The Color of Death (32 page)

Scottsdale

Sunday

8:10
P.M
.

Kennedy’s expression was grim.
His office was wearing a shroud of cigarette smoke. The ashtray looked like a funeral pyre.

“It’ll never stand up in court,” he said the instant Sam and Kate walked in.

Sam looked at Doug.

Doug looked like he had a toothache.

“What’s the problem?” Sam asked, turning back to Kennedy.

“Circumstantial,” the SSA said succinctly. “All of it. No hard evidence. Any defense lawyer could shove it up our ass.”

“If it was only one circumstance or two or three, sure,” Sam said. “But no one else had the information that Sizemore did. Not us, not—”

“What about Mandel Inc.?” Doug asked. “They had it.”

Sam’s fingers pressed against Kate’s wrist, warning her to be quiet.

“Doesn’t fly,” Sam said.

“Why not?” Kennedy demanded. “They sure as hell knew their son was carrying the goods their daughter cut.”

“You’re out of your bureaucratic mind!” Kate said, ignoring Sam’s silent warning. “Dad wouldn’t kill his own son!”

“Nobody’s saying he meant to,” Kennedy said calmly. “Ninety-nine percent of courier heists don’t even result in a hangnail to the courier, much less death. Something just went wrong.”

“Like what?” she asked sarcastically. “Lee tripped and broke his neck and a flock of vultures carried him off to the mangrove swamp for a snack?”

“Look, Ms. Chandler,” Kennedy said. “I know how hard this is on you.”

“You don’t have the faintest idea. Last night someone tried to kill us and I ended up with blood and bone and—
stuff
—all over the—” She took a sawing breath. “Never mind. That’s not important. The point is that my father wouldn’t kill my brother.”

“Admirable sentiment, and quite expected,” Kennedy said. “But I could think of several scenarios in which your brother’s death would be required. Regrettable, I’m sure, but still necessary.”

“Name them,” she said through pale, tight lips.

Kennedy looked at Doug.

Doug looked right back at him.

“If the heist was supposed to be clean and quiet,” Sam said evenly, not wanting Doug to get in any more trouble than he already was, “and Lee happened onto the scene and recognized his father or some other Mandel employee, then Lee had to die, right? But since it’s basically a family business, the father is the most likely suspect.”

Kate wanted to object. The pressure of Sam’s fingers around her wrist made her think better of it. That and the clear sense that he was a breath away from losing his temper and going right over the desk after Kennedy.

“Very good,” Kennedy said sardonically. “I guess you haven’t lost your perspective after all.”

Sam ignored him. “Or Lee could have been in on it from the start, and his father found out, they argued, and Lee ended up dead.”

Kennedy nodded.

“Or Lee could have been innocent and his father wasn’t,” Sam continued. “Argument, same result.”

Again, Kennedy nodded. He reached for another cigarette, lit it, and began to look relaxed for the first time.

Doug didn’t. He just kept looking at Sam as though he expected the other man to pull his weapon and start shooting.

“The only problem with those scenarios,” Sam continued in his dangerously neutral tone, “is that they assume a single death unrelated to any other courier heist, which we know isn’t the case.”

Kennedy threw the lighter on his desk. “What are you talking about? Of course the heists are connected. Even if the MOs are mixed—hell, I’ll give you your goddamn Teflon gang—there’s not one single reason to assume the Florida hit was a one-off.”

“I agree,” Sam said. “Which leads us to the second problem.”

Doug braced himself.

Kennedy picked up a letter opener and tested its edge. Not sharp enough. Not nearly as sharp as Sam Fucking Groves. “I’m listening,” Kennedy said, putting down the tool.

“The outstanding features of the courier heists I’ve concentrated on were technical skill, inside information, and the kind of training usually associated with special law-enforcement and/or military teams. That’s what makes them Teflon. They’re smarter and a lot better trained than your average mutt. Or their boss is. Kirby was smart, but I don’t think he was the boss. He didn’t have a way to get the inside information unless someone gave it to him. Someone who was already inside.”

Kennedy grunted.

“Mandel Inc. certainly has the technical skill to make remote keys,” Sam continued, “and in some but not all cases, the inside information, but not one Mandel employee has ever had law-enforcement or military special-ops training. I can guarantee that the intruder last night did. Which brings up the question, How did Mandel get into the ex–special ops community? Those boys are as clannish as they come.”

Kennedy took a long pull on his cigarette and didn’t argue. There was no point.

