Elizabeth Lowell - Blue Smoke and Murder

I should have shot the bitch instead of the old man. She’s the one causing all the trouble.

Score belched and swore never to eat goat cheese again, no matter who the client was. “I want to know where they go after Blessing. Stay with it until Steve gets here.”

“When will that be?”

“When he taps you on the shoulder. If you hear anything about paintings-”

“Tell you ASAP,” Amy cut in. “Got it the first ten times you told me.”

She made it out the door before Score lost it and started kicking the desk.

SAN DIEGO

SEPTEMBER 16

2:29 P.M.

Grace picked up the phone. “Zach? Faroe’s tied up.”

“How about you?” Zach said.

“Make it quick.”

“Can St. Kilda have a warrant for public records regarding the arrest of Justine Breck and Thomas Dunstan in Canyon County, Arizona in…”

Grace shifted the baby to her other arm and started writing. “Did you get photos of the thumbprints on Jill’s paintings?”

“Yeah, but only for insurance. A fingerprint expert will need better photos. The thumbprint is hard to see except with black light. Dunstan used a lot of texture, plus the frames on Frost’s paintings added a certain amount of wear.”

“But the thumbprints on each canvas looked the same to you?”

“Sure did. That makes it damn near certain that Dunstan painted Jill’s canvases.”

“Then they’re worth a lot of money.”

“Multimillions, according to the estimates in the auction catalogue. But if all her paintings come on the market at the same time, it could lower the price,” Zach said. “Or maybe it would create a feeding frenzy. Who knows? Collectors are a screwy lot.”

“We’ll be real careful to get good photos of her paintings,” Grace said. “Any idea how much paper we’re talking about for the warrant?”

“I’ll tell you as soon as we know.” At the other end of the line, Zach heard a very young baby’s fretful cry. “Feeding time at the zoo?”

“She’ll last another few seconds. When do you want the records picked up?”

“Yesterday. Too many things have burned, if you know what I mean.”

“Just make sure Jill isn’t one of them.”

“She’s within reach at all times,” Zach assured her.

Grace smiled. “All times?”

He cleared his throat. “I’ll call when we need something else.”

“How’s the new sat/cell working?”

“So far so good.”

Faroe hung up just as Grace did.

“Anything wrong?” Faroe asked.

“Not with the new phone. So far.”

“That man has a weird electrical field. Goes through batteries-even the rechargeable kind-like grass through a goose. What did he want?”

“A warrant for public records.”

Faroe’s eyebrows lifted. “If they’re public, why bother?”

“Zach says too many things have burned so far.”

“He has a point.”

The fretful cries became more urgent.

Faroe said, “Give her to me. I’ll change her while you do the legal stuff.”

“You can change her after she eats.” Grace opened her blouse and began nursing the baby. “I can write one-handed. Has anybody heard from Ambassador Steele on the Brazilian money-laundering payoff?”

“Accounting is depositing our percentage of the finder’s fee as we speak.”

“Good. At the rate Zach’s spending money, we’ll need an infusion of cash. Where is our closest fingerprint expert?”

Faroe bent over his computer, punched keys, waited. “She’s in L.A.”

“Put her on standby notice as of now.”

HOLLYWOOD

SEPTEMBER 16

2:31 P.M.

Score picked up the phone with a snarled “Yeah?”

“It’s Amy. You better get over here quick. They’re talking paintings and fingerprints and-”

Score hung up and headed for the basement cubbyhole that was Amy’s office.

As he closed his office door behind him, his phone rang.

He didn’t even hesitate.

“It’s-” began his receptionist.

“Take a message,” he interrupted curtly.

He shut the outer door, leaving the receptionist to handle an unhappy client.

Score didn’t care. He had his own problems.

The paintings are safe. Mother of all screw-ups.

Damage control would be a bitch.

BLESSING, ARIZONA

SEPTEMBER 16

2:33 P.M.

The boxes were coated with a red-brown dust that came from decades in the desert. Despite the looks of the boxes, the contents were mostly in order, filed by date and name. Sometimes the files were done by department, then date, then name. Sometimes by category of crime. Sometimes by a personal filing system that made little sense to someone else.

