The Color of Death (16 page)

“A fate worse than death,” she said lightly.
Now remember to breathe. Good girl. I knew you could do it.
“We’ll just have to make sure it doesn’t happen. Right?”

“I’ll get back to you on that.” Then he sighed. “Right.”

Sam allowed himself one more thought about burying his face in her hair and feeling her legs wrap around him as he pushed in deep.
Then he shoved down the human and dragged the agent up to the surface again.

“If you were stealing stuff from couriers,” he said, “where in the gem food chain would you start? Overseas?”

Like a light switch. Back to cop mode.
Kate told herself she was grateful. Then she told herself again.

“No,” she said tightly. “Not overseas.”

“Why?”

She let out a long breath and told herself that her pulse was normal. Entirely. Normal.
For a sprinter.
“They haven’t heard of Miranda over there and their prisons are shit holes.”

“Personal experience?” he asked, surprised.

“Not mine. That doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”

“Oh, it’s real,” he agreed.

“Personal experience?” she asked dryly.

He didn’t answer. He hitched a hip up on the sturdy table and shifted his weapon harness so that it rode comfortably. “So you wouldn’t start near the mines. Where would you go next?”

Actually, I’m thinking of pulling out your gun and shooting the cop so that Sam can come out to play. If I’d known I had only one chance, I’d have jumped for it.

All she said aloud was, “I’d go to a big international wholesaler that imports stones into the U.S.”

“Why?”

“They move a lot of gems with inventories that read pounds and kilos. It would be easy to mix the stolen and the legal together, as long as you haven’t stolen anything outstanding.”

“Like the Seven Sins?”

Her nod sent her dark hair slipping and sliding along her neck.

Sam swatted down the human and hung on to the cop.

“For all the expensive advertising,” Kate said, “colored gems—especially treated colored gems—aren’t
that
rare. Or that unique. A bucket of small blue sapphire rough isn’t going to raise your heart rate. Cut and treated, maybe it would make your pulse kick, but only for a few moments.” She blew out a long, quiet breath and felt her
own pulse slow. Better. Much better. “Then you start seeing the differences in cut and quality and color. There’s a lot of junk out there.”

Sam tried to imagine a bucket of gems. He couldn’t. But that was why he had his own private expert. She could imagine all that and more.

It was what he was imagining that was the problem.

“And if that isn’t enough, by the time you’ve been through an assembly-line cutting and polishing operation,” Kate said, “you’ll hold a handful of low-end cut gems and all you’ll think is what a pain it will be to put all the tiny bits of glitter into a silver necklace or ten-carat gold.”

He tried not to, but couldn’t help it. He laughed. If nothing else, it eased the claws of desire digging into him.

“It’s true,” she said.

“I believe you. I was just thinking of childhood dreams of treasure chests and pirates. What would Blackbeard have said?”

“Bluebeard.”

“Whatever.” Sam’s grin said
gotcha.
“So you dreamed too.”

“Doesn’t every kid?”

His smile faded. “No. Dreaming takes energy, health, hope. Those things are real scarce in some times and places.”

Before Kate could ask about the shadows in his eyes—cop or human?—he was talking again.

“Okay, you’ve picked your wholesaler,” he said. “Now what?”

She blinked, accepted the change of subject, and said, “The wholesaler could also be a jewelry maker, a retailer, or a gem trader. All that’s required is large quantities of gems coming in, enough so that some extra stuff here and there wouldn’t ring alarm bells. Maybe whoever owns the company doesn’t even know what’s happening. A few corrupt employees would be all it takes.”

“What if the stones aren’t, uh, ordinary?”

“You cut them again until they are. Or you hide them until the statute of limitations runs out.”

“Seems a waste.”

“If you paid for the finished stone in the first place, it’s a waste to
cut them all over again. If not, all you’re out is the cutter’s time—and the cutter in this case is probably a machine.”

“What about the Seven Sins?”

“I’m afraid that six out of seven have already been reworked and reduced to stones weighing between two and five carats.” Her voice was bleak. “Maybe, just maybe, a ten-carat stone would sneak past the necessity to be anonymous. Either way…” She shook her head. “Something incredibly rare and beautiful has been lost forever. Blue sapphires like the Seven Sins just don’t come out of the mines anymore. They probably don’t even exist outside of a few private collections and a handful of museums.”

