“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.
Chapter 32
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.
Chapter 33
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.
Chapter 34
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.
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