The Color of Death (14 page)

“The best stone was the blue sapphire,” Kate said without hesitation.

“Yeah. None of the other good ones was an emerald. None of them came from South America. Thai stuff all the way.”

“So it wasn’t a South American gang that killed Purcell?”

“Doubt it,” Sam said, yawning. “The Colombian necktie appeared years ago as a warning to snitches and turncoats in the drug trade. If Purcell didn’t have regular deals with South Americans, they didn’t have any reason to slice him up and hang him out to dry.”

She winced and reminded herself that she’d asked for it. And she would
not
let herself think about Lee undergoing the same torment. She’d mourned his death in her dreams for months.

Now it was payback time.

“Right,” she said flatly. “So where does that leave us?”

“Lip-deep in shit.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Think about it. Purcell has led a long and murky life as a gem dealer. During all that time he never was big enough or greedy enough or dumb enough to attract attention on either side of the law.”

She nodded.

“Is it fair to assume,” Sam said, “that he owned the blue sapphire for more than a few days or even a few weeks?”

“He must have owned it for at least two months.”

“Why?”

“You needed that much advance time to rent space at the Royale for the gem show. I know. Dad barely made it in under the deadline. He wanted a small booth next to the exit, so people would think of Mandel Inc. as a safe way to get their goodies home.” Kate watched the coffeepot as she spoke. It wasn’t quite time to steal the first cup while the rest was still dripping. “And if the other dealers wouldn’t normally have set up shop next to Purcell, but were persuaded by the fine blue sapphire to ask him into the club, then—”

“He must have had the stone at least two months ago,” Sam finished. He smiled wearily. “It fits, damn it.”

“What does?”

“Purcell was killed to close off inquiries about the source of that sapphire.”

“But if…” she began. Then her voice died.

“Yeah. If someone was going to get his dick in a knot over Purcell’s sapphire, it should have happened at the first gem show he attended with it, not the third or fourth. Unless he didn’t flash it around at the Kansas or Chicago shows?”

“I’ll ask some dealers if—”

“No,” Sam cut flatly. “I’ll do it.”

“People get nervous talking to the FBI. Especially the people who hang out with Purcell. They’re much more likely to talk to me.”

She was right, but he really didn’t want to do it that way. She had no idea how much at risk she was.

“I’ll get around them,” he said easily. “Just one of the things I’m paid to do.”

“Why bother?” Kate asked. “People are used to me asking about stones. I’m a cutter. I’m always looking for good rough or badly cut Indian gems to rework. I don’t need an excuse to talk about fine stones with other professionals. And I sure won’t make them nervous. Dealers and traders love to talk shop with another insider.”

Sam grabbed the glass carafe that held a thin layer of just-brewed coffee. Ignoring the hiss and burn of coffee dripping onto the hot plate, he dumped scalding coffee into the cup. Barely two-thirds
full. He shoved the carafe back into place under the dripping coffee and said roughly, “You’re not thinking too well, Kate.”

She raised her eyebrows, took his coffee, sipped. “I’m sure you’ll tell me what I’m missing.”

“Pretty simple. If Purcell had the big sapphire for months and nobody gave a damn, why was he killed now? What’s different about
this
show?”

Kate gave back the coffee with a hand that wasn’t as steady as it had been. She didn’t like the direction the conversation was taking. “I saw the blue sapphire. I asked questions.”

“And got caught switching stones by SA Sam Groves, a fact that’s no secret, thanks to SA Bill Colton,” he added with disgust. “Pretty quick after that, a pro shuts up Purcell and takes the sapphire. End of the first promising evidence trail that might have led to discovering what really happened to Lee Mandel. The only good news in this Mongolian goat roping is that I’m the only one who can connect your name to Purcell and to one of the Seven Sins.”

“You just said that it wasn’t a secret.”

“The stone swap isn’t, but nobody except the two of us knows that Natalie Cutter is Kate Chandler.”

Her eyes widened as she understood what he wasn’t saying. “Are you telling me that—”

“Someone in the crime strike force is talking out of school,” he cut in. “Not the first time. Won’t be the last.”

“You mean you can’t trust them?”

“With a whole lot of things, yes. But I can’t take the chance that one of the ambitious cops will whisper the wrong thing in the media’s ear, and next thing we know your name is headlined with Natalie Cutter’s.”

“I can take the embarrassment.”

“You wouldn’t have to for long.”

“Why?”

“You’d be dead.”

Glendale

Friday

5:00
A.M
.

Sam’s cell phone woke him up.
He grabbed it and checked the window. Then he punched the button.

“Hello, Hansen. What do you have?”

“We sound a little sleepy,” came the lab tech’s bright reply.

“
We
are in Arizona, not on the East Coast.”

