The Color of Death (17 page)

Scottsdale

Friday

11:20
A.M
.

Peyton adjusted his dark suit jacket
and waited impatiently for Eduardo to answer the damn cell phone that Hall Jewelry International paid for.

“
Bueno,
hello!”

Grimacing, Peyton held the cell phone away from his ear. Eduardo was shouting to be heard over the usual noise of the cutters reworking “estate” stones.

“Get to a quieter place,” Peyton said loudly. “I’ll wait.”

“
Sí,
yes, of course.
Momentito
.”

Peyton waited until the racket and jabber of the stone-cutting room faded to an irritating background.

“Is more better?” Eduardo asked.

Peyton didn’t waste any time with small talk. “In three days you’ll pick up a package at the special PO box. About half a kilo. Mix it with the May fourth shipment from Thailand and follow the normal procedures.”

“
Sí
. Yes.”

“There will be a second package at the same time. Good stuff. Some of it will have to be reworked.”

“Yes.”

Peyton tucked his tie beneath his jacket. “Eduardo?”

“Sí, señor?”

“If you skim more than five percent of the second package, I’ll cry at your funeral.”

“
Mi primo
is then
muy
unhappy,
señor
.”

“Your
primo
isn’t the only one in L.A. with a gun,” Peyton retorted. “No more than five percent, understand?”

“I understand. I not cheat you,
señor
. You know that, yes?”

“Saint Eduardo, eh? My ass.” Peyton laughed roughly. “Five percent or you’re dead.”

And after thinking about the goods he’d seen an hour ago, Peyton knew just who he’d call to do the job.

Scottsdale

Friday

1:30
P.M
.

Worldwide Wholesale Estate Gems
had a booth in the same room that the Purcells had recently inhabited. Everything in the room had been shuffled to cover the gap left when the Purcell booth was removed. WWEG had done its part by expanding with another case of “antique” gems.

“A big blue sapphire?” Tom Stafford asked, leaning forward over the heavy glass counter of the booth. “How big?”

Sam put his badge holder in his hip pocket and took out one of Kate’s photographs of the emerald-cut blue sapphire. He put the shiny photo faceup on the WWEG counter. “About forty carats, give or take.”

Stafford whistled silently. “If that photo’s color register is accurate, that’s one fine stone.”

“You see a stone like this recently?”

Stafford looked uncomfortable. “Uh…”

Sam wondered if he should shove his badge up Stafford’s uncooperative nose. He certainly was in a mood to do it.

Kate had been right: no one wanted to talk to the FBI, even after a grisly murder in their own gem-studded backyard.

“Think hard, Mr. Stafford,” Sam said easily. “Other people have identified the stone from this photograph. It would be a little odd if you, a dealer who had a booth next to the Purcells, never noticed a gem like this.”

Stafford shifted his feet, fingered his tie, and drummed fingers on the countertop. “The Purcells had one that might have looked like that,” he said finally. “But I can’t be certain they’re the same stone.”

“Oh, so you see a lot of stones like this?” Sam asked, smiling.

It was the kind of smile that made smart people look for the nearest exit.

Stafford cleared his throat and stroked his tie again. “Well, no, not a lot, of course not, but I’ve heard rumors of a synthetic stone that looked like your photo.”

“What rumors?”

Stafford shifted unhappily and glanced toward the booth near the doorway. “I don’t know. You know, you hang around with gem traders and you just hear things.”

Sam followed the other man’s glance. Sam hadn’t really expected the helpful gray-haired lady trader to keep such a juicy secret, but it would have been nice.

“Have you seen or heard of either stone since the murder?” Sam asked.

“No.” Stafford’s face, like his voice, didn’t invite more questions.

“And you’d tell us if you did,” Sam said cynically, pocketing the photo of the sapphire.

“Of course. Terrible thing. Just terrible.”

“The stone?” Sam asked, deadpan.

“The murders,” Stafford said, trying to look like a preacher or an undertaker—not part of the inner circle of mourners, but sympathetic all the same. “Just awful. I heard there was blood all over the place. Were you there? Did you see it?”