Yet.

“Kirby had the kind of training that would get him into that community,” Sam said. “Right?”

“Sizemore didn’t,” Kennedy said flatly. “He went into the Bureau right out of university. You’re wasting my time.”

Sam kept talking. “Kirby, and the pal he hung with, White, were part of Sizemore’s crime task force, the one that took down the South Americans.”

Kennedy’s eyes narrowed. “So what?” He stubbed out his cigarette. “So were a lot of men.”

“The Bureau is tracing them now,” Sam said. “We came up with one other guy—Stan Fortune—who’s living in L.A. near Kirby. He was army, special ops, ten years after Kirby. Discharged because of injury. Bitter about it. Joined the DEA, went undercover in Florida, and made people nervous. They gave him a desk job. He quit.”

“It happens,” Kennedy said. He fiddled with another cigarette but didn’t light it.

“He was one of Sizemore’s informants on the famous task force. Kirby found him for that job.”

Kennedy grimaced. He wanted to get up and leave, but he couldn’t.
Damn it, Ted. What the hell happened?

There was no answer but the sound of Sam’s voice telling everyone what Kennedy didn’t want to know.

“So far, every unhappy loner we’ve traced from the good old crime task force leads back to Kirby,” Sam said relentlessly, “who worked with Sizemore, who has information of the kind that would be valuable to mutts wanting to knock over couriers.”

“Ted didn’t know about the McCloud sapphires,” Kennedy said flatly. “He had no way of knowing. It was a Mandel Inc. job all the way—father, daughter, brother.”

“Lee’s lover was Norm Gallagher, whose brother works for Sizemore’s company in the home office,” Kate said. “Sizemore easily could have known.”

Kennedy’s fingers gripped the lighter so hard his knuckles went white. With an impatient snap, he lit up the cigarette and sucked hard. “Circumstantial.”

“It’s one more straw—the one that broke the camel’s back,” Sam said. “I’m asking for a warrant to go through Sizemore’s computers and a forensic accountant for the company books. Do I have to go over you?”

Kennedy closed his eyes. When he opened them, he hit the intercom switch on the phone and said without inflection, “Send him in.”

A moment later the door opened and Ted Sizemore stepped into the office. One look at his face told Sam that the other man had overheard every word that was said in Kennedy’s office. But it wasn’t anger Sam saw on Sizemore’s face, it was confusion.

And fear.

Sizemore went straight to Kennedy. “I swear I didn’t do it. You have to believe me.” Tears leaked from his eyes.
“I swear it!
Hook me up to a machine, you’ll see. I’m innocent! Groves is framing me!”

“If it isn’t you, who is it?” Sam said. “Someone at your firm?”

“I—I—no,” Sizemore said. “It can’t be.”

“Why?” Kate asked. “You were ready to accuse my whole family.”

Sizemore just shook his head.

“Ted,” Kennedy said quietly, “at this point it looks like your firm is the only source of information that accounts for the high-tech and nonviolent—until Mandel—courier heists. Help me out on this.”

“I can’t,” Sizemore whispered. “I don’t understand—” His voice broke. “Any of this. I just don’t. Give me a lie test. I swear—” Sizemore’s voice broke. He didn’t try to say anything again. He just shook his head.

“Doug will take care of the paperwork you need for warrants and such,” Kennedy said to Sam. “It will go through highest priority. Satisfied?”

Sam looked at Sizemore. All swagger was gone. There was nothing left but an old man with tears on his face.

Not very satisfying at all.

“Put some more men on White,” Sam said. “Maybe he can tell us
something useful. And if Sizemore doesn’t object, I’d like to see the background checks and personnel files of everyone in his company with access to sensitive information.”

Sizemore said, “Go ahead. I’d help you, but you don’t trust me.”

“In my shoes, would you?”

Sizemore flinched. “No. God help me, no.” He grabbed a piece of paper from Kennedy’s desk and scrawled a string of numbers and letters. “This is my entry code to the company computer. You can access it from your own laptop.” Sizemore handed the sheet over and said bitterly, “Have fun.”

Glendale

Sunday

11:40
P.M
.

“Hey,” Kate said, coming up
behind Sam as he hunched over his computer, clicking through Sizemore Security Consulting personnel files. She sank her thumbs into the knotted muscles of his shoulders and leaned in, trying to loosen him up. “You can’t do it all at once.”

“I’m missing something. I have to be.”

