“Okay.” Doug pushed back and fiddled with a paper clip. “So you’re assuming whoever clouted Mandel didn’t know he was gay. Go back to Purcell’s sapphire.”
“Again, this doesn’t leave the room. If it becomes general knowledge in the strike force, we take a big step back from catching the guy.”
Doug nodded.
“McCloud’s shipment was seven blue sapphires that had been cut and polished in seven different shapes by my CI. He called them the Seven Sins.”
“Seven stones worth a million bucks.”
“My CI says that’s only what McCloud had in the rough and in her work. Market value would be at least twice that, maybe more. Depends on who fell in love with the stones and how hot the bidding got.”
Doug straightened one curve of the paper clip.
“The important thing is that somehow Purcell ended up with one of the Seven Sins,” Sam said. “My CI proved it when she palmed the real stone, left the synthetic, went home, and studied the stone and the photographs she’d taken of it before she put it in the courier’s pouch.”
“No doubt that the two stones were the same?”
“None.”
Doug nodded and went to work on the next curve of the paper clip.
“When she was certain,” Sam said, “she took the real stone back and swapped it for the one she’d left.”
“Why?”
“She’s not some lowlife thief,” Sam said impatiently. “She just wanted to have evidence that the stones were the same so that the FBI could squeeze Purcell and make him talk.”
Silence.
Doug took the last curve out of the paper clip and spun it between his fingers. He was looking at the faintly rumpled line of metal, but he was thinking about something else. Whatever he was thinking, he wasn’t happy about it. He looked like a man sucking on a turd.
“But before I could get to Purcell, somebody else did,” Sam continued. “I’ve had Mario going through Purcell’s papers — what few he had — but he hasn’t run across any mention of a big sapphire purchased in the past five months, or any big cash withdrawal or transfer of funds that might, could, and should have been involved in Purcell getting his hands on a stone like that.”
Doug made a snarling sound. He could see where Sam was going. He really didn’t want to be taken there.
“I figure Purcell had had the stone for at least two months, maybe more,” Sam said. “You want to hear my reasoning?”
“Not yet.” The words came through Doug’s clenched teeth.
Sam chose his next words very carefully. He didn’t like where he was going any better than his SAC did.
“Purcell flashed the stone around some other gem shows before this one in Scottsdale,” Sam said. “No problems. He showed it here. No problems. And then I caught a woman doing a stone swap and Colton shot off his big mouth about it at the strike force meeting in Sizemore’s suite. By the time I ran down the real identity of Cutter and the reason for the swap, Purcell was dead, and so was any chance of the FBI finding out how a bottom-feeder like Purcell got his hands on a really choice bit of goods.”
Doug began putting a curve in the straightened paper clip.
“Just to put the cherry on the cake of my investigation,” Sam said, “Purcell’s killer does the Colombian necktie dance, and suddenly Kennedy and Sizemore are seeing South Americans behind every door.”
“You don’t think it was the South Americans?”
“Purcell didn’t handle Colombian emeralds or drugs. Why would they whack him?”
“To shut him up.”
Sam made an impatient noise. “If the Mandel hit was South American, it was one of a kind. Trunk wasn’t forced. Courier vanishes instead of being left with a mouthful of his own genitals as a warning to others. Mandel’s car is turned in to the rental company — after a shampoo — late at the airport. You ever hear of South Americans returning a rental car for a dead man, much less washing it?”
Doug put a second curve in the mangled clip.
“Rumors of a blonde with big boobs begin circulating,” Sam continued relentlessly. “Mandel’s name is dragged through the mud. He’s pretty close to his family, but he never calls home, never gives a hint that he’s okay. He’s totally silent, yet all the cops seem to ‘know’ that Mandel is in Aruba or Rio, bouncing on the mysterious blonde. Have I mentioned his gay lover? He doesn’t hear from Mandel either.”
Silence.
The paper clip broke. Doug fired the pieces into a trash basket.
More silence.
“All right,” Doug said finally. “I’ll keep backing up your requests and ducking Kennedy. Did your CI save the answering machine message?”
“The one with the threat? Yes.”
“Send it to the lab.”
“I did.”
“Anything?”
“Not so far.”
Doug looked Sam straight in the eyes. “Get this son of a bitch. Get him fast.”
“Tired of the headlines?” Sam asked.
“Fuck the headlines. If the leak is in the Bureau, you’re a dead man walking.”
Sam had already figured that out. What he hadn’t figured out was how to keep Kate from getting killed along with him.
Chapter 45
Scottsdale
Friday
7:15 P.M.
It had been a long time since Sizemore had retired from the FBI, but he hadn’t forgotten the moves. He never would. He still lived and breathed the Bureau.
“I’m doing a follow-up on an interview your manager had with FBI Special Agent Sam Groves,” Sizemore said at the lobby desk. “Is Madeline Dermott on duty?”
Forty seconds later Sizemore was being let in through a side door to the manager’s office. When the desk clerk introduced Sizemore as an FBI agent, he didn’t correct the clerk. Instead, he held out his hand to Madeline. A brisk shake, a professional smile on both sides, and they were down to business.
