Elizabeth Lowell - Blue Smoke and Murder

Jill parked in the huge, dusty lot of the Eureka Hotel. She looked at the belly pack on the passenger seat, weighed the satellite phone in her hand, and decided to leave the expensive means of communication in the car. The throwaway cell phone she’d bought for emergencies worked just fine in this location. She stashed the satellite phone under the passenger seat, locked the car, and walked through the parking lot toward the lobby check-in.

The desert wind had painted a fine layer of grit over the long-haul trucks and RVs parked at the back of the lot, and the cars of the tourists who had been sucked off the highway by the promise of excitement.

She didn’t understand the lure. The river took care of her adrenaline needs.

An inch beyond the parking lot and hotel, the desert waited, untouched and patient, knowing that wind, sun, and time would eventually grind down civilization and its sprawling greed.

She’d rather have walked into the desert. But she didn’t. She went to the hotel. The moment she opened the front door, she got a dose of stale, smoky air. Yet the huge neon sign out front advertised smoke-free lodging.

It also advertised instant money, loose slots, and the best gambling in Nevada.

Living proof that you shouldn’t believe everything you read.

“Sure doesn’t smell smoke free,” Jill said to the desk clerk.

The clerk wore makeup like she was still the showgirl she’d been twenty years and forty pounds ago.

“Rooms are smoke free,” the clerk said. “In fact, there’s a five-hundred-dollar room-cleaning charge if you smoke in your room. You want to smoke, go to the casino. It’s allowed there.”

“And the air-conditioning for the hotel and casino comes from a single central unit, right?”

“Yeah. Sign here, initial the notification of nonsmoking, the fine if you do, and length of stay,” the woman said automatically. “Your room is through the casino to the elevators, fourth floor. Turn right and follow the room numbers.”

Jill looked over the form, signed and initialed, and pushed the paper toward the clerk. “Any messages for me?”

The woman looked at the name on Jill’s registration form and queried the computer. “No. Expecting someone?”

“A Mr. Blanchard might call. If he does, put him through to my room.”

“Sure thing. Need help with your luggage?”

“No, thanks. Which part of the casino complex has penny slots?”

“The part that doesn’t serve free drinks. North side. You get better odds on the dollar machines and the drinks are free.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind.”

Jill set off through a casino whose machines flashed and beckoned at every step. She saw the distant neon sign that guaranteed penny slots and million-dollar payoffs. The stink of cigarettes smoldering unnoticed in flat tin ashtrays near “Nevada’s loosest slots” almost covered the smell of anxiety and greed.

She grimaced and hurried through the casino. She might have problems with the sober, righteous Mormon patriarchy, but at least the air in Utah’s public buildings was breathable.

When she walked into her room, the smell of air “freshener” made her feel like she was walking through the perfume aisle in a dollar store. She shut the door behind herself and threw the dead bolt. She didn’t like hotels much, but it was more anonymous than the Rimrock Café.

She ordered a big salad and a hamburger from room service and settled in to wait.

EUREKA HOTEL

SEPTEMBER 13

7:00 P.M.

When it was full dark, Score finally stirred from his observation post in the back of his minivan. Ms. Breck’s dirt-bag SUV was where it had been for the past four hours, collecting dust.

He’d been collecting dust since dawn. He was used to the stake-out routine, but he didn’t love it. Eating mini-mart snacks and pissing into Gatorade bottles got old real quick.

It had been especially hard to wait knowing that the paintings were locked in that tin-can SUV fifty feet away. She hadn’t carried anything sizable inside, or sent the bellman out after any more luggage.

Score bit back a yawn, checked his watch, then looked for the guard whose boring job it was to drive through the hotel parking lot for eight hours, five days a week. The dude must have decided to save wear and tear on tires, because he’d parked his little golf cart and was drinking coffee, using one of the long-haul trucks for a windbreak.

When Score moved forward and opened the driver’s door of his minivan, the wind nearly yanked the handle out of his hands. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

The wind was as cold as it was strong. No wonder the guard wasn’t driving around in the open golf cart.

If somebody told me to freeze in this wind for minimum wage, I’d tell them to jerk off.

Even though it was dark between the parking lot’s widespread, sickly orange lights, Score pulled a toque over his head and down to his eyebrows. The result concealed the color of his hair and kept his ears warm. He stuffed a machete under his thigh-length leather jacket, taking care to keep the hooked end of the blade from notching his balls by mistake. His “slim jim” was already in its own special inside pocket, just itching to be used on a locked car.

He walked to the Breck SUV. As he’d guessed from the way she locked it up, the vehicle had a manual rather than an electronic lock.

Piece of cake.

He pulled out the slim jim, slid it down the driver’s window, fished a bit, and yanked up the lock.

No alarm.

Nobody looking his way.

It took less than a minute to see that there weren’t any paintings inside the SUV.

Hell, that would have been too easy.

But there was a satellite phone underneath the passenger seat that was as old as the car. Like the car, it still worked.

