Blue Smoke and Murder

10

SEPTEMBER 13

3:00 P.M.

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.