“How may I help you?” Madeline asked.
“Tuesday afternoon Special Agent Sam Groves interviewed you on the subject of this woman,” Sizemore said, producing the photo. “Her name is Natalie Harrison Cutter.”
“I remember. She wasn’t registered here at the hotel or for any of the conventions that are currently on our books.”
“Hate it when that happens,” Sizemore said, smiling easily.
Madeline smiled back and confessed, “In this case, I was relieved. I didn’t want anyone who was suspected of something by the FBI to be registered at my hotel. And the other one is gone now too.”
“Other one?”
“The other one Mr. Groves wanted to talk to. His name was Gavin…Gavin…” Madeline turned to the computer. Her beautifully manicured nails flew over the keyboard. “Gavin Greenfield. Florida.”
“Greenfield. Of course.” Sizemore gave Madeline an appreciative look. “Is that the Greenfield who lives in Miami or was it…?”
Madeline glanced at the computer screen. “Coral Gables.”
“Odd. He hasn’t been answering his phone at that address. Could I check my number against the one he left with you?”
“Certainly.” Madeline turned the screen so that Sizemore could read it.
He memorized the number and then said, “Well, that explains it.”
“What?”
“Someone reversed the last two numbers when they gave it to me. Happens all the time. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I’m always happy to cooperate with the FBI.”
Sizemore smiled again and let himself out of the office. He went to a quiet corner of the lobby, pulled out his cell phone, and keyed in the number he had memorized. It was answered on the third ring.
“If this is another damned telemarketer,” the man began.
“It isn’t,” Sizemore interrupted. “I’m following up on the interview you had with FBI Special Agent Sam Groves.”
Silence, followed by, “Who are you?”
“More to the point, who is N
atalie Cutter to you?”
“Special Agent Groves told me if anyone wants to ask questions about her, they should call him. Since you’re in the FBI, I’m sure you have his number. Good-bye.”
Gavin Greenfield hung up with emphasis.
Sizemore sat for a few minutes, thinking about various ploys he could try on the uncooperative Mr. Greenfield. Lacking a badge, he really didn’t have any leverage. All he knew for sure was that Greenfield had heard the name Natalie Cutter before.
That, and the fact that Sam Groves didn’t want Greenfield to talk about her.
Sizemore went back to the lobby desk. Once more, the clerk took him to Madeline’s office.
“Sorry to bother you again,” Sizemore said, “but there’s a problem. Not with your records, but with ours. I’m assuming you keep a list of calls each guest makes?”
“Of course. Phone calls used to be one of our big profit centers. Not so much now since so many people use mobiles.”
Sizemore hoped that Greenfield didn’t have a mobile phone. Sizemore himself hated the things. He only put up with them because they were useful.
“Did Mr. Greenfield make any calls?” Sizemore asked.
The manager’s fingers raced over the computer keyboard. “Oh, yes. Quite a few. Here, I’ll print it out.”
“Thanks. That would be a big help.”
List in hand, Sizemore went up to his suite and started up the computer he rarely used, because he had the same love-hate relationship with the machine that he had with cell phones. He plugged into the Internet and went to a site that listed the addresses of all telephone numbers. Sites like this were one of the reasons he’d learned to use computers. Saved an investigator all kinds of time.
Most of Greenfield’s calls had been to his home in Coral Gables. Several others were to furniture outlets. Two were to a residence in Glendale, Arizona. That number was listed to K. J. Chandler.
Sizemore wrote down the name and address, switched over to a map site, and entered the Chandler address as a destination and that of the hotel as a starting point. Very quickly a map appeared on the screen. After a few fumbles he managed to attach a portable printer to the computer. He printed out the map, studied it, and checked his watch. Assuming anyone was home, he’d have to allow at least an hour for the round trip and interview.
He’d be late for dinner with Kennedy.
Sizemore left a message for Kennedy at the desk and headed out. He only got lost twice on the way to K. J. Chandler’s house. Phoenix was growing so fast that maps were out-of-date before they were even printed. L.A. had been like that once, but no more. The state taxed everything that moved, and if it didn’t move the state taxed it twice as much.
The more Sizemore saw of Phoenix the more he liked it.
By seven o’clock he was driving down a suburban street lined on both sides by that rarity in Phoenix — thirty-year-old houses. Unlike older homes in L.A., the landscaping on these hadn’t overwhelmed the yards. One hundred and sixteen degrees in the summer was a real effective way to shut down plant growth.
Reverting to old training, Sizemore didn’t stop at the address. He simply drove by it, looking at other house numbers as though he hadn’t yet found his destination.
Without seeming to, he got a good look at the Chandler house. The first thing he noticed was a sign right in the front yard telling the world that this place was protected. At least he didn’t have to get out and examine the doors and windows to be certain that they were wired to an alarm system. Not that it really mattered. Nothing kept out real pros. The best you could do was slow them down.
None of the other houses he’d passed had anything more than faded NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH signs on every block.
