Purcell scowled. He was an elder in the Mormon church. His authority as sheriff owed more to the church than to the badge clipped to his wide belt. Canyon County was a God-fearing place, one of the last frontiers of decency in an increasingly depraved nation.

“But the temple doesn’t forgive a runaway woman,” Jill said. “A male sinner, sure. A female? Never.”

Purcell straightened his spine. “Spoken like a true Breck. But that’s neither here nor there. You have a copy of the death certificate and the coroner’s report. Modesty Breck tripped, broke her thick skull on the iron stove, dropped the fuel can, and caused the fire that burned down the old ranch house and spread to the barn.”

For a long moment the room was silent except for the ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner. It had been keeping time in a lawman’s office since before the Arizona Territory became an official state of the United States of America. And that lawman had probably been a Purcell.

Jill grimaced. Too bad a lot of people in the rural West haven’t caught on to statehood and the reality of the twenty-first century.

“There’s no motive, no reason for anybody to do anything to your great-aunt,” Purcell said, looking at his watch. “Whatever insult the Breck women laid upon the church was a long time ago. These days, believers don’t hold those kinds of grudges. Nobody around here wished Modesty any harm. Nobody thought about her at all unless some drifter was looking for work, and then we sent them out to the Breck ranch.”

“What about the paintings?” Jill asked.

“What about them? That letter you showed me was pretty plain about the fact that they weren’t worth anything. Take the insurance settlement they offered and consider yourself lucky.”

“But why would Modesty suddenly move the paintings to my place and leave me a note saying life isn’t as safe as I think?”

Purcell snorted. “I followed up with one of the appraisers your aunt tried to employ, a nice young man up near Salt Lake. He as good as said right out that the painting she sent him was a fake or a forgery. Maybe Modesty decided the other paintings were dangerous because she tried to pass them off as valuable. That’s a crime, you know. Fraud.”

“But-”

“I’d advise you to keep that in mind, Miss Breck,” the sheriff cut in. “If you try to pass those paintings off as something they’re not, you could end up in real trouble. The criminal kind.”

Jill’s strong hands gripped the arms of the chair. She stared at the lawman and counted to ten. Twenty.

Thirty.

Purcell leaned forward and smiled almost gently. “I know death is hard to accept, especially for an overeducated young woman like you. I just want you to understand that I have acted in good faith in this matter. If I didn’t believe that Modesty’s death was an accident, I’d pursue it to the limit of the law.”

“But you believe that her death was accidental.”

“Me, the fire chief, the coroner, and everyone else who looked at the facts. Modesty Breck was a stubborn old woman, hell-bent on living alone. We also know she was getting more frail. Did you ever think that she might have moved the paintings and papers to your cabin and then not so accidentally killed herself so she wouldn’t be forcibly moved off that ranch for her own good?”

A chill went over Jill. “Are you saying that Modesty meant to die?”

Purcell shrugged. “Given what you told me, suicide is as much within the facts as the verdict of accidental death. If you insist, I’ll reopen the case. But it sure would make collecting any life insurance more difficult. As the beneficiary, that’s something you should think about.”

It took Jill several silent moments to get a grip on her temper.

Purcell was everything she and the Breck women had hated about the Mormon West. If Jill wanted any answers to her questions, she’d have to find them herself.

She thought again of the card Joe Faroe had given her, then dismissed it. She wasn’t being stalked. The only danger she was in was losing control and assaulting an officer of the law.

“Thank you for your time, Sheriff. I won’t be bothering you again.”

7

SNOWBIRD, UTAH

SEPTEMBER 12

1:30 P.M.

Ramsey Worthington frowned at his computer screen. It was a large screen, noted for showing the fine details of any properly prepared photographic file. As an auctioneer in high demand and the owner of several galleries selling fine Western art, Worthington frequently had to make judgments of fine art via electronics. If the piece interested him enough virtually, he would ask to see it physically before he made a decision whether to buy, trade, or represent the art in question.