“Why?”

He let out a long sigh and spun the office chair around so quickly that they bumped knees.

“You haven’t said a word about Sizemore since we left Kennedy’s office,” Sam pointed out. “What’s wrong?”

She looked at Sam’s haunted blue eyes and heavy beard shadow, the weapon harness worn over a wilted T-shirt, jeans tight over his strong thighs. She wondered what would happen after the case was closed, how much she would miss the man who had become such an important part of her personal landscape.

“Why do you think I haven’t said anything?” she countered.

“Same reason I think I’m missing something. Neither of us feels as good as we thought we would about Sizemore taking the fall.”

Slowly, she nodded. “You know him better than I do. If he was guilty, wouldn’t he be more likely to bluster and shout?”

“Instead of crying?”

“Yes.”

Sam stood and prowled the workroom barefoot. Light gleamed and slid over the weapon harness with each stride. He was like an animal pacing the walls of a cage.

Her dark eyes followed him, wanting to help, to hold.

“That surprised me,” he admitted finally. “I was expecting fists and boots and curses. But he looked…” Sam shook his head, not knowing how to say it.

“Bewildered,” Kate said.

“Yeah.” Sam swiped a hand through his short hair, leaving a wake of dark spikes. “Jesus. What if I’m wrong? I don’t want to ruin the man’s life just because he’s a prick.”

“If we’re wrong, the jury will let him go.”

Sam made a sound that was too harsh to be laughter. He spun around and looked at the woman who filled out her blue blouse and jeans the way a woman should. Her dark eyes were serious, her hair an unruly cloud around her intent face. The intelligence and emotion in her made him want to pull her close and hold on until everything else went away.

But everything wouldn’t go away. It never did.

“Do you really believe that good-guys-always-win shit?” he asked.

“No. But I’d like to.”

He smiled thinly. “So would I, but I can’t, so I settle for not being one of the bad guys. And that’s how I’m feeling now, like a bad guy.”

“What have you come up with so far?” she asked, gesturing toward the computer.

“Sizemore Security isn’t doing real well. The whole family had to take a salary hit this year.”

“All the more reason for him to do something crooked.”

“Yeah.” Sam frowned.

“Drop the other shoe.”

“I’m no forensic accountant.”

“I’ve noticed. Yum.”

He gave her a surprised look, saw the humor and female approval in her smile, and couldn’t help grinning at her. Then he looked back down at the computer screen.

“Nothing I see here is out of line for Sizemore’s income from salary and retirement,” he said. “If anything, he’s pretty modest about what he spends.”

“What about Jason?”

“You think he’d kill his brother’s lover?” Sam asked.

Kate closed her eyes briefly. “I don’t think anyone set out to kill Lee. I think it just, well, happened.”

“Murder two instead of murder one?”

“Whatever. If I’m right, then personal motives are irrelevant. Other than greed, of course, or whatever it is that drives a crook.”

“All kinds of things do,” Sam said, “but I get your point. Motive in this case isn’t as important as means and opportunity.”

“Right. Jase could have given the information to someone accidentally or intentionally. If it was an accident, well, that’s not much help. If it was intentional, then the money has to come to him somehow. Same for anybody else in the company.”

“That’s just it,” Sam said. “If it came in through the company books, I can’t find it.”

“What about their private accounts?”

“Same old same old. Sonny, Sharon, and Sizemore all live well within their means. Sonny never went into the military. Sharon didn’t have any special-ops contacts.”

“What if someone else had access to the company computer code so they could see ‘secure’ information?”

“The two most likely—Jason and Ms. Tibble of accounting—aren’t in hock and don’t have expensive tastes. They don’t have any obvious connection to the ex-military old-boy club either.”

“Unlike Kirby,” Kate said, flipping through a file, “who had four
bookies and two ex-wives. Or like White who bought more cocaine than he earned changing tires for a repair shop. Kirby and White had plenty of ex-military contacts but didn’t have the connections to get courier information on their own. They could have just followed guys coming out of jewelry stores, I suppose.”

“That’s what the South American gangs do,” Sam said, “which leads to a grab bag of items. Everything from watches to wedding bands. But the Teflon gang only does the high-end, anonymous stuff, or stuff that can be made anonymous by reworking. They have an inside track to the trade. So if it’s not Sizemore, who is it?” Sam smacked his hand down next to the computer in frustration. “I’m missing something.”

“Then so am I, unless the professional accountants can get more out of this than we have.”

