“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.
Chapter 35
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 wer
e,” 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 sai
d 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.”
Chapter 36
Outside Scottsdale
Friday
3:15 P.M.
Kirby sat behind the wheel of a baby-white SUV with heavily tinted glass windows. There was a rental agreement on the passenger seat next to the cut up panty hose that would make his features impossible to identify if he got unlucky with witnesses. On the floor lay the electronic recorder he’d used to catch the frequency of the courier’s key and then to program one of the many blank keys Kirby always had. Now all he had to do was get within ten feet of the courier’s car and open it with his homemade radio key.
The nice thing about machines was that they were reliable. Stupid, but reliable. Like the mud artfully splattered in the little SUV’s wheel wells and across the back bumper and license plate. Not enough mud to attract a cop’s attention, but like pulling nylon over your head, it made a useful ID damn near impossible.
As for the rest, according to the rental papers he was Dick Major, head of production for Western Trails Enterprises. He lived in Hollywood and had a California driver’s license. At the moment he wore a black Stetson over his temporarily dyed black hair, had fake face fur that itched like fire ants, and a snub-nosed thirty-eight in his boot holster.
And sweat. He wore a lot of that too. He was parked in the laughable shade of a desert “tree” that was shorter than he was. But the parking slot gave him a great view of the New Tires — FAST garage bay. The courier had brought his car into the shop on three tires and a rim.
Kirby had been as relieved as the courier to finally get to a tire store. It had been a bitch to follow a car at twenty miles an hour on the freeway and not get caught. The only good news was that he’d nailed the key signal when the courier locked the trunk before putting the car on the lift.
This time Kirby wouldn’t have to stroll through a parking lot with a tire iron tucked along his leg. He could open the trunk the easy high-tech way.
Waiting for the opportunity to get the job done, he shifted in the narrow seat. Cheap rental cars were anonymous, and damned uncomfortable after the first twenty miles.
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