“Yeah, you’re right,” he said. “It’s gotta be Groves.”
Her brown eyebrows rose. “Interesting. Any particular reason or was that just the first name you thought of?”
“Don’t run that bitchy mouth on me,” Sizemore said. “You’re not too old to get slapped and I’m not too old to do it. I gave you a job when nobody else would touch you with anything but his dick and don’t you forget it.”
How can I? You remind me twice a day. But that was old history, so all she said aloud was, “Why do you think Groves is the leak?”
“Why do you care?”
“We can’t afford to be embarrassed by more screwups,” she said. “We were lucky not to lose the second Branson and Sons package. If I’ve missed something, I want to know it.”
“Groves was in the parking lot.”
“A coincidence.”
“Yeah?” Sizemore took a long drink. “Groves has a CI and he’s not sharing the information with anyone, including Kennedy. Then Groves shows up in the parking lot just in time to stop a robbery and be a hero. Coincidence my ass. He’s got a line into the gangs that we don’t. I want his CI before something happens that makes us look like more of a donkey’s asshole than we already do.”
Sharon was quiet for a moment. Then she nodded. “All right. How?”
“I’m betting the CI is Natalie Harrison Cutter.”
“The woman he caught swapping stones?”
“Yeah.”
“You think he flipped her, that she’s his informant in return for not getting arrested?”
“The timing is right.” Sizemore reached into the breast pocket of his suit and handed Sharon a picture. “This was taken off the security cameras.”
She gave it a comprehensive glance. “Ms. Cutter?”
“So Groves says, only no one by that name is registered at the hotel or for the gem show.”
“False name?”
“That’s what I’m assuming. Nobody in the FBI data banks popped under that name either.”
“What about Arizona law enforcement?” Sharon asked.
“Zilch.”
“Did anyone get a look at the citizen who was with Groves in the parking lot?”
“The SAC said she was facedown between the cars. Female. Caucasian or Hispanic, under fifty.”
Sharon tapped the photo with her fingernail. “From what I’ve heard, the female Groves was with in the hotel was a green-eyed redhead, late twenties, early thirties. Other than the age, the rest is wrong for Cutter.”
“The hair was a wig. Don’t know about the eyes.”
“A wig? How can you be sure?”
“Kennedy told me they found a red wig in the parking lot near where the female had fallen.”
“So I’m looking for a Caucasian or Hispanic female around thirty whose eyes may or may not be green — colored contacts are easy to get. What about height? Weight?”
“Five-foot-five or -six. One-thirty to one-forty. Not a stick.”
“Good for her,” Sharon said. “Anything else?”
“Shit, you want me to connect the dots for you?”
“Fine. I’ll show her picture around as soon as I finish the paperwork on the —”
“Give me the damn thing,” Sizemore cut in, grabbing the photo. “I’ll take care of it myself.”
Chapter 43
Phoenix
Friday
6:30 P.M.
Kirby parked the white SUV in the east economy lot at Sky Harbor. He’d already ripped off the fake beard and stuffed it in the cowboy hat along with the panty hose. Now he switched boots for running shoes and shoved all the leftovers in a small nylon duffel. When he got out of the car, nothing of his disguise remained except the dark hair and jeans — which hardly stood out in Arizona — and the surgical gloves he wouldn’t remove until he shut the car door.
The bullet hole on the rear panel that had seemed to be as big as a baseball while he was driving on the freeway looked insignificant in the long golden light of a desert evening.
Snub-nose guns are no damn good past ten feet. But at least the bastard didn’t get a window. That would have been hard to hide.
And getting shot would have been even worse.
Kirby peeled off his gloves and stuffed them in his pocket. Then he walked toward the shuttle stop and went inside the parking building, where cars could be sheltered from the sun on a first-come, first-serve, pay-more basis. He took the shuttle to the airport, got out at the first stop, and headed for the nearest bathroom. He flushed the face fur in one stall, walked to the next airline terminal and the next john, and flushed the gloves. Three times. While he was at it, he took care of most of the hair color with paper towels and water from the toilet. He dumped the panty hose in a closed trash container at the food court. In another restroom he sat in a stall, shredded the rental contract and fake ID, and flushed until there was nothing but water. Since no one was in the restroom, he rinsed the last of the hair color out in one of the sinks.
Duffel in hand, Kirby caught a shuttle to the west economy parking lot, where he’d left his own car. He would be back at the hotel in time for dinner.
Chapter 44
Scottsdale
Friday
7:00 P.M.
Doug pushed back from the clever yet cramped desk space in the motor coach, glared at Sam, and wished that Ted Sizemore lived in the deepest part of hell. A sealed part. No possibility of communication.
Especially with SSA Patrick Kennedy.
“You’re late,” Doug said.
“Traffic,” Sam said.
“Yeah, yeah. Everybody talks about it and nobody does anything about it. Shit.” Doug drummed his fingers on the desk. “We’ve got a problem.”
Sam didn’t figure it was the traffic. “Sizemore?”
“We look like horses’ asses. That’s the problem.”
“And Sizemore looks better?” Sam asked. “Did anyone in the FBI know when the courier was due?”