After a series of trials and errors based on various combinations of name, date, and department, Jill came up with police reports and trial exhibits of all ten criminal proceedings that had taken place the year Justine Breck decided to shoot Thomas Dunstan.

“Got it,” Jill said, then sneezed.

“Bless you,” Zach said. “What do you have?”

“State v. Justine Breck.” She waved an oak-tag accordion file and fought back another sneeze. “This place has less ventilation than a cellar.” She reached into her belly bag and scrounged around until she found a tissue that was almost as old as she was.

Zach took the files while she wiped her nose. He walked away, smacked the file against his thigh to get rid of some dust, and handed the whole thing back to her.

“Your family, your file,” he said.

Jill untied the bow knot in the cord that held the file closed. As the cord came undone, she spread the file wide and went through it quickly, looking for the kind of cards that held fingerprints.

It didn’t take long.

“Well, bless the sheriff’s upright old heart,” she said, pulling out two half-sheets of thick paper.

Zach managed not to grab them from her.

“Justine Meredith Breck and Thomas Langley Dunstan,” she said. “Arrested for D amp;D, ADW, and other bad choices. And yes, we have thumbprints!”

She held the papers out to Zach. The top of each half sheet was a form detailing name, age, date of birth, booking date, and all the other minutiae required for proper jail records. The bottom of each sheet was divided into a grid, five squares across and two down.

Each square of the grid was marked with a smudge of black ink.

Zach took the fingerprint cards and held them so that the light from the narrow basement window fell across them. “Score a few for the good guys.”

“You can use them?”

“Oh yeah. Hold the cards while I photograph them.”

“Both cards?”

“Before the case ever gets to court,” he said, “the lawyer in me wants to put paid to the argument that it might be the framer’s-or a lover’s-sticky thumbprints on the paintings.”

“Reasonable doubt?”

“Not really,” Zach said, pulling a camera out of his back pocket, “but who says people-especially juries-are reasonable? Think O.J. Simpson.”

“I’d rather not, thanks. Want me to hold the sheets?”

“Yes. Over there. I’ll use the macro setting and as much natural light as possible.”

“Why the photos?” Jill asked. “I thought St. Kilda was sending someone with a warrant to pick up the originals.”

“Think of it as fire insurance.”

The door opened and Sheriff Purcell walked in. “What’s this about fire?”

“Just an observation on how easily old papers burn,” Zach said.

“That’s why the sign says No Smoking.” Purcell shifted and looked at the file Jill was holding protectively. “See you figured out the filing system.”

No thanks to you, she thought grimly, or the dragon at the front desk. “It has a few odd kicks to its gallop,” Jill said, “but we figured it out.”

“What are you doing with those papers?” he asked Zach.

“Taking pictures.” Zach’s voice was pleasant, matter-of-fact.

Purcell frowned. “You didn’t say anything about pictures.”

“We didn’t want to go through the red tape for a full copy of the file,” Zach said. “Your people have better things to do than chase old paper for us. Don’t worry, we’re being very careful with the originals.”

“There’s a public copy machine on the first floor. Dime a sheet,” the sheriff said.

“Thanks for the offer,” Zach said, “but we can do it faster with a digital camera, and with less potential harm to the originals.”

Purcell watched for a few minutes in silence. “Mind telling me what this is about?”

“I’m afraid that comes under the heading of privilege,” Zach said easily, “and right now we don’t have any reason to think you’re involved in our research for this case.” He turned to Jill. “Just hit the high spots, darling. We can always come back if we need to.”

“No problem, sugar-buns,” she said, spreading out the documents she’d chosen on top of dusty cartons. “High spots and no detours.”

Purcell started to say something, then shrugged and walked out.

“Can you hold that letter real flat for me?” Zach asked. “Handwriting is tricky.”

Jill went to Zach’s side, carefully straightened and held down an old piece of paper, then waited until he told her to turn it over. Working as a team, they copied the documents in the file folder. Then they replaced everything, photographed the file back in its box, and photographed the dates on the outside of the carton.