The Color of Death (9 page)

“Fort Myers. He liked to go shelling when business took him to Sanibel or anywhere else with a beach. Instead of spending time on the road driving down from the Tampa airport, he flew in through Fort Myers and used the extra time for picking up shells.”

“Did he have a lot of business on Sanibel or Captiva?”

“Too much, apparently,” she said, her voice rough.

“What do you mean?”

“Predictability. It’s a problem for couriers. Especially with the South American gangs.”

“Everybody’s favorite bad boys,” Sam said.

“You have a better candidate for what happened to Lee?”

“I was hoping you would.”

She shook her head and gestured to the sandwich. “You hungry?”

“Thanks. What about you?” Sam asked, picking up half of the sandwich.

“No.”

“Not hungry and not dressed for bed. Not watching television. Not drinking.”

“How do you know?”

“TV in the corner is off. So are the lights. No open books or magazines around. Your breath smells of coffee, not alcohol. What were you doing this late at night that required coffee instead of sleep?”

Kate realized all over again that no matter how relaxed and easygoing Sam appeared, he didn’t miss anything important.

“You’d never guess,” she said.

“Then save us both time. Tell me.”

“Cutting stones.”

“Sapphires?”

“Among other colored stones. I don’t do diamonds.”

He looked at her for a long moment, remembering how she’d seemed pleased when the big sapphire’s cut was praised by someone who ought to know.

“You cut that fake—”

“Synthetic,” Kate corrected automatically.

“—sapphire, didn’t you,” he finished, ignoring her interruption.

“Yes.”

“What does that have to do with Lee Mandel?”

“I cut the gems that he supposedly disappeared with.”

“What were they?”

“Seven sapphires cut from an enormous piece of Burmese rough that a collector’s family had held on to for more than one hundred years. There were too many problems with trying to cut a single huge stone from the rough, so no one had done anything with it. After I studied the rough and reported to McCloud, he decided that he wanted seven different gems. He called them the Seven Sins because he spent a sinful amount of money on them.”

“He didn’t use that name with the FBI. Nothing like that appeared in the file.”

“Maybe McCloud didn’t think the Bureau had a sense of humor,” Kate said.

“He wouldn’t be the first. Go on.”

“Not until I have some assurance that what I’m saying will be kept confidential. Out of any open files.”

“Why?”

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

Sam went still. “The FBI told you
what
?”

“It wasn’t the FBI. At least I don’t think it was.” Kate shrugged. “Hell, it could have been. They sure were tired of hearing from me.”

“How, precisely, did you get the death threat?” Sam asked distinctly.

“On my voice mail. I have a tape backup so I can have a record of client requests.”

“Do you still have the message?”

“Sure, but it won’t do you any good.”

“Why?”

“They used a voice distorter.”

“I’d like to send the message to the lab.”

She hesitated, then went to a filing cabinet. A minute later she handed him a small cassette tape that had been sealed into an envelope with her business logo on the outside.

“You’re sure the voice was distorted?” Sam asked, pocketing the tape.

“Yes. I could hardly understand the words. Then I wished I hadn’t.”

“You could hardly understand, yet you assumed the caller was somehow connected with the FBI?”

“No. I assumed that whoever sent the message knew that I’d been to the FBI again. It could have been the local cops. That’s possible, isn’t it?”

“If this someone has access to FBI files, or local police files, and somehow knew that the Lee Mandel file had been updated, yes, it’s possible. Just.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“Ms. Chandler—”

“Never mind,” she cut in. “You won’t believe me even after you file your report and Lee’s file is updated and I’m found with my throat slit in my own house. Suicide, no doubt.”

The sarcasm didn’t move Sam, but the edgy fear in Kate’s eyes did. Whatever he believed or didn’t believe about the quick, sexy con artist, she was sure her life was at risk if she kept trying to solve the mystery of Lee Mandel’s disappearance.

“You’re going to keep pushing anyway,” Sam said.

“Until I have answers, yes.”

“Or you die.”

She bit the corner of her mouth and said nothing.