“We’re trying to find out. As close as Kennedy and Sizemore are…” Doug grimaced. “Who the hell can be sure? This has clusterfuck written all over it.”
Sam didn’t argue. He’d been thinking the same long before the crime strike force reached Scottsdale.
“Level with me about your CI,” Doug said, pinning Sam with a bleak look. “Did she know?”
“No.”
“That quick?”
“Yes.”
“We found a red wig in the parking lot. Know anything about it?”
“Should I?”
Doug’s hand slammed down on the desk. “Don’t fuck with me on this one.”
“If anything goes on official records anywhere, my CI will be targeted by the same man who did the Purcells.”
Doug became very still. “You’re certain of that?”
“As certain as I can be without attending a funeral.”
“Are you saying that the murderer wears a badge? Is that why you don’t want your CI’s name known to the FBI?”
Sam chose his words very carefully. “I don’t know.”
Doug waited.
So did Sam.
“You’re heading for some time off without pay,” Doug said flatly. “Talk to me.”
“I need your word that you won’t tell anyone. And that includes Kennedy. Otherwise I’ll take the time off without pay and the nastygram in my file and any other punishment the Bureau dreams up.”
“Shit. I don’t believe it. Colton is right. You’re fucking your CI.”
“No.”
Sam figured the fact that he’d like to jump Kate was none of the FBI’s business. If he wondered how long it would be before he took her up on the invitation in her eyes, well, that was his problem.
There was a long silence.
“Colton is saying that the redhead he saw you with is your CI,” Doug said finally.
“It’s a free country. Even jackasses get to bray.”
Another long silence.
“Okay,
” Doug said. “Nothing we say leaves this room. And Christ help us both if Kennedy finds out. Now sit the hell down. I’m tired of looking up at you.”
Sam took some files off a chair and sat on the edge of it. He was a long way from being relieved or relaxed. He trusted Doug with his life, but he hated having to trust Doug with Kate’s.
“My CI saw this coming after the parking lot shootout,” Sam said. “She gave me permission to tell you and no one else. I told her you would keep your word.”
Doug heard the rest of what wasn’t said: if Doug went back on his word, he and Sam would sort it out personally rather than sniping at each other through the FBI bureaucracy.
“You sure you aren’t sleeping with her?” Doug asked.
“Damn sure.”
“But you want to.”
“If the Bureau starts cracking down on ‘want to,’ we won’t be able to field a single agent.”
Doug almost smiled. “Did your CI know about the shipment today?” he asked for the second time.
“No.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Then how do you explain the fact that you were in the parking lot with a woman wearing a disguise?”
“Bad luck. Or good luck, depending on your point of view. Bad luck in that she was nearly killed. Good luck in that the courier would have bled out before he was discovered.”
“You’ll take an oath that it was a coincidence that you were in the parking lot when the attempted robbery went down?” Doug asked.
“Yes.”
“Hard to believe.”
“Why? If coincidences didn’t happen, we wouldn’t have a name for them. Hell, we have agents coming and going through the parking lot all the time. It could have been anyone that stumbled across the robbery. Besides, like I said, being spotted didn’t do me any favors. Or her.”
Doug put his elbows on the desk and rubbed his eyes. He was getting too old to go four nights in a row on too little sleep to keep a college student alive during finals.
“Okay.” Doug pinched the bridge of his nose, opened the belly drawer, and went looking for aspirin. When he found three, he looked up. “What were you and your CI doing at the hotel?”
“Looking at the best of the private showings.”
Doug popped the pills in his mouth and grimaced. “Why?”
Sam stood and drew a paper cup of water from the cooler standing next to the door.
“Drink this,” he said to Doug. “Watching you dry-swallow aspirin makes my throat hurt.”
“Doing it is even worse. Thanks.”
Though he’d rather have paced, Sam sat down again. “This is where her life goes on the line.”
Doug hesitated, then nodded.
“Remember that Florida courier case five months ago?” Sam asked. “The one that kicked off the whole crime strike force?”
“The McCloud shipment. Courier took it and ran.”
“That’s what somebody wants us to think.”
Doug settled back in his office chair and fiddled with the paper cup. “What’s your version?”
“It was staged. The courier — Lee Mandel — likely is somewhere in the swamp feeding crabs.”
“Then who took package?”
“Whoever killed him.” Sam made an impatient motion, cutting off Doug’s next question. “My CI didn’t believe the stage dressing. She started asking questions, pushing, forcing the FBI file to stay open. Then, just after the file got updated again a few months back, she gets a call on her answering machine telling her to stop pushing or die. The caller used a voice distorter. CI couldn’t even say for sure whether it was a man or woman.”
Doug’s fingers stilled. “Just after the file was updated?”
“Yes.”
“You think it was someone inside the Bureau.”
It wasn’t a question.
Sam hesitated. “All I know for sure is that whoever made the call had access to Bureau files. He knew when something was updated.”
“Could be a hacker.”
“Could be Superman and his X-ray eyes,” Sam retorted. “Look, I didn’t want to believe it either. But potentially it explains a lot.”
“Like?”