Jesus, another vulture.
“Thank you for your help, Mr. Stafford.” Sam pulled out a business card that had the deep blue and shiny gold shield of the FBI on it. “If you think of anything, or hear anything, at any time, please call this number.”

“Of course. I know my duty as a citizen.”

Sam’s smile went no farther than his teeth. “I’m sure you do.” He started to turn away, then turned back, as though as an afterthought. “Is a stone like that sapphire unusual?”

“Er…” Stafford thought frantically and decided there was no harm in the truth. “If it hasn’t been treated, the stone would be very unusual.”

“And if it had?”

“Well, the cut is unusual for a blue sapphire, but large treated blue sapphires aren’t
that
unusual, if you know what I mean. WWEG sees hundreds of big colored stones every month, especially since the recent turmoil in the Middle East, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Russia, you name it. Those countries were—and are—home to some of the great personal wealth in the world. When times get bad, Grandmother’s jewelry hits the market. The settings don’t have any value beyond bullion, but the stones do quite well for us.”

“What shapes of blue sapphires have you seen that were forty carats and up?”

The other man looked uneasy again. “I’m not sure I understand your question.”

Sam smiled.

Stafford looked even more worried. “Uh, do you mean have I seen any other emerald-cut—”

“Shapes. Any and all kinds. Over forty carats.”

“Uh, shapes. Over forty.”

Sam waited.

Stafford looked more like a man wondering if he was going to step on a land mine than a man trying to do his civic duty. “Uh…”

“Forty carats,” Sam said helpfully. “That would be about the size of your thumb down to the first knuckle.”

“Carat is a measure of weight, not size. Some stones are heavier than others, so forty carats of a heavier stone wouldn’t be as big as forty carats of, say, feldspar. In fact—”

“In fact, we’re talking blue sapphire,” Sam cut in ruthlessly. “Emerald-cut, brilliant-cut, cabochon, heart-shaped, pear-shaped,
oval, square, any old shape you can imagine. Over forty carats. Ringing any bells yet?”

“Uh…”

“Ever hear of the Seven Sins?”

“You mean like sloth and gluttony and—”

“Like this.” Sam slapped a photo of all seven blue sapphires down in front of Stafford and watched his eyes pop.

“God. God. God.” Stafford swallowed hard. “Are these
real
?”

“Have you seen or heard of anything like these stones?”

Stafford reached for the photo.

Sam pulled it back.

“Did Purcell have all of those?” Stafford asked hoarsely. “My God, where did he get them? Why didn’t he—”

“No one said these were Purcell’s. Is that what you’re saying?”

“No, no, no. It’s just that he had one so I assumed he had the rest.”

“Is that what everyone assumed?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know.” Stafford shook his head like he was coming up from deep water. “I only knew about the emerald-cut stone. That’s all he showed me. I can’t believe he’d keep the rest secret. He loved showing us that one stone, watching us want it. I still can’t imagine why it originally was offered to him instead of…” Stafford’s voice dried up.

“Instead of you?”

Stafford looked hunted.

“You
are
head buyer for WWEG, right?” Sam asked.

“Yes.” It was almost a whisper.

“Was Purcell known for spending top dollar?”

Involuntarily, Stafford laughed. “He barely squeezed out bottom dollar.”

“Yet he ended up with the big blue prize. Why?”

“Uh…”

Sam waited.

Stafford started sweating.

Sam waited some more.

“Look,” Stafford said hurriedly. “I can’t help you. I’m sorry. Obviously, Mike Purcell had some contacts that I don’t have. And I thank God for it. I don’t want to end up the way he did, his tongue hanging out of his throat, for God’s sake.”

Sam went still. “Who told you that?”

“I don’t know, I just heard it somewhere. You know, when you hang around with gem—”

“—traders you hear things,” Sam cut in, because he’d heard it all before and was damn tired of it. “Yeah, I know. What else have you heard?”

“Nothing,” Stafford said desperately. “Look, I’m an honest businessman. I can’t help you and you’re ruining my business by standing here.”

“Why would an FBI agent keep clients away from an honest businessman?”

Stafford groaned.