The look on Kate’s face made Sam wish he hadn’t asked. But that was his job—asking questions that had unhappy answers.

“So the gangs knocking off couriers,” he said, “wouldn’t have any trouble getting rid of the goods in the States, even if it’s rough gems rather than Rolex Oysters.”

She risked a glance at his eyes. Blue. Intent. Cool.
Full cop mode. That’s good. Really.

Okay, it isn’t, but it sure is safer.

“If the gangs couldn’t unload their stuff here,” she said, “they could do it overseas. Not everyone has my prejudice against foreign prisons.”

“But on the whole, you think it would be more likely that the stuff from couriers who get clouted in America ends up in America?” Sam asked.

“Depends on the package.” Another long breath.
That’s it girl. Heart rate back to normal.
“We have a huge market for entry-level colored stones. Everybody’s buying and selling them, including your grandmother on Internet auctions. Given that, why ship stuff to India, which already has its own historic supply lines for colored gems?”

“Could you give me a list of likely outlets for stolen gems?”

Kate hesitated. No doubt about it. He was all cop right now. “Likely as in shady or likely as in having a big enough supply line to bury some extra goods?”

“Both. The Purcells, for instance. From what you know about the business, could they have been a regular outlet for hot goods?”

She bit the corner of her mouth.

“Don’t worry,” Sam said. “You won’t have to swear to anything in court.”
Yet.

“I’ve heard gossip.”

“What kind?”

She started pacing along the edge of the nearest worktable. As she walked, she fiddled with the equipment without changing any of the settings.

“Kate?”

After a moment she turned to face Sam. “I hate gossip.”

“I figured that out after the way you kept Lee’s secret,” Sam said. Then he noticed the change in her expression at her half brother’s name. “Did Lee?”

“Did he what?”

“Hate gossip.” Sam’s voice, like his expression, was neutral and patient.

Kate hesitated, then shook her head unhappily. “It was his one vice.”

“What did he tell you?”

She laced her fingers together. “Damn it, Sam, I could open my mouth and ruin some honest dealer’s life.”

“Or you could keep your mouth closed and shorten your own life,” he said bluntly. “Whoever whacked the Purcells wouldn’t have pulled a single punch for Saint Teresa and you know it. If you don’t, I’m telling you now, loud and clear. Bad guys just love it when you play nice with them. Don’t do it, Kate. It will kill you.”

For a long time there was only silence.

“All right,” she said finally, sighing. “The Purcells had the reputation of not asking too many questions about previous owners if you sold them stones at a really good price.”

Sam already knew that, but he nodded to encourage her.

“The outfit called Worldwide Wholesale Estate Gems doesn’t have a great reputation,” she said reluctantly.

“In what way?”

“It’s pretty much common knowledge that more loose stones came out of the company than ever went there set in estate jewelry. Particularly from South American sources.”

Sam made a mental note of the name. He’d bet that the corporate headquarters was in Aruba or Panama or some other place where the banks were friendly and the questions nonexistent. The answers too. It took an act of God or a world-class hacker to get information out of those places.

“Some of the importers who supply the hobby trade have uneven reputations,” Kate said. “Starr Crystals and Overseas Coral and Gems come to mind.”

“Would these outfits be able to handle the kind of high-end stuff that couriers sometimes carry, especially for a gem show like this?”

“Probably not, unless they were spotting for private collectors or lining their own retirement accounts.”

“Some of the couriers we lost were carrying Rolex watches and gold coins,” Sam said. “Could they go to the same outlet as the rough and loose-cut stones?”

Kate thought about it. “If you have a chain of jewelry stores, maybe. Several such operations follow the gem circuits, because they make their own jewelry and like to keep in touch with what new colored stone is hot in the trade. Peyton Hall’s family operation is one. Morgenstern and Sons is another. Heartstone Gems and Jewelry is a third. They’re all here in Scottsdale. Then there are the nationwide chains.” She shrugged. “There are three other big ones I could name and maybe fifteen in the next tier. Any of them could be an outlet for stolen goods, either at the national level or through a corrupt local manager. Their representatives also follow the gem circuit just to keep a feel for what the trade is doing.”

“What about the local pastor?” Sam said wryly.

She laughed. “In other words, I’m giving you too many suspects?”

“Hey, I asked.”