Sam decided quickly, going with his gut rather than with FBI procedure. Trusting his own judgment was just one of the many things he’d been in trouble for over the years.

“Ms. Chandler, do you know what a confidential informant is?”

Scottsdale

Early Wednesday morning

Kirby grabbed his digital phone
off the bedside, looked at the incoming number window, and swore. The number was blocked.

“If this is a six
A.M
. telemarketer from Nebraska,” he muttered to himself, “I’m going to find the asshole and make his headset a permanent part of his equipment.”

Kirby answered the phone anyway, but only after he started the built-in digital recorder. The person he knew only as “the Voice” used the digital phone to send him new information. He—or even she, who could tell?—used a voice distorter. The meaning of the conversation was always clear though. Every call put Kirby onto a courier who was carrying portable, anonymous wealth. Gems. Rolex watches. Bearer bonds. Even cash. Kirby had several sources, but the Voice was the best. He didn’t mind putting half of the take in an offshore account, even though he couldn’t trace the money’s ultimate destination.

And he had tried. He wanted to know who his informant was. More important, he wanted to know how the caller had gotten the information to blackmail Kirby into working for him in the first place.

“Yeah?” he said roughly.

“Mike Purcell. Clean him out and give him a Colombian necktie.”

Adrenaline kicked as Kirby recognized the Voice. “That’ll cost more.”

“I won’t expect a split on this one. It’s all yours. Should be worth at least a hundred thousand to you, maybe more.”

“And if it isn’t?”

“Have I ever cheated you?”

“No.” It was the sole reason Kirby put up with taking orders from a ghost. The Voice was smart, thorough, and wired into the gem trade. Since the Voice had started calling three years ago, Kirby’s overseas accounts had fattened into six figures, heading toward seven. “When do you want it done?”

“ASAP. Purcell is sleeping in a motor home parked in the Royale’s employee lot. An old Winnebago. Security is battery operated. Pull the leads in the service panel.”

“He’s not using the hotel safe for his goods?”

“He doesn’t trust anyone.”

“Smart,” Kirby said. “Dumb too.”

“Make sure you get the big sapphire. Size of your big toenail, emerald cut.”

Kirby smiled. “Where’d a crud like Purcell get that?”

“Who cares? Just be sure that nothing weighs more than four carats when it goes back into the market. Don’t use Hall. At least one of his cutters is unreliable.”

“Which one?” Kirby asked.

The Voice ignored his question and asked another. “You have enough men for another job at the same time?”

“Depends on the work.”

“Standard hijack.”

“Scottsdale?”

“Yes. Incoming from L.A., usually stops for fuel in Quartzite and at McDonald’s for a clean john. Beige rental car, Taurus, Arizona license…”

Kirby was already writing on the pad he kept beside the bed. “Electronic key?”

“Yes, but use a crowbar anyway. Rough up the courier. Have one of your boys drop some gutter Spanish.”

“Sí. ¿Cómo no?”

Eerie mechanical sounds came over the line. Kirby assumed it was laughter.

Hoped.

He wasn’t a pussy, but sometimes the Voice creeped him out.

“Be ready to do it again a few days later,” the Voice continued. “They’ll have to send in more gems for the show. I’ll tell you when. The second lot should be the best.”

“Usual split on that one?”

“Fifty-fifty.”

The connection went dead.

“Fucking-A,” Kirby said, grinning and counting money in his head. Even if he gave half of his half to one of his men, it was still a good score.

He turned off the phone, stretched his wiry body, scratched his crotch, farted, and walked naked to the bathroom. While he emptied his bladder, he went through his various gem-cutting connections in his mind. Mexico had a few cutters, but like a lot of black-market workmen, they tended to skim the cream off incoming shipments and resell on the side. If the Voice didn’t want anything bigger than four carats out there, Mexico wasn’t a good bet. Maybe Burma. Tricky though. His connection there had pissed off some drug warlords and was still in the hospital.

“Hell,” he muttered, shaking off the last drop. “Gotta be Pakistan or Afghanistan. Wonder if Abdul is still alive.”