“Interesting,” Sizemore said to himself. “Wonder what she’s hiding? Or maybe Chandler is the kind of female who hears about a rapist on the evening news and is sure he’s coming to her window next even though the rapist is working a county fifty miles away.” He shook his head. “Women. I’ll never understand them.”
Sizemore turned right, went over a few blocks, and came back at the address from a different direction. The exterior of the house had told him that Ms. Chandler wasn’t going to be as quick to cooperate as the hotel manager. He wouldn’t try knocking on the door except as the last resort before a black-bag job.
Halfway up the block from the house, with the residence behind him, he parked and watched the house in the rearview mirror. He debated the risks of using the ceremonial badge he’d been presented with at his retirement. Representing himself as an FBI agent could get him in a world of hurt — but only if he was caught.
Another car turned onto the street. American make. A few years old. Basic model.
It fairly screamed government issue.
The car stopped in front of the Chandler place. Sizemore watched Sam Groves get out and go to the door. No doubt about the identity, even in failing light. Groves had a my-balls-clang way of moving that irritated the hell out of Sizemore.
Two seconds later Sam was inside the house.
Bingo.
Sizemore drove off, planning the ways he would search various official and unofficial records for K. J. Chandler.
But first he’d take the time to rub his smart-ass daughter’s nose in the fact that he’d found out about the CI while she was putting on makeup to go out with that shitheel Peyton.
Chapter 46
Glendale
Friday
8:00 P.M.
As soon as Kate shut the door behind Sam, she automatically began locking up. He watched her with brooding eyes and an intensity that would have made her nervous if she’d been looking at him.
He was sure looking at her. He noticed everything about her. She was wearing an emerald-green bathrobe. Her feet were bare, her hair loose. She smelled of something that was almost lemon, almost spice. He saw every nick and scrape on her hands from the parking lot, saw the faint bruise along her cheekbone, and the scratch along the vulnerable line of her neck. In the space of a breath he felt again the rage that had shaken him when he realized she was seconds away from being killed.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked. “Maybe you should see a doctor.”
She turned and leaned against the door, wishing she’d worn heavy sweats instead of the slippery robe that revealed too much skin. But she was damned if she would pull the neckline higher and the hemline lower, fidgeting over her clothes like a girl on her first date.
Besides, Sam looked tired, shuttered, anything but a man watching a woman he wanted.
No news there. The cop is in control. Over and out.
“Like I told you every few seconds while you drove me home,” she said, “I’m fine.”
“You were shaking.” He’d been shaking too, but that wasn’t something he wanted to talk about.
“Ya think?” she said, widening her eyes. “The next time someone tries to kill me, I’ll be sure to keep a stiff upper lip. Lower one too.”
Sam groaned and did what he’d needed to do earlier and hadn’t dared because he knew what would happen; he reached for her. Earlier he’d wanted to be able to tell the truth when Doug asked the question about sex and Kate. If Sam had touched her earlier, he knew he wouldn’t have let go. Then he would have had to lie to Doug in order to stay close enough to Kate to keep her alive.
But now wasn’t then. Sam ran a fingertip over her lips, brushed it gently against her bruised cheek.
“Damn, Kate, you scared me to death.”
Her breath stopped at the turmoil revealed in his eyes, in the fine trembling of his finger. The cop wasn’t in control right now. Maybe in the next second, but not now. She wanted to lean into him, to hold him, to keep on holding him until there was nothing left in her mind but the taste and scent and feel of him.
She didn’t move.
She didn’t know what she would do if she reached out only to have him turn away from her again.
“You’ve got me confused with the guy trying to run us d
own,” she said huskily. “And shoot us. I keep forgetting that part.”
“Kate,” Sam whispered.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He leaned closer. “Just Kate.”
She shivered when he whispered the last words over her lips, which were trembling again. Not with fear, but with the need he aroused in her just by being alive, by being Sam.
Close enough to taste.
His lips brushed over hers, brushed again. The tip of his tongue traced her mouth.
Hands clenched at her sides, she didn’t move.
“Kate?” He lifted his head. “I thought you wanted me.”
Her eyes opened almost black with emotion. “And I thought you didn’t want me.”
“You thought wrong. I want you so much it scares me.”
“Same here. But you keep backing away.”
His hands slid into the thick black hair that had fascinated him from the first time he’d seen it settle sleek and heavy and faintly wavy on her shoulders. Tonight it was warm and damp from the shower. He leaned in until his lips were almost touching hers.
“If I back away far enough,” he asked, “will I reach the bed?”
She almost smiled, almost laughed, and completely gave up trying to keep her distance from him.
“Sam,” she said.
“What?”
“Just,” she kissed the corner of his mouth, “Sam.”
One of his hands slid from her hair. His arm went around her hips, recklessly pulling her close for the kind of knees-to-forehead embrace that told her he’d given up trying to hold her at arm’s length.
“You sure you want this?” he asked.
She bit his lower lip. “Are you?”
“What does it feel like?”
She smiled. “It feels like you’re wearing your holster a little low.”
He gave a crack of laughter and held her hips even closer, tilting her into his erection. “You sure?”
“Let me check.”
He caught her hand and looked at her. “Last chance.”
“For you or for me?”
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