Her smile vanished. “I’m sure the courier companies are also suspect. And the couriers themselves.”

He nodded.

“Even my stepfather’s couriers,” she said.

“Yes.”

“And my stepfather.”

“You know the answer,” Sam said.

“My stepfather isn’t a crook!”

Sam looked at Kate’s fierce eyes and determined chin, and hoped to hell she was right.

For everyone’s sake.

“Okay,” he said. “You read Lee’s file again. Something might jump this time.”

“It didn’t the first three times.”

“When you can recite it chapter and verse, I’ll be sympathetic. Until then, I’ve got some folks to talk to.”

“They’d talk better if I was along,” Kate said.

“No.”

“Why?”

Sam went out the workroom door without answering. He didn’t think she would want to know that Lee’s file would soon be updated, which put her ass right on the firing line. He sure didn’t want to be the one to tell her.

And he knew he would be.

Scottsdale

Friday

10:12
A.M
.

“Where the hell is Groves?”
Kennedy demanded, slamming the hall door of Sizemore’s suite behind him.

Doug straightened from the cup of coffee he’d been pouring from Sizemore’s ever-cooking urn. At the other end of the room, Sizemore was growling into a phone, reaming someone in his L.A. office for not preventing the sun from rising or setting—Doug was only hearing one side of the conversation, so he wasn’t sure which impossible chore the underling had screwed up.

“Special Agent Groves is working on leads from his CI,” Doug said. “When he develops anything significant, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Uh-huh,” Kennedy said, unimpressed. “Colton said she was a real hot piece of ass.”

“Bill Colton wants to be the next SAC in Phoenix.” Doug topped off his cup with lethal black liquid before he turned back to his boss and said, “Groves stands in the way of Colton’s ambition. A small matter of seniority and cases cleared.”

“Colton is a hard worker.”

Doug took a swallow and shuddered. “Colton is a decent agent, a
good bureaucrat, and a gifted ass-kisser. None of that should be news to you after working with him for a week.”

“You spend too much time protecting that pet hardhead of yours,” Kennedy retorted. “I didn’t want Groves on the strike force in the first place.”

“Groves gets results.”
And I hope to hell he gets some on this case real soon.

“Then tell the son of a bitch to pull his finger out of his ass and get me some results before tomorrow,” Kennedy snarled. He grabbed a clean cup and filled it with coffee. Every motion he made radiated anger. “This whole strike force is shaping up to be a real clusterfuck. We’re what—three months into it?—and all we’ve got is more robberies and murders and not one lead. I’ve got the director himself calling me for updates and all I have to say to him is the same crap Groves serves up on the six o’clock news.”

“We’re doing everything we can.”

“We’re looking like idiots.”

Doug didn’t disagree. Nor did he point out the real reason for Kennedy’s temper. All crime strike forces began and ended in politics. So did the careers of supervisory special agents. Arthur McCloud, who had lost the shipment that had kicked off the crime strike force, was the brother of a sitting president’s wife. If Kennedy broke the ring of hijackers, his career was made. And if he didn’t, well, he could always take early retirement.

For a man of Kennedy’s ambition, retirement was worse than death.

Sizemore slammed the phone back into its cradle and stalked past the coffee urn on the way to the tub of ice and beer. Before two
P.M
. he drank the light stuff. After that, he went for the gusto.

“Well?” Kennedy asked him.

Sizemore yanked the tab. Foam spewed. “Nothing.” He drank. “Not a fucking thing. You?”

“Possible ID on an Ecuadorian that informants say is into drugs, murder, robbery, and gems,” Kennedy said. “He came in on a private plane that landed in the Scottsdale airport.”

“You nail him?”

“No warrant,” Doug said. “No probable cause.”

“Give him to me,” Sizemore said. “In a few hours I’ll have enough probable bullshit to bury a judge.”

“There’s the small matter of the Constitution,” Doug said mildly. “It gets in our way a lot, but we’ve grown fond of it.”

Sizemore snorted and took another hit of the beer.

Kennedy smiled reluctantly. Doug might have a soft spot for hardheads, but he also had a way of defusing anger. With Sizemore around, it was a useful talent.

“So, what’s old that might lead to something new?” Sizemore asked.