Sam decided he had better things to do than watch Stafford twist in the wind. At least, Sam hoped he did. He might get something out of Stafford if he spent the rest of the day with him in a locked room. And then again, he might not. All Sam knew for sure was that somebody was talking out of school.

The Colombian necktie hadn’t been one of the facts released to the press.

Glendale

Friday

3:00
P.M
.

“You were right,” Sam said
to Kate as he put a shopping bag on the worktable. He didn’t take out the red wig and colored contacts. He’d save those for later, after he’d told her the bad news.

Kate looked up from the transfer machine. “I was right? Can I have that notarized and framed?”

One corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “Hey, am I that bad?”

“Worse.” Then she smiled. “Actually, you’re a lot better than most of the men I deal with.”

“Wow. Tanked by faint praise.”

“I think the original phrase is ‘damned.’ ”

“That too.”

Sam walked down the aisle between two rows of worktables, touching machines and tools without actually moving anything out of whatever alignment she’d put them in. He saw that Lee’s file was open in the middle of one table. On the right side of the folder there was a snapshot of Lee grinning out at the world he would soon leave.

Saying nothing, Sam pulled a sealed envelope out of his lightweight jacket. He dropped the fat envelope with the Royale’s logo
into the folder. He didn’t bother to take out the paperwork describing Lee’s blood group and major subgroup, plus a VNTR sequence analysis. It was the kind of techno jargon that would have meaning only to a lab tech or a prosecutor looking to nail a perp’s ass to the jailhouse wall.

Or someone trying to prove that Lee Mandel’s blood had been spilled in the trunk of a rental car five months ago.

Sam didn’t have any real doubt, but that didn’t add up to a court case. He’d applied for a warrant for Lee’s medical records and a search warrant for his apartment, among other things. A few more in a long list of paper chases Sam had set off in the name of a case everyone had wanted to vanish five months ago.

A case that, unlike Lee, wasn’t going to go away.

Grimly, Sam wondered how long he had before somebody noticed that the Mandel file was active again. Weeks, if he was lucky. Days, most likely.

And if he was shit out of luck, it would be a matter of hours before alarm bells went off somewhere and Kate got to find out if her electronically distorted caller was bluffing.

The last time I told the FBI anything, I was told if I kept pushing, I would die.

Sam didn’t like thinking about that. He kept seeing her on a blood-soaked bed, prisoner of silver duct tape and a sadist with a knife.

Kate looked sideways at Sam. The dark beard was already showing through along his jaw. His eyes were weary, angry, and as beautiful as any gemstones she’d ever seen. But there was more than that. There was the intelligence that both animated and drove him. The emotions that ran deep and swift beneath the lid of his discipline. She sensed all of it, the frustration and the fear, the anger and the intensity.

It was scary, but somehow she knew him well enough to know that he was getting ready to do something he didn’t want to do.

“Okay,” she said, pushing back from her work. “Drop the other shoe.”

“Have I dropped the first one?”

“You’re here when you’re supposed to be questioning dealers about an emerald-cut blue sapphire, then you put something in Lee’s folder and don’t say what it is. That’s shoe number one.”

Sam stopped just short of touching what looked to his eye like a nifty handheld torch that sat to the right of the folder. He gave Kate a sideways look. Her eyes were dark, searching his. The long fingers of her hands were quiet, waiting. There was a strength in her that drew him more deeply than any physical appeal. Looks wore out. Character didn’t.

“You know, it’s flat-out amazing how much the traders
don’t
hear while they’re listening for gossip,” Sam said. “Everyone I showed the photo to said the equivalent of ‘Wow, nice stone.’ And that was all they said.”

“Did you show them your badge?”

“Yeah.”

“And they shut up,” she said.

“Oh, they talked. They just didn’t say anything. Close as I got was Stafford of WWEG.”

Kate pulled out her hair clip and rubbed her scalp. “What did he say?”

“He was surprised WWEG hadn’t been approached to buy the sapphire.”

“So am I.”

“Why?” Sam said, walking over to her, telling himself he wasn’t going to touch her. He was just going to get close enough to see if she was still wearing that lemony summer scent. Just close enough to reassure himself that she was warm, alive.