“Just getting even for all the times you and your kind have dragged me out of bed or made me work overtime. Last Wednesday, for example, when you lit a fire under someone and they passed the burn on to me. Then there’s the five-months-later rental car. But, hey, who’s counting? Not me. Especially as we got lucky right off with the car.”

With one big hand, Sam rubbed his eyes and looked around, wondering where in hell he was. Even before the thought registered, he knew: Kate’s house. The couch in her workroom, to be exact. Someone had taken off his shoes, stuffed a pillow under his head, and thrown a blanket over him.

Too bad she hadn’t taken off his gun harness while she was at it. His ribs felt like they’d been kicked.

“Okay, we’re even,” Sam said. “Talk to me.”

“Even? Hell, you owe me on this one. The trunk liner on that rental car showed traces of blood and feces. The liner had been shampooed but there was enough blood residue to glow in the dark, once we added Luminol. We started DNA sequencing on the samples using a new technique. Should have the results any time now.”

Sam knew that
any time now
wasn’t necessarily fast. Usually, but not always. “Was the blood human?”

“Yeah. O positive. I can break it down further into subgroups if—”

“Do it,” Sam interrupted. “I won’t update the file until I have the DNA report. You find anything else?”

“Dirt and sand,” Hansen said cheerfully. “A lot of it. Most of it is typical for the west coast of Florida. There was some central and east coast debris too.”

“Don’t those rental companies ever vacuum their cars?”

“Not like we do.”

“What about fingerprints?” Sam asked. “You get any?”

“It’s a rental car, for Chrissake. Of course we got fingerprints.”

“Run them, including partials.”

Hansen made a strangled sound. “Do you have any idea how many—”

“Just do it,” Sam interrupted. “Strike force priority. That should come in front of everything but suicide bombers at the White House.”

He disconnected before Hansen could say just how much he loved him, and why. Then Sam shook his head to send away the last cobwebs of sleep, spotted a half full mug of old coffee, and slugged it down while he punched in the number of the Miami office and asked for Special Agent Mecklin.

“Special Agent Sam Groves,” he said when Mecklin picked up the phone. “Following up my request for an interview with the—”

“Yeah, yeah, I did it,” Mecklin interrupted. “File’s right on my desk.”

“And?”

“The kid—Bruce Conner, twenty-two, Caucasian, nothing but a
speeding ticket on his record—has worked at SoupOr Shrimp for five years. Big favorite with the regulars. Boss loves him. Maybe a little too much. Did I mention it’s a gay hangout?”

“No.”

“Well, it is.”

“Last time I checked, that wasn’t a federal crime. What else?”

“Bruce remembers Lee Mandel. They weren’t on a first-name basis, much less asshole buddies, but Bruce remembers the good tippers. He always gave the guy some extra doggie bags. Mandel didn’t say what they were for and Bruce didn’t ask. Like I said, the guy tipped good.”

Sam settled back to listen. He didn’t know SA Mecklin, but it was obvious he had conducted a real interview rather than blowing off Sam’s request.

“So, has Lee been back to the place since, say, December?” Sam asked.

“Nope. Bruce is worried about that. Wonders if he somehow pissed the guy off.”

“Why?”

“Because Mandel left without waiting for his meal to arrive and never came back. He even left the doggie bags behind.”

Sam almost purred at the familiar jolt of adrenaline that came as he sensed pieces of a case falling into place. “Was that the same day he was supposed to turn in his rental car at the airport?”

“Yeah.”

“So Bruce is the last one to see Lee?”

“Yeah. But like I said, the kid is clean.”

“How did he react to being questioned by the FBI?” Sam asked.

“He wasn’t nervous, if that’s what you mean. He met my eyes, didn’t fidget, was curious about why I was there but accepted the standard explanation.”

“Background check?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Wait,” Mecklin said quickly. “Have you reopened the Mandel case?”

“No,” Sam lied.

“Then what’s all this about?”

“Just asking questions that should have been asked five months ago.”

Scottsdale

Friday

7:45
A.M
.

Sharon rolled over in bed,
caught sight of the radio alarm clock, and swore. She’d have to move like a racehorse to be on time for her father’s morning pep talk to his security crew.

I knew we should have gone to my room last night. Peyton can’t set an alarm clock without his secretary to cheer him on.

Peyton gave off sleepy noises and burrowed deeper into the blankets.

Sharon gave him an impatient shake. Sometimes she felt like a juggler with all the little boys she had to keep dumb and smiling, thinking they were running everything just fine.

“Mmph” was all Peyton had to say.

“You told me you had an eight o’clock breakfast with a dealer,” Sharon said, getting out of bed. “It’s seven forty-five.”

“Can’t be,” he mumbled. “I set it for six-thirty.”

She dragged the radio alarm clock to the full extent of its cord. “Read it and weep.”