“Like why we keep coming off looking like schmucks on this job. If someone inside is feeding information outside, we’re fucked.”
“Okay, that’s one possibility.” Doug said it like there was a bad taste in his mouth. “Could be one of the gem traders or courier companies, couldn’t it?”
“Not unless my CI is lying.”
“What does that mean?”
“She knew what Lee Mandel was carrying, so —”
“She’s the one who stole it,” Doug said quickly. “Hell, even the FBI doesn’t know what was in the frigging package.”
“She knew because she cut the gems Mandel was supposed to deliver to McCloud.”
Doug opened his mouth. Closed it. Thought hard. “She’s a cutter?”
“A damn good one. But everything I’ve learned in my years of investigating tells me that she didn’t do it.”
“Then who did? Who else knew what was in the package?”
“Her stepfather. He owns the courier service Mandel was working for at the time he was hit.”
“Mandel Inc.?”
“Yes.”
“Run him.”
“I did,” Sam said, resisting the urge to point out that he wasn’t some apple-cheeked rookie. “Mr. Mandel has my nomination for citizen of the year. He wears his seat belt and his parking tickets are paid promptly. So are his taxes. He was audited once on a random basis. Government ended up owing him money.”
“He needs a better tax accountant. What do his company books look like? You want a warrant?”
“He’s cooperating,” Sam said. “So far our accountant hasn’t discovered anything but data-entry errors, and the majority of them favored the clients.”
“So that’s why you had me sign a request for a forensic accountant and refused to tell me who or where or why.”
“I was protecting my —”
“You forget that my dick is in the wringer along with yours,” Doug snarled. “Keep talking and maybe I won’t chop yours off. Who else knew what was in the shipment?”
“Mandel did, so his lover might have.”
“Is that your cutter?”
“No. Mandel was gay.”
Doug blinked. “Hand me Mandel’s file. It’s on the floor next to you.”
Sam sorted through the stacks until he found the right file and passed it over the desk. “It won’t do you any good. Mandel was so deep in the closet that no one but his lovers knew. And my informant. They were half brother and sister through the mother. Mandel’s father is my informant’s stepfather. Lee didn’t tell anyone but her that he was gay.”
“What does his lover say? Did he know about the package?”
“He denies it. He’s still crying over Mandel. They were planning to be married June eighth, the anniversary of their first date.”
“Check him out anyway.”
“An agent in Los Angeles is doing just that.” Sam gave up trying to sit and stood with his thumbs hooked into the back pockets of his jeans. “Nothing worth reporting so far. Norm Gallagher — Mandel’s lover — has a junior partnership in an investment firm that specializes in managing money for ‘alternative lifestyle’ clients. Everybody knows Norm is gay and no one gives a crap. In other words, he’s not being blackmailed, doesn’t have a gambling habit, doesn’t do drugs, and is helping to take care of his ailing parents, who knew he was gay before he did.”
“Dead end,” Doug summarized.
“I told them to keep digging, but I’m not holding my breath waiting for any big revelation.”
Doug grunted. “Okay. Your snitch —”
“Confidential informant,” Sam cut in. “Snitches are lowlifes. She doesn’t fit that profile.”
“Whatever. She knew what was in the package, but didn’t do the courier, M
andel. Her stepfather knew the timing, but he didn’t do it either, pending new evidence. Who else knew?”
“McCloud.”
“You think the brother-in-law of a sitting president is a murderer and a thief?” Doug asked in rising tones.
“I have an agent working on a follow-up interview with McCloud.”
“Holy Mary, mother of God.” Doug put his face in his hands. “And my name is on the request for interview, right?”
“You’re my SAC.”
“I’m looking at early retirement in Fargo.” Doug straightened and sighed. “Well, I’ll finally be able to try cross-country skiing.”
“Don’t forget ice sculpture.”
“You’re thinking of Minnesota. North Dakota doesn’t have that much water. Tell me somebody else besides McCloud knew about the shipment.”
“According to him, he didn’t tell anyone,” Sam said.
“Do you believe him?”
“No. I think there might be an insurance issue if he ran off at the mouth about deliveries. Whatever. It probably doesn’t matter. Couriers get clouted all the time and the thief doesn’t know until he opens the package what the prize is.”
Doug picked up a pen, looked like he wanted to break it, and set it aside. “You’re not making me feel any better.”
“Story of my life.”
“Change it. Make me feel better.”
“My CI found one of McCloud’s missing stones in Mike Purcell’s display case,” Sam said.
“Which one?”
“An emerald-cut blue sapphire as big as your thumb. Bigger actually. You have small hands.”
“Blue sapphire? Aren’t they all blue?”
“Don’t start. And no.”
Doug’s eyes narrowed. “Wait. Wasn’t there something about a Natalie Cutter switching stones on Purcell?”
“Yeah. I caught her on the second switch.”
“Back up. You lost me.”
“She was — and is — trying to prove that her half brother, Lee Mandel, isn’t a thief who took off for the tropics with a big-boobed blonde on his arm.”
“You said he was gay.”
“He was,” Sam said. “Apparently, whoever was out setting up false leads for us to follow didn’t know that. Like I said, Mandel was way deep in the closet.”
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