“Okay. Tell me more about his family.”
“They’re pimps, cons, thieves, and a few stone killers.”
“Sounds like part of every immigrant group I’ve ever heard of, including my ancestors. What else?”
“We’re still looking at it, but right now I’d feel good about saying he’s kissing cousins with cousins who are kissing cousins of the Santos gang.”
“Ecuadorian?”
“Yeah, but they’re like the Chinese. They have arms of the family in all major cities in the U.S. Nothing formal. Just friends of friends of relatives. If you don’t know a homeboy, you don’t get in the front door.”
Sourly, Sam wondered if Mecklin had been talking to Sizemore. “You think it was a gang hit from the word go?”
Mecklin paused long enough to light up a cigarette and blow out a plume across the receiver. “No. I used to work L.A. I read the Mandel file after I got your request. Different MO entirely.”
“Hallelujah. Someone who understands little things like MO,” Sam said under his breath.
“What?”
“Nothing. If Seguro did fence the gem, where would he do it? Miami?”
“Too close.” Mecklin exhaled heavily. “None of his family here had the right connections. But he married a woman whose maiden name was de Santos.”
“De Santos and de los Santos? Same crew?”
“Yeah. The longer you’re here, the less likely you are to keep the full name. First to go is ‘los.’ Next is ‘de.’ We have a lot of Santos.”
“Are the ones we’re talking about from Ecuador?”
“Same country. Same rural town. The de Santos have been bringing in everybody but the village idiot. I can’t prove it, but my gut says Seguro Jimenez sent the stone to L.A. and his wife’s family.”
“Who?”
Mecklin sighed another stream of smoke. “Most likely is José de Santos, who works in the jewelry district laundering drug money through gold purchases. It could be Eduardo de Santos, who works as head cutter for Hall Jewelry International and, if street gossip is true, has a nice little sideline reworking stolen gems passed to him by his extended family.”
“How big is this sideline?”
“Nothing much. A little skimming here, a little trimming there. More like a hobby and a retirement account than a profession. It’s his way to become a respected patrón in his little village in Ecuador.”
“Must be my lucky day,” Sam said. “Finally.”
“Why?”
“You actually know L.A. and gangs.”
“I worked drugs in southern California with a DEA task force and some immigration guys back when it was called the INS. Same players, different merchandise.”
Sam hesitated. “Your name wasn’t in the Mandel file, but the Miami office handled it.”
“I was transferred two months ago.”
“L.A. to Miami.” Sam tried not to be jealous. He’d gone from L.A. to Seattle to Phoenix. A clear downward spiral. “Antiterrorism, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Fast track to the top.”
“Tell my wife,” Mecklin said. “She hates the Bureau.”
“You ever met a wife that didn’t? Same goes for the husbands of the female agents.”
Mecklin muttered something.
Sam hesitated. “I need someone like you, but I have to tell you up front that the only fast track I’m on has Fargo written in big letters at every station. Still interested?”
“I’m listening.”
But not committing.
Sam didn’t blame him. Nobody joined the Bureau to end up in North Dakota.
“If I call L.A. and ask for follow-up on the de Santos clan,” Sam said, “I might get it sometime this century and I might not, no matter how many priority stamps are on the request.”
“Who’d you piss off in L.A.?”
“Hurley.”
“Christ Jesus.” Mecklin coughed. “I’ll back-channel it and see what I can do.”
“Thanks.”
“No promises,” Mecklin said. “They’re all real busy covering mosques and their asses for the time when something blows up. And it will.”
“Die or fly, let me know.”
“I will. And Groves?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for sending me to my kid’s party. She had a grin when she saw me that I’ll never forget. Makes all the rest of the shit I work with not quite so ugly, if you know what I mean.”
For the second time Sam was jealous. He didn’t even have a wife to yell at him when he came home late, much less a kid to grin and be happy to see daddy.
“You’re welcome,” Sam said. “If something pops I’ll keep your name out of it.”
“Do that.” Mecklin blew out a long breath. “Hurley. Of all the people to piss off. You know he’s going to be director in a few years, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll write to you in Fargo.”
Chapter 49
Scottsdale
Saturday
9:10 A.M.
The biggest difference between Kennedy’s “office” in the motor coach and Doug’s was that Kennedy had a working television, four phones, and not a computer or file in sight. None of the phones had a number known to any media, which right now meant that Kennedy’s office was the most peaceful space occupied by anyone in the crime strike force.
The escape wasn’t total. The muted TV showed Tawny Dawn’s eager features in a replay of yesterday’s news. That was the problem with cable news 24/7. There just wasn’t that much new, much less newsworthy. Repetition, speculation, sensation, and self-promotion filled the gaps. Tawny was good at all of them.
A line of print crawled across the bottom of the screen as she breathlessly asked Sam Groves about the horrible shootout in the parking lot. And by the way, how did you miss the man if you fired twice?
“Civilians,” Doug said. “They watch too much TV. They think a pistol is a rifle and every cop is a helluva shot, especially when someone’s shooting back and you have enough adrenaline in you to light up a city.”