She dropped the clock near him and started pulling on clothes, grateful that they hadn’t gone out last night. If she’d strolled in late for a meeting dressed for yesterday’s cocktail hour, her father would
have the coronary his doctor kept warning him about and Sizemore kept brushing off.

Only the good die young. Now get me a frigging beer.

There were times Sharon thought of having someone make a T-shirt emblazoned with those words. It would be worth it, just to see her father’s tomato-red face. The early meetings were a load of crap, but God help anyone who didn’t show up to listen to Sizemore’s words of wisdom.

Thanks to her late start, she only had enough time to brush her teeth, sleek down her hair, and run for the elevator. Two other people were waiting. She nodded politely at them and kept the unstated social distance away.

Her cell phone rang just as the elevator arrived. She looked at the window, sighed, and opened the connection.

“Hello, Sonny,” she said in a low voice. “What’s gone wrong now?”

“Dad just finished chewing me up one side and down the other.”

So what else is new?
Sharon stepped into the elevator car and punched in the floor she wanted. “He chews on everyone, but you’re his favorite flavor. What lame excuse did he use this time?”

“He’s blaming me for everything from the beat-up courier to the murders in the parking lot, and I’m here in L.A., for Chrissake. What the hell am I supposed to do? I’m a salesman, not a gun-toting agent.”

She looked at her watch. Three minutes to spare. If the elevator didn’t stop at every floor, she’d make it on time. “He blames everyone. You can’t take it personally.”

“You always say that. Then you tell me to find another job.”

“You’re a very good salesman. You could sell sand in the Sahara. A different employer would appreciate that. Dad never will.”

“But last year I increased the business by—”

“Give it up,” she cut in impatiently. She turned her back on the other two people in the elevator and spoke in more discreet tones. “I know you’re all that kept us afloat last year. Dad may or may not know, but he won’t say either way. You should have had my pragmatism or I should have been born with your hang-downs. But you
don’t and I wasn’t, and Dad can’t get over either one. He’ll go to the grave disappointed in his children. I can live with that. You can’t. That’s why you should get out.”

“Can you live with it?” Sonny asked unexpectedly. “I mean
really
? Are you sure you aren’t trying to make up for failing him by being booted out of the Bureau?”

“I resigned,” she muttered as the elevator slowed to a stop at her floor.

“Oh, come on. Don’t split hairs with me. You didn’t have a choice about resigning and everyone knows it.”

“Sure I did. I could have sued the bastards for sex discrimination for not making my SAC resign along with me.”

Sharon stepped through the open elevator doors, dodged someone who was desperately trying to make the elevator before the doors closed, and started toward the Sizemore Security Consulting suite. It was actually adjoining rooms, but God help anyone who pointed that out. Her father was still pissed off at not getting his deposit in on time. Her fault, of course.

Everything was.

“But you didn’t sue anyone,” Sonny pointed out. “You came home with your tail tucked between your legs and took the job Daddy offered.”

“Man, Dad must have really given your ego a going-over,” she said in a low, fierce voice. “Don’t take it out on me. You know damn well I spent six months applying for other jobs before I came home.”
And during each of those six months had to look at the leers from every other law-enforcement agency type who had heard what really happened. And they all had heard.
“The pay was the same working for Sizemore Security Consulting and I don’t have to suck anyone off to keep my job. Just one of the perks of working for my daddy.”

Sonny blew a long breath over the receiver. “Sorry, sis. I didn’t mean it. I was feeling raw and…I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry. Dad’s given me a lot worse. Did he chew on the whole L.A. staff or just you?”

“He was pretty rough on Jason.”

“Okay, I’ll call him. We can’t afford to lose Jason. He’s the best connection we have to the jewelry trade in general and exclusive collectors in particular. He and his brother know where all the bodies are buried, who’s buying, and who’s lying.”

“I tried to smooth it over, but Jason needs to hear it from you too. Everyone knows that for all Dad’s shouting, you’re the glue that holds it all together.”

“First insults, now flattery.”

“Not flattery. Truth.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll tell Jason the seagull manager joke.”

“What’s that?” Sonny asked.

“A seagull manager is one that flies in from nowhere, squawks a lot, craps on everything, and flies off.”

Sonny snickered. “You just described Dad.”

“Ya think?” she asked sardonically. “Listen, I’ll call you later. I’ve got to go or I’ll be late for Dad’s coffee pep talk to the staff here.”

“Better you than me. Thanks, sis. Since Mom’s been gone, I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

“Don’t thank me. Just go out and hustle more business. We’re going to need it when news gets out about the courier. That’s three in the last three months we’ve lost.”

“Four. Brady backed out of the deal this morning. We’re looking for another courier now.”

“Jesus. Did you tell Dad?”

“Uh, no. I thought I’d leave it to you.”

“Sweet. Really sweet.”

Sharon punched the disconnect, squared her shoulders, and headed in for the morning squawk from her seagull manager.