Safe.

“If Lee’s gossip was true—big if, by the way,” Kate added, “then WWEG would make a great laundry for stolen goods.” She rolled her head on her shoulders and rubbed at her unhappy scalp. “In fact, WWEG was one of the first traders I approached after Lee disappeared. It was the Miami show.”

“Was it Stafford?” Sam asked, sliding his fingers into her hair, kneading gently.

“What are you—? No, forget I asked.” Her hands fell to her side and she almost groaned. “That feels so good it should be illegal. If you ever want another career, I’ll recommend you as a masseur to the local health clubs.”

The soft breath of his laughter stirred her hair. Sensation rippled through her.

“It wasn’t Stafford at the Miami show,” she said quickly. “It was a woman. I can look up her name if you like.”

What he liked was the feel of Kate’s body relaxing beneath his hands. What he’d like better would be to get her tight all over again, differently, and then feel her come apart in his arms.

“If Stafford or WWEG does something that raises a flag,” Sam said, “I’ll need the woman’s name. Otherwise…” He leaned over just enough to inhale citrus and summer.

“Otherwise?” Kate asked.

She rolled her head, trying to help him release that tension that owed more to Lee’s disappearance than to hours of working over some really nice green sapphire. When she felt his hand pressed between her shoulder and her cheek, she hesitated. Then she sighed again and smoothed her cheek over his skin. His palm cupped her jaw.

“We’ve got to talk,” he said roughly.

But the thumb tracing and retracing her jawline was gentle enough to take her breath away.

“I thought we were,” she said.

“We’ve got two problems.”

She moved her chin just enough so that her mouth could reach his thumb. “What’s the first?”

His breath hissed in at the brief, hot touch of her tongue on his skin. “This.”

“You sure it isn’t this?” Her teeth closed around his thumb, she tasted him, then she released him slowly.

“You’re killing me.”

“Funny, I thought I was seducing you.”

He groaned and rested his forehead on her fragrant hair. He wanted her in a way that was new to him. He wanted to take what she wanted to give. He wanted—

But he couldn’t. Not until he told her. And after he did, she wouldn’t want to give him anything but the back of her hand.

“Kate,” he said, not able to let go. “I shouldn’t be doing this and neither should you.”

“Speak for yourself.”

He closed his eyes and fought against what he wanted so much he could taste.

Kate looked at the unhappy lines on his face. Abruptly, she swore and stood up, ending the sweet contact.

“Forget it,” she said. “This isn’t fair to either of us.” Arms crossed over her grit-smudged blue shirt, she met Sam’s eyes squarely. “How long do you think it will take for your damn strike force to be finished so you can be seduced by a woman who was once your confidential informant without getting fired?”

Sam opened his mouth, closed it, and shook his head. “I must be certifiable.”

“Why?”

“I understood what you said.”

She opened her mouth, shook her head, and laughed almost helplessly. “We’re a real pair.”

“Wild cards,” Sam said.

She looked at him curiously.

“That’s what my SSA called us. Jokers. Wild cards.”

“He knows about me? I thought—”

“Kennedy knows about Natalie Cutter,” Sam interrupted, “thanks to a big mouth called Bill Colton.”

“Who’s he?” she asked.

“A Phoenix-based special agent who would like to cut me off at the knees.”

“Any particular reason?”

“The usual,” Sam said.

“And that would be?”

“Office politics.”

Kate raked a hand through her loose hair. “Okay, so your, uh, SS-whatever—”

“Kennedy.”

“—knows that you collared someone called Natalie Cutter. So what?”

“So I was told to check her out and report back.”

“And you found me,” Kate said. Her arms tightened defensively across her breasts. “I don’t like where this is going. You said you could keep your confidential informant
confidential.
”

“I have.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Two problems.”

She waited tensely.

“The first one is this,” he said, reaching over to the Mandel file and tapping the envelope he’d brought with him. “It was faxed to the hotel for me.”

“What is it?”

“Lab work from the trunk of a rental car.”

Kate flinched and said hoarsely, “Lee’s dead, isn’t he?”