“We’ve requested that local law enforcement keep an eye on any couriers in their territory who are known to be driving goods to the show.” Kennedy shrugged. “The various agencies will do what they can, but everyone who works for the state or county or city is doing two jobs already to make up for budget shortfalls.”

Sizemore grunted. “I’ve told the traders to foot half the bill for someone to ride shotgun twenty-four-seven with their couriers. I’m paying the other half. Had to hire some square badges to cover everyone, but there wasn’t any choice.” He grimaced at the thought of resorting to hiring men who had never carried a real law-enforcement shield. “We lose any more shipments and the clients lose confidence. Rentacops are better than nothing. Barely.”

Kennedy finished his coffee and dropped into a nearby chair with the heaviness of someone who hasn’t been getting enough sleep. “We lose any more shipments and it will be my face on the evening news. The media is baying for blood on this one.” He lit a cigarette and blew out a weary stream of smoke. “Bastards don’t care who’s dead as long as they get a sound bite out of it.”

Sizemore lowered himself into his favorite chair—beer on one side and documents stacked on the coffee table in front of him. “It’s not like the Purcells were frigging saints,” Sizemore said, flipping through a report Sharon had prepared for him. “The background I did reads like a how-to for losers and grifters.”

“Yeah?” Kennedy held out his hand. “Let me see. Maybe I can drop some stuff to a media source and get a different spin for today’s news. I’m getting sick of hearing about ‘slain grandparents of three.’ ”

So much for not talking to the media,
Doug thought without surprise.
What’s sauce for the goose definitely isn’t sauce for an SSA whose dick is in a wringer.

“What about Groves’s CI?” Sizemore asked.

“He’s working every lead he can,” Doug said. “Mario is helping.”

“What leads?”

“The ones Kennedy told you about.”

“He didn’t mention any.”

Doug looked concerned. “Then I shouldn’t.”

“Tell him,” Kennedy said without looking up from Sizemore’s report.

Doug would rather have kept his mouth closed, but he knew better than to dodge a direct order. “There might, just might,” he stressed the word lightly, “be some connection between the Purcell murders and Lee Mandel’s disappearance five months ago.”

Sizemore’s eyes narrowed. “Mandel? Refresh my memory.”

“The courier who vanished in Sanibel, Florida,” Doug said. “I’m sure you have a copy of our file on that somewhere.”

Sizemore dug through one pile of papers, then another, until he came up with a file. He went through it with a speed that said beer might be his drink of choice, but his brain wasn’t pickled yet.

“Okay. Lee Mandel…gone, no trace…no contact with family…father owns Mandel Inc. courier service…” Sizemore grunted. “No credit card or check transactions…no cell phone use…no description of the missing package or its contents.”

“That was Arthur McCloud’s choice,” Doug said. “He said he had better means of tracking the lost shipment than we did, and the less said the easier it would be to find the lost package. His insurance company agreed.”

“But you think it was gems?”

“Given that McCloud is a well-known collector of rare and extraordinary
gems,” Doug said carefully, “the Bureau is assuming that gems were involved in some manner. McCloud didn’t say either way. Nor did his insurance company, other than to put a price of one million U.S. dollars on the missing package.”

“Must be nice to be the president’s brother-in-law,” Sizemore said. “You don’t have to say dick if you don’t want to.”

“McCloud has better wires into the international gem community than we do,” Kennedy said, still looking at the Purcell file. “Purcell was a putz. The guy who whacked him did the world a favor.”

“If being a putz was a capital crime, there would be about two hundred people left alive on the whole planet,” Doug said, relieved to be off the subject of Sam’s CI, “and we’d be hunting each other.”

“I’d pay to see that.” Kennedy grinned and dumped the file back on one of Sizemore’s stacks. “I have to make a call. Which do you think sounds better—lecherous grandpa or thieving granny?”

“What did she steal?” Doug asked.

“Their website was a scam.”

“Yeah? When were they convicted?” Doug asked. “I didn’t see anything in their file.”

Sizemore’s empty lite-beer can thumped down on the table. “They weren’t convicted. Nobody wastes time on Internet grifters unless they’re doing kiddy porn.” He flipped to another page of the Mandel file.

“Besides,” Kennedy said, “since when do reporters care about the fine print? They need sensation to sell ads.”

“What about the lawyers?” Doug asked.

“You can’t libel a dead man,” Kennedy said cheerfully, reaching for the phone.