“Yeah, but at least she’s kicking the right mutt,” Kennedy said. “The prick has it coming. CI my ass. Colton is right. Groves is fucking her.”
Doug made a noncommittal sound, relieved that Kennedy was focused on the CI rather than on the fact that Bureau policy decreed that agents not shoot at fleeing vehicles.
“The media is short-stroking this for all it’s worth,” Kennedy said. “Two couriers down, two grandparents dead —”
“Last I heard,” Doug interrupted gently, “the grandparents worked with South American gangs.”
Kennedy shrugged. “Yesterday’s news. Today we have four — count ’em, four — victims of a violent crime wave that’s sweeping the entire yada yada yada.”
“Nothing new there.”
“How about you?” Kennedy said, killing the TV with a snap of the remote control. “You have anything new?”
“All gem deliveries are present and accounted for.”
“Screw the stones. I want the guy that did the Purcells. I want some real evidence to tie the Purcells to the South American gangs. I want the guy that whacked the courier in Quartzite.”
“She died last night.”
“You think I don’t know? It led the news this morning. They have a continuous loop of Tawny interviewing the grieving husband and sister at the hospital. Thank God the bitch didn’t have kids. That’s all we’d need.”
Doug grimaced and waited for Kennedy to get to the point, whatever it was. Doug didn’t think the boss had called him there just to complain about the media. Doug knew he was coming real close to getting a second nastygram in his file over Sam Groves. Doug hoped, fervently, that it wasn’t going to happen right now. He didn’t want to be the one who shoved a CI into the line of fire.
Neither did he want his own ass swinging in the breeze.
Damn Sam Groves anyway. How did I let him talk me into this?
Again!
Kennedy rearranged the ashtray on his desk, fiddled with a lighter, and finally gave in to the nicotine urge. He unlocked his desk drawer and scrounged around way in back until he came up with a dog-eared pack that had two cigarettes left in it. He was going to quit some day. He was sure of it.
But not today.
He lit up, drew down hard, and expelled a long, satisfying plume before he asked, “How long are you going to put up with this CI crap from Groves?”
“I’m not sure what you mean, sir,” Doug said.
“Bullshit. Just because that’s what Groves is feeding you, don’t expect me to eat it and like it.”
Doug resisted the urge to shift his feet or put his hands in his pockets. He’d really hoped for a few more days before he balanced on the edge of this particular abyss.
“Special Agent Groves is following Bureau policy in regard to his CI,” Doug said. “Considering the amount of violence associated with our present investigation, it’s natural that he would be concerned for the safety of his CI and therefore have a particularly strong interest in keeping the CI’s identity under wraps.”
“How do you know he isn’t just jacking off on his own?”
“Groves has a history of closing cases. I trust his record.”
“He has a history of being a pain in the butt,” Kennedy said.
“Yes, sir. A useful pain.”
Kennedy grunted. “Do you know the informant’s identity?”
“Not quite.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I know enough,” Doug said carefully, “to be comfortable with the position that the CI will be able to do our strike force some good.”
“So make me comfortable too.” Kennedy flicked the cigarette against the ashtray and pinned Doug with the kind of glance that made grown men sweat.
“The CI won’t do us any good dead,” Doug said.
“That’s supposed to make me comfortable?”
“We have good reason to believe that if the CI’s identity becomes known,” Doug said, “the same people that murdered the Purcells will murder the informant.”
“I’m not suggesting we call Tawny and put it on the nightly news,” Kennedy said curtly. “We’ll keep it in the family.”
“Sir, you know that leaks are inevitable.”
“Are you saying you don’t trust me?”
“No, sir. Not at all.” Doug thought quickly about the safest path through this minefield without blowing up his career. “I’m saying that, even with the best will in the world, the more people who know a secret, the more likely it is to end up on the news.”
“Are you refusing to tell me what you know?”
“No, sir.”
Kennedy waited.
Silently Doug cursed the impossible position he was in. “All I know is that Natalie Cutter had some information that might have led to some other information that would be useful to the strike force. Groves is following up.”
“Colton ran the Cutter name on his own,” Kennedy said. “He found a whole lot of nothing.”
“That’s what Groves told me after he ran the name.”
“What else did he tell you?”
“He said that his informant might be able to help with the Mandel case in Florida,” Doug said.
“Mandel, Mandel, Man — You mean the courier that ran offshore with McCloud’s package?”
“It’s possible, perhaps even probable, that the courier in that case was murdered.”
“Fuck me!” Kennedy’s fist slammed down on the desk. “That’s all I need, another murder under my nose. You find Groves. Get his ass in here. He can talk to me or he can turn in his credentials and piece. I don’t much care which happens. You get that?”
“Yes, sir.”
Doug turned away and was nearly hit by someone opening the door from the narrow hallway. Sizemore rushed in, barely pausing long enough to nod at Doug as he slammed the door in his face.
“Remember Natalie Cutter, the woman who switched the stones?” Sizemore asked Kennedy.
“Yeah.”
“Her real name is Katherine Jessica Chandler.”
“And I care because…?” Kennedy asked.
Sizemore grinned. “She’s the CI that Groves has been hiding. She goes all the way back to the courier in Florida. Lee Mandel. His half sister.”