“We’re still waiting for warrants on Sonny, Sharon, Jason, and Ms. Tibble’s private accounts. Those forensic accountants are good. If it’s there, they’ll find it.”

“What about Sizemore?” Kate asked.

“He waived his rights. He’s working with the Bureau accountant.”

“Which means he isn’t guilty or he’s real sure he’s buried the evidence where no one can get to it.”

“That takes the kind of arrogance I didn’t see in him earlier.”

“Yeah.” Kate rubbed her eyes, trying to remove the picture of a shattered, weeping Sizemore. It didn’t work, any more than rubbing her eyes wiped out the memories of last night’s blood and fear. “Even though you fixed the alarms around here, and everything’s been cleaned up, I’m not real eager to go back into my bedroom and try to sleep. Knowing how fast Kirby got in…” She shrugged. “It just doesn’t make me feel sleepy.”

“Kirby was a pro. Most mutts aren’t nearly that good.”

“I suppose that’s meant to be comforting. All I have to do is not think about the fact that your Teflon gang is made up of pros who are better than most mutts.”

Sam acknowledged that with a wry twist of his mouth. “There
are two agents parked out front, two in the garage, and four more patrolling nearby streets. Even if someone wanted to pull the same trick twice, it won’t happen.”

“My mind knows that. The rest of me isn’t buying it.” She put her hands in her pockets and moved restlessly around the workroom. Her jeans made a rubbing noise with each step. “I think I’ll make some coffee.”

“Now who’s the one drinking too much caffeine?”

“You’re a good influence,” she said, heading for the kitchen.

Sam’s cell phone rang. He looked at the number and answered fast.

“Hello, Doug. What do you have?”

“Tex White.”

Thank you, God.
“Did he lawyer up?”

“Sure did. Then he traded information for taking the death penalty off the table.”

“Death penalty? For what?” Sam asked.

“The murder-for-hire of Eduardo Pedro Selva de los Santos.”

Sam whistled. “You sure?”

“Peyton Hall is. He made the ID on some of the stuff we found in White’s apartment. There were blood traces on some shoes in the closet. Cocaine makes you think you’re invincible, which makes you careless.”

“Stupid.”

“That too. The bloody shoes are when the bust went from possession of cocaine to murder one. White doesn’t want the death penalty and we’d already connected him with Kirby, so we clubbed him with the murder-for-hire angle.”

“So Kirby was the boss?”

“Looks like it,” Doug said. “Funny thing, though. The agents searching Kirby’s hotel room in Scottsdale found a digital phone.”

“Digital? No chance of eavesdropping then.”

“We all should be able to afford digital,” Doug said.

“Try convincing the budget office.”

“I have. Anyway, the intriguing thing is that Kirby had a record feature on his phone. Like voice mail, only he could activate it by punching the pound key at any time during a conversation.”

“Anything of interest recorded?”

“Oh, yeah. Seems like Kirby wasn’t always the boss. At least once that we know of, he took orders from someone who used a mechanical distorter.”

“Kate’s death threat,” Sam said instantly.

“Looks like it. Only this time, the weird voice wanted two other people dead in addition to Kate.”

“Two? José and Eduardo?”

“Yeah.”

“So you’re figuring that either White or Kirby was good for Lee Mandel’s murder too?” Sam asked.

“Not White. He’d never heard the name. Didn’t know McCloud or the missing sapphires, didn’t know Kate Chandler, and hadn’t been to Florida since they put out a warrant on him for jumping bail on a DUI hearing three years ago.”

“Maybe White was lying about that.”

“Why bother? He’d already cut his deal with us. Kill two, kill three, kill thirteen, no matter,” Doug said. “You only get one life sentence without possibility of parole.”

“What about Kirby then? He had the sapphire.”

“That’s how we’re seeing it.”

Sam hesitated. “So we’re thinking Sizemore was the guy on the distorter?”

“Sizemore or anyone who had access to knowledge stored on his computer.”

“And the ability to be accepted by the old-boy ex-military types,” Sam pointed out.

“Yeah. Sizemore fits all the requirements. Why aren’t you sounding happy about it?”

“Because I’m not.”

“Your gut?”

“I guess.”

“You’ve got an interesting gut,” Doug said, “or have you already heard from Kennedy?”

“Heard what?”

“Sizemore never lifted the needle on the lie detector. Not once. We go to trial with what we have now and his lawyer will kill us.”