“Something interesting?” John Cahill asked.

Worthington looked up at his manager and occasional lover. Cahill wasn’t the jealous type. Neither was Worthington, at least not when it came to sex. As always, Cahill was dressed in a way that was neither too formal nor too casual, suggesting wealth and breeding without insisting on it. Not for the first time, Worthington wished that his wife had half of Cahill’s understanding of style.

“I’m not sure,” Worthington said. “The photo is obviously made by an amateur.”

Cahill leaned over Worthington’s shoulder to look at the screen. “Photo sucks, but the painting looks fabulous. How big is it?”

“She didn’t say.”

“She?”

“Jillian Breck.”

“Oh, hell. Not that crackpot again,” Cahill said, disappointed.

“No. Some relative of hers, apparently. Same last name, different first name. Supposedly the old woman died and Jillian Breck is the heir.”

Worthington clicked to a second image. It was as powerful as the first.

Cahill made a disgusted sound. “Whoever is out there painting these ‘Dunstans’ should give it up and paint under his own name. He’s good enough to make a decent living. With the right representation and some luck, he might even make an excellent living. He’s quite powerful. Technique and intensity both. Not a common combination.”

Worthington nodded.

A third image came up. Powerful, beautiful in its stark landscape and overwhelming sky.

“Did you send these to Lee Dunstan?” Cahill asked.

“Not yet. He was furious about the painting Ford Hillhouse sent. Sounded like Lee was going to stroke out over the phone.”

“Why does something like this always happen before a big auction?” Cahill muttered.

Worthington shrugged. “Greed. Someone knows that big money is out there attached to Dunstan’s name. They want a piece of it.”

“They should have done their homework,” Cahill said.

Worthington nodded. “Yes, the human figures are unusual for Dunstan. Any forger would know it. Which means this one is either stupid-”

“Unlikely,” Cahill cut in. “He knows his subject too well.”

“-or these just might actually be Dunstan’s work.”

“They aren’t Dunstans until Lee says they are,” Cahill pointed out.

“Either way, I hope we can sit on them until after the auction,” Worthington said. “The last thing we need is twelve excellent, probably fraudulent Dunstans circulating. Smaller things have taken the wind out of the market.”

“What are you going to do?” Cahill asked.

“I’ll think of something.”

Cahill laughed quietly. “You always do.”

8

HOLLYWOOD

SEPTEMBER 12

9:00 P.M.

Score was sweating hard, pumping iron in a controlled frenzy that kept him from punching a hole through the wall. It seemed that people just got stupider every day. He’d been lucky to leave the office before he took somebody’s head off and shoved it up their dumb ass.

His cell phone went off. His private cell, the one that only a few people had the number for. He racked the weight and looked at the caller ID.

Blank.

“Score,” he said briefly into the phone.

“I hope you’re on the trail of those paintings.”

“Like I told you.” About ten times already. “Dead end. They burned.” The only thing that kept Score’s voice neutral was the really sweet yearly retainer this client paid.

But the more they paid, the more demanding they were.

“Then why is Jillian Breck asking galleries all over the West to look at JPEGs of three unsigned Dunstans?”

“So there were photos somewhere, sometime,” Score said, wiping off his sweat with a big towel. “So what? I took care of the paintings, and the rest is bullshit and ashes.”

“I’d like to believe that. I don’t. Find those paintings or bring me proof that they don’t exist. And do it before the auction!”

Score looked through his home gym’s front window to the glittering panorama of lights that was the L.A. basin at night. “How can I prove something doesn’t exist? Run the ashes through a spectrograph?”

“Whatever it takes. That’s what you’re paid for.”

9

ARIZONA STRIP

SEPTEMBER 12

11:15 P.M.

Jill rolled over and tried to find a more comfortable position on the bunk. She couldn’t.

This bunk is softer than my usual bed on the rowing bench of a raft. Relax, damn it!