“I can see where Zach got his cynicism,” Jill said.

“I did what I could for him,” Frost agreed.

She rolled her eyes. “There’s more to art than cynicism. Objects have an intrinsic as well as an extrinsic value. I suspect Zach has a highly refined aesthetic sense. And I know that you do,” she told Frost.

“With that and four hundred-”

“-dollars you can frame a small painting,” Zach finished.

Frost sent a hard look across the table.

Zach ignored it. Right now, the only hard thing that interested him was between his legs.

“Even among avid dealers and private collectors,” Frost said, “Dunstan collectors are an odd lot. There are really only about ten of them, and most of the fifty canvases have been accumulated by them.”

“Who?” Zach asked, looking up from his second enchilada.

“First and foremost, Tal Crawford,” Frost said. “Billionaire. Oil magnate. Horse’s ass.”

“I thought he was a modernist,” Zach said. “Didn’t he pay a bunch of money for a Warhol about the time I left Taos?”

“That Warhol was for his office in Boston. The Picassos were for his Manhattan office. The Pollock went to his estate in Martha’s Vineyard. Last I heard, he built a castle south of Reno, along with a cattle ranch that takes up most of the Carson Valley.”

“So, naturally, he has to have some Western art for all those castle walls,” Jill said.

“Billionaire and mega-millionaire art collectors are remarkably common,” Frost said. “Nowadays they pretty much drive the art market, no matter what the genre. Positional art is sending prices sky-high across the board. More beer?” he asked her.

“What about me?” Zach didn’t want one, but he couldn’t pass up the chance to pull Frost’s chain.

“You know where the refrigerator is,” Frost said.

“None for me,” Jill said.

“You sure?” Zach asked. “You can crawl over my lap to get out.”

“You’re such a Y gene,” she said under her breath.

Grinning, he took a sip of his first and only beer.

Frost ignored them. “Actually, Tal might not be in the billionaire’s club these days. Rumor is that in the last decade he’s been real good at turning millions into thousands. Maybe that’s why he’s been concentrating on Western art in general and Dunstan in particular.”

“Easy to make a big splash in a small pond?” Zach asked.

“Yes.”

“If the Dunstans go for four mil and up, that’s a pretty big pond,” Jill said.

Frost shrugged, unimpressed. “Not really. From what I’m hearing, the Dunstans in Las Vegas will go for as high as ten million.”

“It’s all relative,” Zach said. “Remember the Klimt?”

Jill drew in a breath, then let it out. “Yeah. Way more than ten million. It’s just…” She shook her head. “That many zeros don’t seem real to me.”

“Crawford has been collecting for thirty years,” Frost said. “One way or another, especially in the last few years, he’s bought every Dunstan that came on the market, plus some right out of private collections. Word is he’s the Bigfoot behind a Nevada state museum project that will house the best Dunstan collection in existence, mainly because it will be the only Dunstan collection in existence.”

Jill glanced toward Frost’s great room. “There are two unquestionably authentic Dunstans he won’t own.”

“Don’t think I haven’t been tempted by his offers,” Frost said. “I could easily get seven million for my bigger Dunstan, but I can’t afford to sell it.”

“Why not?” Jill asked. “Besides your love of the painting, of course.”

“Taxes,” Frost said. “I’d have to shell out a huge amount of money on the difference between the purchase price and the appreciated price, and I’m damned if I think the government has earned it.”

“I should have tax problems like that,” Jill said.

“If we can authenticate your paintings, you will,” Zach said.

“What?”

“Estate taxes,” he said.

“Modesty Breck’s estate is officially closed or paid out or whatever the lawyer’s call it,” Jill said.

Zach looked at Frost, who shrugged.

“It might fly,” Frost said. “And it might not. Government always wants more money. It’s how they buy votes.”

“You mean I might have to sell half the paintings to pay estate taxes on the other half?” Jill asked.

“Or donate them to a museum and thereby hang on to the others for ‘free,’” Frost said. “Donations are about saving taxes, not civic responsibility.”

“Welcome to the wonderful world of taxes and family finances,” Zach said. “And lotteries. No matter who wins, government always gets about half of the jackpot.”

She reached for her beer and took a long swallow. “Remarkable. Why haven’t we had a revolution?”

“Too few winners.” Zach finished off a final bite of tamale and looked at Frost. “Do you have any way to get us in with Tal Crawford?”

Frost laughed. “It’s easier to get a picture taken with the president.”

“Maybe Steele knows someone who knows someone,” Zach said.

“I could get to one of the dealers Crawford uses,” Frost said, “but that’s still a long way from Crawford. Besides, he’s as likely to be in Africa or Venezuela as he is in Nevada or New Mexico.”

“I’d like to see what his reaction is to a dozen new Dunstans,” Zach said.

Frost slid out of the nook. “I’ll call some people. If Crawford is west of the Mississippi, I’ll find out. But only because I like you,” he said to Jill. “If it were just for the cowboy you’re traveling with…”

Zach watched Frost disappear from the kitchen, leaving him with the dirty dishes. It wasn’t the first time that had happened. If Zach stayed, it wouldn’t be the last.

And he didn’t have much choice except to stay.

45

SEPTEMBER 15

8:05 P.M.

Score eased open the side door of the van. The dome light didn’t come on, because he’d smashed it. Streetlights were few and far between. Probably because the “sidewalk” was a strip of dirt along the narrow side street between what passed for a curb and the adobe walls of the houses. Despite the cheerful B amp;B, tourism hadn’t really caught on in the neighborhood of high fences and iron gates.

Two streets over, traffic came and went along a strip of restaurants and galleries. No one turned down the narrow lane lined with thick adobe walls and inward-facing houses in the old Spanish style.

Time for a little recon.

His pistol rode uncomfortably in its belt holder. Silencers were always a pain. But they were a useful pain.

He really wished he didn’t have a bad feeling about this op. Maybe it was just his natural paranoia. Maybe it was the six shipping cartons that had been driven to the house of a Western art expert.

Maybe it was the adobe walls closing in. Houses like fortresses lining dark lanes. Enough to make a man look over his shoulder.

Score shook off the uncomfortable feeling and concentrated on his work. Walking casually, like someone with every right to be where he was, he strolled down the dark, rough dirt path.

When he got to the gate, it was just the way it had looked through his binoculars. Closed. Locked. Good alarm, well installed. From the street side, the electronics that operated both gate and alarm were out of reach.

He turned to the adobe walls. If they had been meant to keep out intruders, they weren’t very good for the job. Regularly spaced tile niches offered a fast way to the thick tree branches that overhung the walls.

Score went up.

No razor wire on top of the thick wall. No sensors. No broken glass. No bells or whistles. Nothing but dust and a few dead leaves.