele said. “Until we know the exact nature of the threat, we’re going with an intelligent bullet catcher.”

Faroe grunted. “Good. I like Zach’s style. But the last time I talked to him, he was packing for a vacation. He change his mind?”

“No, I did. He was about forty miles from Mesquite, Nevada, heading south in the morning. Now he’s heading north.”

“Works for me.”

“I doubt if it worked for him,” Steele said dryly, “but he’s on the way to Ms. Breck just the same.”

Faroe almost smiled. “Did you get him out of bed?”

“He’s recovering from babysitting DeeDee Breitling.”

“Jesus. Give him double pay. Whatever. Just get him to Jill fast.”

“I’ve seen the man drive,” Steele said. “He’ll be there fast.”

Faroe slowed for another red light, scanned the intersection, gunned through it without stopping, and turned hard right. “We’re almost at the emergency entrance to the hospital. Give me Jill’s hotel phone. I’ll call while they’re checking Grace in.”

“I could call her and-” Lane began.

“Time contractions!” Faroe and Grace said together.

Steele said Jill’s number in a loud, precise voice.

“How long was that contraction?” Faroe asked, never looking away from the hospital rushing toward him.

“Not-done-yet,” she said in a strained voice.

“Bloody hell,” Steele said. “I’ll talk to Jillian myself.”

“No,” Faroe said, leaning on the SUV’s horn, summoning the emergency staff as he braked gently to a stop by the wide glass doors. “I owe her. This op is on me.”

“It’s on St. Kilda. I have plans for Lane,” Steele shot back. “Now, just for the novelty of the experience, be reasonable. Grace needs you more than-”

“I can talk to Jill and tell Grace to push at the same time,” Faroe cut in.

“You do and you’ll need a surgeon to remove the phone from your ass,” she shot back.

Steele almost laughed out loud.

Faroe did. “That’s the delicate little flower I know and love. And here comes the med team. I’ll call Jill.”

He hung up, looked at Lane and the people hurrying close, and said, “Help your mother and answer their questions while I talk to Jill.”

“Will do.”

Faroe didn’t answer. He was already punching in Jill’s hotel number.

SEPTEMBER 14

12:17 A.M.

Zach Balfour knocked smartly on the door of 435, then stepped back so that he was clearly visible in the room door’s peephole. Not that a view of his four-day stubble would be reassuring, but he didn’t give a damn. He was supposed to be on vacation, not catching imaginary bullets for another bimbo.

“Who is it?” asked a woman.

The voice was low, slightly husky without being at all breathless.

At least she doesn’t sound like a squirrel on speed, he told himself. That’s worth something.

“Zach Balfour, St. Kilda Consulting.”

“Slide your card under the door.”

It wasn’t a request.

His dark eyebrows climbed, but Zach dug out a St. Kilda card and pushed it as far as he could under the hotel room door.

A few moments later, the bolt clicked, the chain rattled, and the door opened.

“Come in,” Jill said.

Zach didn’t wait for a second invitation. He stepped into the room and watched while Jillian Breck closed, bolted, and chained the door again.

The room was pretty much what he expected. Against the far wall there was a double bed sporting a rumpled spread and a belly bag stuffed like a sausage. A small, butt-sprung couch that likely pulled out into another bed faced the TV. Neither clean nor dirty, the room was just a place to stash stuff between casino raids.

Jillian Breck wasn’t what he’d expected. She wore jeans, a Ray Troll T-shirt, and beat-up river sandals. She had unpolished fingernails, minimal if any makeup, hair a casual auburn cap, nice breasts, trim butt, and a body that was both fit and unmistakably female.

Pale green eyes, steady and clear.

Real green, too, not contacts like the unadorable DeeDee.

Slowly Zach began to feel less homicidal toward St. Kilda Consulting. He held out his hand and said, “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Breck.”

“Jill.”

Her handshake was brief, surprisingly strong, with ridges of callus that came from rowing rafts down unruly rivers.

“Call me Zach. Have you had any more trouble since you first called St. Kilda?”

She blinked. “Well, that’s blunt.”

“Saves time.”

She tilted her head and looked up, then down the long, lean man who stood in front of her. She’d worked with enough men on the river not to underestimate the power in his rangy body and wide shoulders, or the penetrating intelligence of his whiskey-colored eyes. A crop of black stubble did nothing to soften the hard planes of his face. He had equally black hair that was too rough to be well groomed, and too clean to be a collar-length gesture of contempt aimed at the civilized world. His clothes looked like he’d slept in them after a long day of hiking. Maybe several days.

“You’re not what I expected,” she said.

“No tuxedo, pistol, and martini, shaken not stirred?”

Her laugh was as real as the color of her eyes. “Sorry, I’m very new to this.”

“Don’t feel bad. Damn few people are used to death threats.”

Her laughter vanished. Tight, pale lines appeared around the mouth that had been a soft, deep rose.

Nice going, Zach told himself with a sigh. Turn the client into a net of twanging nerves with a few badly chosen words.

DeeDee had never noticed.

Could be why he spent a lot of the time working with intel, not clients.

“My social skills need polish,” he said. “Let’s start all over again. Hi, I’m Zach. Joe Faroe wanted to come in my place but his wife is having a baby as we speak.”

“Really?” Jill grinned. “I’ll bet Lane is so excited he’s bouncing in place. Not many boys his age would be, but he’s really looking forward to having a crumb-crusher in the house.”

Zach’s smile surprised her as much as his beat-up hiking boots, dirty jeans, and clean hands.

“I hope he gets a brother,” he said.

One of Jill’s dark brown eyebrows rose. “You don’t like women?”

“I have four sisters, all older than me by at least eight years. My dad died in a stock car race when I was twelve. I couldn’t wait to live in an estrogen-free zone.”

Jill smiled slightly. “I was raised by women in a militantly testosterone-free zone.”

“Should be interesting.”

“What?”

“The next few days.”

Her smiled faded. “That’s one way of putting it.”

“Like I said, my social skills need some work. So why don’t you do the talking? Tell me about everything that led up to my knock on your hotel room door.”

“Everything?”

“If it has to do with the reason your little SUV got slashed, yes. You can leave out the boyfriend trashing, giggling sleepovers, brutal labor stories, and choices in gear for your monthlies.”

Jill stared at him for a long moment. “Whew. You really meant it, didn’t you? About the estrogen free.”

“If I never again have to listen to a debate over the joys of pads versus tampons, it’s fine by me. You can leave out the my-cramps-are-worse-than-yours contest, too.”

“In return, you won’t drool over big tits, pant over heart-shaped ass, and whine about not getting any. Deal?”

Zach smiled slowly, then laughed. This one definitely wasn’t DeeDee. “Deal. Now tell me why you called St. Kilda Consulting instead of the cops.”

“I trust Joe Faroe.”

“And you don’t trust cops?”

She shrugged. “Let’s just say I’m not real impressed by the sheriff of Canyon County, Arizona. And he’s even less impressed with me.”

“Any particular reason?”

Jill took a deep breath and told Zach about her great-aunt, the paintings, the gallery letter, the fire, the stiff-necked sheriff, and an art dealer called Blanchard from east Texas.

Zach might look scruffy, but he listened with an intensity and intelligence that reminded her of Joe Faroe. He asked questions, she answered with what information she had, he asked more, and she got frustrated by her lack of answers for basic data on her relatives.

“Hey, don’t feel bad,” he said. “Most people barely know their parents’ birth dates, much less the grandparents’ and grand-siblings’. I’m lucky to remember my sisters’ birthdays. As for my herd of nieces and nephews, forget it. Don’t worry, St. Kilda will fill in your family gaps. Beginning now.”