Tucking the satellite phone under his jacket, Score went back to his minivan. He opened the sliding door, ducked in, and closed it behind him. Both side walls of the van had custom racks that secured a multitude of metal suitcases, ranging from palm-size to big enough to hold an automatic rifle. He selected a case, turned on his penlight, and glanced quickly at the contents. Locaters and bugs of all sizes were stashed in their cut-out foam nests. He opened Jill’s satellite phone, looked at the battery, and shook his head.

He pulled out a second metal suitcase. The bugs and locaters in this one came inside their own batteries.

Pricey bastards.

But it all goes on the client’s tab.

One of the expensive bugs would work for Jill’s phone. He popped out the old battery, put in the new and improved one, and opened up a special computer. He booted it up, checked the readout, and saw that the locater was hot. He muttered into the phone, checked that the bug was working just fine, and decided it was good to go. Unless she kept the phone five feet from her at all times, he doubted that he’d overhear much, but the voice-activated bug was part of the only locater/battery setup that fit her old sat phone.

If she’s smart and bolts, then my client wasted some money. No problemo. Clients are made of the green stuff.

If she goes after the paintings, she’ll give me the GPS coordinates.

In all, it would be more reliable and a whole lot less dangerous than beating the truth out of her.

He replaced all the suitcases in their niches, stashed the phone in his jacket, and went back to the little SUV. Just to be certain Ms. Breck hadn’t hidden anything, he took out the SUV’s overhead light and ripped up the seats with the machete.

Nothing.

More nothing under the spare tire, which he took bites out of with the machete.

He almost punched holes in the motor oil cans on the passenger side, but decided he didn’t want to drip all the way back to his van.

Where are the paintings?

She didn’t take them inside with her. Even rolled up, they wouldn’t have fit in that little belly bag she wore.

And the fitted jacket she wore over her jeans didn’t leave room for anything but the body beneath. Not a great rack, but she had a nice way of moving.

He checked the guard-still sucking on coffee. Moving quickly but not in a way that would attract attention, he went back to his van for a few more items, then returned to work on the SUV.

Stage setting. Jesus. I shoulda been a producer.

Even as he worked, he kept an eye on the parking lot. If the clever Ms. Breck decided to come out before he was done, well, shit happened.

And he had a load with her name all over it.

EUREKA HOTEL, NEVADA

SEPTEMBER 13

11:00 P.M.

Jill forced herself not to reach for the room phone and call the desk again. They were as tired of telling her that she had no messages as she was of hearing it. She’d used pay-per-view to see a recent movie that interested her, lost a few bucks and gotten her hands grimy playing the penny slots, ordered another hamburger, and finally returned to her room after three hours of perching on the deliberately uncomfortable stools in front of the cheap slot machines.

I should have brought my dirty clothes. Bet there’s a laundry somewhere in the hotel. Then the trip wouldn’t have been a total waste of time, money, and gas.

She watched the bedside clock crawl through a few more minutes. How bad could connections be between east Texas and Nevada? Was Blanchard hitchhiking?

She paced and then paced some more. After the physical activity of the river, her body wasn’t used to hanging out in smoky rooms.

Screw this. I’m going for a walk.

She grabbed her jacket and the belly pack that doubled as her purse and headed for the elevator. Ignoring the relentless mechanical yammering of the slot machines in the casino, she strode toward the front doors.

After the air in the hotel, the wind was like diving into cold rushing water. For the freshness, she’d live with the flying grit. She paced the front of the hotel several times, wishing she was doing something useful.

Check the oil in your SUV. That’s useful. Then you won’t have to do it at dawn tomorrow, when you leave this place.

On the subject of oil, her vehicle could only be described as greedy. It had a quart-a-day habit.

Check the tires while you’re at it.

Give the SUV a wax job.

Do something besides fidget.

She dodged a latecomer hurrying to the check-in, crossed the driveway to the parking lot, and headed for her aging SUV. The lot was partially full. Compressors on refrigerator trucks rumbled, waiting for drivers to bust out at the tables or stop hitting on waitresses. Some of the RVs had lights on inside, either night-lights or a beacon for bleary gamblers to stumble toward when they got tired of losing.

The guard’s golf cart was idling at the entrance to the parking lot. A low conversation came on the wind, the guard telling a newbie where the overnight RV parking was. The mercury-vapor lamps cast a ghastly orange glow over everything, changing colors dramatically. If Jill hadn’t known exactly where she was parked, she never would have recognized her vehicle. She cut through ranks of monster pickup trucks and SUVs the size of railroad cars. Finally she could see her own modest rig. It looker even smaller than she remembered.

Then she realized that the left front tire was flat.

So was the left back tire.

She froze, listening for any sound, searching for any movement. All that came was the wind and the sound of voices headed toward the casino, away from her. Warily, keeping other vehicles between herself and her own car, she circled the SUV.

Four flat tires.

Front door ajar.

I locked it. I know I did.

When Jill was sure she was alone, she stood back and dug a tiny, powerful penlight from her waist pack. She sent the narrow beam over the interior of the car.

Nothing moved.

No one was inside, sleeping off a drunk or waiting for a victim.

The seats had been ripped apart. The dome light was broken. There was a piece of paper stuck under the windshield wiper. What looked like ripped, coarse cloth jammed the open glove compartment.