“We can’t be sure until we find a blood type match from his medical files, or better yet, a DNA match from hair follicles on his brush or comb in his apartment. Or maybe he cut himself shaving and the trash hasn’t been emptied. We won’t know until we get a look inside.”

She nodded tightly. “How soon?”

“I’ve applied for warrants. There shouldn’t be any problem, as a crime strike force gets precedence over routine Bureau stuff. One day, two, maybe less. Depends on who the judge is. The lab is working with some faster tests for DNA, so once we get the warrant, it shouldn’t be too long. I hope.”

“Do you think it’s Lee?”

Sam hesitated, shrugged, and said, “I think it’s a real good bet.”

“How good?” Her voice was raw.

“Ninety-nine percent.”

She sagged. “Even though my common sense said he was dead, I kept hoping…”

He reached toward her, then let his hand fall away without touching her. “We won’t be certain without lab confirmation.”

Kate made a broken sound that could have been a laugh or a sob.

“The bad news,” Sam said neutrally, “is that the instant the blood work gets into the system, Lee’s file will be updated. If—and we’re by no means certain—your ghost caller has access to FBI records, he’ll know that the file is active again.”

“But he won’t know I’m the one who forced the case to be reopened,” Kate said quickly.

“You’re assuming he’s reasonable and won’t blame you.” Sam held up a hand to stop her protest. “That’s an assumption I can’t make. Even if I could, it’s just a matter of time—short time—until your name is connected to the case again.”

“Why?”

“Kennedy is getting restless about my CI,” Sam said.

“So?”

“There are the Bureau rules, and then there’s the way things really work. The reality is that Kennedy dislikes me, Bill Colton would love to shove you down my throat, and he’s just competent enough to track you down the same way I did.”

“I wondered about that. How did you find me?”

“I saw you with Gavin, got his name from his badge. Showed your picture—”

“What picture?” Kate cut in.

“I got one from the hotel security cameras. Gavin recognized you right off. My SSA—Kennedy—has a copy of the photo, which means good old Bill could take it and show it around until he gets your real identity just like I did.”

Kate absorbed that in silence. Then she squared her shoulders. “It should be all right. No one will get information from Uncle Gavin. He leaves today.” She looked at her watch. “In two hours I’m going to meet him in the Royale’s lobby and take him to Sky Harbor.”

“You’re going to be seen with the one man who can identify you as Katherine Jessica Chandler, aka Natalie Cutter, aka the woman who is probably my CI, aka the woman who is number one on someone’s hit list? Wow, that’s really a bright move, sweetheart. Do you have a death wish you haven’t told me about?”

“God.” Kate raked fingers through her hair. When Sam put it that way, being seen with Gavin probably wasn’t the brightest idea she’d ever had. “Okay. I’ll call him and—”

“I’ll call him,” Sam interrupted. “And while I’m at it, I’ll tell him not to talk about you to anyone and to call me if someone asks about you.”

She started to argue, thought about Lee, and shut up. “There must be
something
I can do besides get ahead on my backlog of stone-cutting,” she said finally.

“What you should do is go to a motel and tell nobody but me where you are. I’ll pay for it in cash so there won’t be a credit record. No way to trace you.”

“That’s ridiculous. There’s no—”

“There’s every reason,” he cut in roughly. “All that stands between you and some asshole with a knife is the false identity of Natalie Cutter.”

“So far, so good,” Kate said through gritted teeth.

“What happens when I ask you to start making the rounds of the traders with me?”

She looked startled. “Are you asking me?”

“I’m thinking about it. Sure as shit I’m not getting much on my own. How many of the traders know you on sight?”

She shrugged. “Not many.”

“How many is not many?”

“Here? At this show?” She frowned. “None of the traders who were working with Purcell know me.”

“For these small blessings we are thankful,” Sam muttered. “How about the ones who are setting up as we speak?”

“It depends on who’s manning the booth for the various traders.”

“I’ll get a list.”

“Does that mean you’re asking me to help you?”

He said something savage under his breath. “I’m asking you to put your ass on the firing line, yes.”

“How am I going to tell the difference?” she asked ironically.

“I hope to hell you don’t find out.”