Kennedy shot Doug a deadly look. “Get that son of a bitch and bring him here. Now.”
Chapter 50
Glendale
Saturday
9:10 A.M.
Sam spread the sketches on a worktable that Kate had cleared for him. She hovered at his elbow, looking at the papers and smelling like sex. It was making him nuts.
And he savored every breath he took.
What am I going to do about her?
The only idea that came to mind was expressly forbidden by the Bureau’s rules for dealing with informants.
The other ideas he had weren’t mentioned by the Bureau but were still illegal in some states.
“Okay,” he said, telling himself he couldn’t really feel the heat of her body, couldn’t taste her breath. “You recognize anyone?”
“No.”
“That was quick.”
Kate glanced at him, at the smoky dark blue eyes and a mouth that could light fires, beard shadow on his cheeks just waiting for a woman’s appreciative palm. Abruptly, she turned back to the sketches.
Much safer.
The cop was in full control again. The man wanted to come out and play, but it wasn’t going to happen.
Damn it.
“I was looking at these while you laid them out,” she said, gesturing to the sketches.
He pushed the drawing of the slender male closer to her. “You sure? None of these look even faintly like anyone you know?”
“Yes.”
“Not even this one?” he insisted, pushing the drawing at her.
“Not even that one,” she said patiently.
“Well, hell.”
“Who are they?” she asked.
“They’re different takes on the same person. He/she tried to pawn one of McCloud’s Sins in Miami soon after Lee vanished.”
“Which one? The one Purcell ended up with?”
“Yes, but I can’t prove it yet. Not courtroom proof.”
Kate’s mouth flattened. “So this is Lee’s murderer.”
“Maybe,” Sam said. “And maybe he/she is just one link in the corrupt chain.”
Kate studied the sketches silently. Intently.
“I’m not asking for a cross-my-heart-and-swear-to-God match,” Sam said. “Do any of these sketches even remind you of anyone?”
She shifted one of the work lamps and stared some more. “I’m sorry,” she said finally. “I can’t help with this.”
“None of these sketches even faintly resembles Lee?”
Her head lifted and she turned sharply toward Sam. “Is that what the pawnshop said? That this is Lee?”
“Not in so many words. The person came in dressed as a woman, but a lot of what was up front wasn’t real. He/she had light blue eyes and blonde hair, just like the woman Lee was supposed to have run off with to Aruba.”
“Wait a minute,” Kate said. “Let me be sure I’ve got it straight. The he/she had light eyes and blonde hair?”
“Yes.”
“Millions of people have light eyes. The ones who don’t can buy colored contacts. Ditto for hair. So what?”
“So how close is this sketch to Lee Mandel?” Sam asked. “Forget the hairstyle and color. Concentrate on bone structure, thickness of the lips, the line of the jaw, and nose and eyebrows.”
“That’s just it,” Kate said. “Lee was broad shouldered, raw boned, with a crooked nose and a wide mouth and…” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. “This sketch is nothing like Lee,” she said neutrally.
Sam’s thumb brushed away the tear Kate hadn’t been able to hold back. “Sorry, darling,” he said. “But
I had to be certain.” He licked her tear from his thumb. “My SSA isn’t going to like the idea that Lee is a victim rather than a thief.”
She took in a ragged breath that owed as much to Sam’s gentleness as to her grief for Lee. “W-why?”
“Why am I touching you?” Sam asked wryly. “Because I can’t help it.” He stepped back, beyond reach. “As for Kennedy, if Lee is a victim, the FBI looks stupid. Again.”
Kate leaned back against the worktable. It wasn’t enough. She braced her hands on the lip of the table. The man took her breath and the world away one instant, and regretted it the next.
Last night hadn’t changed anything.
“Damn it, Sam,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he said. “Damn it. Wrong time. Wrong place. Right woman.” He blew out a long breath. “My fault. I’m supposed to be trained, disciplined, and walk on water.” He shoved his hands in his jeans. “Anyway, my SSA is going to shit a brick when he finds out about you and Lee.”
“When will that be?”
“The instant we get a DNA match from Florida,” Sam said reluctantly. “I can’t hide you past that.”
“I know. You told me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You told me that too.” She smiled sadly. “It’s all right, Special Agent Sam Groves. I wanted to make the FBI pay attention to Lee’s death. I succeeded. If anything happens to me because of that, it’s my doing, not yours.”
Sam opened his mouth to tell her how wrong she was.
His cell phone rang.
He yanked it out of his back pocket and glared at the number. My SAC. That’s just fucking beautiful.
Sam wanted to pretend that he wasn’t home. Hell, he wanted to pretend he wasn’t even on the same planet.
But he was.
Sam hit the green button. “What’s up, Doug?”
Kate watched Sam’s expression change from irritated to furious.
“I’m on my way,” Sam said. “I’ll take Kennedy’s heat and then I’m heading right back to Kate’s. Once I get there, I’m staying with her until we bust the mutts that are killing people right and left. If that’s a problem for the Bureau, you know what you can do about it.”
Sam punched out on the connection before his boss could answer.
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