A few phone calls, a little patience, and the news came back that Abdul was alive and well in Karachi.

Kirby looked at his watch. Too late to do anything about Purcell. That left the courier. Only question was, Who to call? Murphy was in New York following some merchandise. Rodrigo was in Texas, but
he had a new baby and was taking some time off. Sumner was making noises like he wanted out of the game, which made Kirby nervous about assigning him anything physical; if he was caught, he’d roll over in a New York minute.

Time to check through the files of unhappy ex-agents and soldiers again. Someone is bound to be interested in a little adrenaline and cash.

Unfortunately, he needed someone now. Someone reliable. Or mostly reliable, which was how John “Tex” White was becoming.

What makes him think he can do drugs and not turn into a mutt? Stupid bastard.

Shaking his head, Kirby punched in a number. It was picked up on the forth ring.

“Yah,” said a man’s voice, yawning.

“ ’Morning, Tex. You ready to rock and roll?”

Scottsdale

Noon Wednesday

Sam’s stomach growled as
he climbed up the steps to the strike force’s big motor coach. He was carrying a plastic bag from a nearby minimart and thinking wistfully of the
taqueria
three miles away. Then he pulled a soda and two packages of peanut butter and cheese crackers from the bag, wadded the plastic into a ball, and fired it toward the first trash basket he came to.

It missed, but so had a lot of other trash.

With a nod of greeting to the men and women whose attention was buried in the array of electronics that were crammed into the coach, Sam popped open the soft drink and went toward the SAC’s office. The door was open, so he walked in.

“ ’Morning. Oh, wait, it’s lunchtime.” Sam saluted Doug Smith with a package of crackers. “Good afternoon.”

“Close the door.”

As Sam did, he braced himself for whatever came next. He wasn’t sure how he’d pissed off his immediate superior, but he was sure he had. If he’d had any doubts, the fact that Doug didn’t ask him to sit down was another bad sign. With a sigh, Sam stuffed the
crackers into the pocket of his casual jacket and waited for his boss to drill him a new asshole.

He didn’t have to wait long.

“What in hell were you thinking?” Doug snarled.

Since Sam didn’t know why he was being reamed, he didn’t answer.

“Well?” Doug shoved back his chair and gestured to a slender file that lay on his desk like an accusation.

Sam had long since perfected the art of reading upside down. The file’s jacket said it all: Lee Andrew Mandel. Well, Sam had been prepared for that. He just hadn’t expected it to hit the fan so fast.

“If you discovered anything about the Cutter woman, you were supposed to tell Sizemore,” Doug said. “Direct order from Kennedy. Simple to follow. And you fucked it up.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Sam worked very hard at sounding contrite. “I was following a CI’s leads. There could be some intersection with the woman Natalie Cutter. Even so, Bureau policy has always been that an agent’s confidential informants aren’t given to anyone in the Bureau without overwhelming reason, much less to a civilian like Sizemore, who is no longer with the Bureau. A civilian, I might add, who knows more than we do about some aspects of the crime strike force’s objectives and keeps that information to himself. His privilege. He’s a private citizen. A CI is an agent’s privilege.”

Doug blew out one long breath, then another, before he said neutrally, “You have a CI.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So instead of working with Sizemore as directed by SSA Kennedy, you’re following leads from a CI you’ve turned up somewhere, somehow, all on your own.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Leads that made you curious about a five-month-old case that has career suicide written all over it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Leads that were so red fucking hot that you just had to put highest priority on your requests?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you have any idea how many man hours it could take to trace a rental car after five months?”

“No, sir.”

“Confidential informant,” Doug said with a bitter twist to his mouth, as though the words tasted bad.

Sam didn’t answer. It wasn’t a question.

Doug picked up the file. “I’ll cover you with Kennedy as long as I can. Again.” He threw the file at Sam, who caught it without flinching. “You better come out smelling like a rose garden or you’ll finish your twenty in Fargo and I’ll laugh out loud when I sign the orders.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get your smart ass out of my sight.”

Sam was shutting the door behind himself before Doug finished his sentence.