“Just stay put,” Sam said. “That’s all I ask.”
He caught up with Doug. When they reached the door, Sam stepped to one side while Doug knocked on the door.
No one answered.
Doug knocked again, harder.
“Who is it?” Peyton called from the other side of the door.
“Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Doug said. He pulled out his badge holder and dangled the gold shield in front of the spy hole where Peyton could see it.
“Just a minute.”
The sound of the door bolt being flipped to open position was followed by the handle turning. Peyton Hall’s handsome, rather soft face appeared in the opening. His designer linen shirt was unbuttoned, as were his slacks. Apparently, the belly pushing over his belt wasn’t happy under pressure.
“What can I do for you?” Peyton asked. He opened the door enough to show that he was being cooperative, even though he hadn’t invited anybody inside.
If he had a weapon, it wasn’t in either of his hands.
Sam saw the tension around Peyton’s eyes and mouth. It was at odds with the professional salesman’s smile. Anticipation purred along Sam’s nerves. He was really looking forward to taking down the asshole who had killed Kate’s brother and tried to kill her too.
Doug smiled at Peyton and said, “It won’t take long. Could we come inside?”
Peyton glanced quickly at Sam, who was careful to keep the Glock out of sight and the predatory light out of his eyes.
“This is Special Agent Sam Groves,” Doug said casually, waving a hand in Sam’s direction.
Peyton frowned. “Yes?”
Two doors down, a couple emerged from a room and walked toward the elevators. They gave a long, curious glance at the three men who didn’t look particularly chummy. From farther down the hall came the calls of maids as they exchanged gossip over fresh towels. The elevator doors opened and someone stepped off with too much luggage and a tired child.
Praying silently that the civilians got the hell out of the way fast, Sam turned slightly, keeping his weapon hidden.
“There’s not much privacy out here, is there?” Doug said to Peyton, glancing from the man’s bare chest to his bare feet and back. “Your choice, of course, but wouldn’t you be more comfortable talking to us inside?”
“Uh. Yeah.” Peyton stepped back.
Sam moved between Peyton and any potential weapon in the room. Though Sam didn’t reveal his gun, it was there, ready.
“I don’t have much time,” Peyton said to Doug. “Got a plane at one o’clock and I’m not finished packing yet.”
“This won’t take long at all, Mr. Hall,” Doug said, grabbing Peyton’s right wrist and pulling it behind his back in a swift movement. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Lee Mandel.”
Peyton was too shocked to struggle when his left hand joined his right behind his back. Doug pulled out plastic restraints, wrapped them around Peyton’s wrists, and cinched down hard enough to bite into flesh.
“What the hell?” Peyton said, staring over his shoulder at Doug. “There’s been some kind of mistake! I don’t even know this Medlon or Meddle or whatever the —”
“Mandel,” Sam said curtly, holstering his Glock. “Lee Mandel.”
With brisk efficiency, Sam went over Peyton for weapons while Doug did the Miranda chant — with variations required by recent court decisions — for the benefit of all the lawyers that were sure to come.
“Mandel. Fine, whatever,” Peyton said. “But this is crap. I’m no saint, but I pay my taxes on time. You can’t just come in here and arrest me.”
“Actually, we can,” Sam said, stepping back from Peyton. Then, to Doug, “He’s clean.”
Peyton tried not to think about his hidden accounts in Aruba and the gems that were reworked after Kirby and Eduardo’s cousins got them from wherever they did. Thinking about it made his nerves skitter.
“This is ridiculous,” Peyton said. “I want a lawyer right now.”
Doug took Peyton to the phone, punched in the number he recited, and held the phone to his ear so that he could talk.
While Peyton was whining to his lawyer, Sam dropped a search warrant on the coffee table and went to work.
“Wait!” Peyton said when Sam opened the computer case. “You can’t do that!”
“Tell him,” Sam said to Doug.
“We also have a warrant to search this room and everything in it,” Doug said politely. “Would you like me to explain it to your lawyer?”
“Fu —” Peyton stopped abruptly as it occurred to him that telling a federal agent to fuck off wasn’t the best way to present the case for his innocence. “At least tell me who the hell it is who died and why you’re framing me for his murder.” Then, into the phone, “Bob, you gotta help me. These clowns just aren’t listening!”
The look on Peyton’s face said that he didn’t like the advice his lawyer gave him: Shut up.
Belatedly, Peyton realized it might be a good idea. Nobody had talked about any overseas accounts, so this was all just a mistake. A scary one. Really, really scary.
A mistake, that’s all. He’d never killed anyone. Robbed them, sure. Tipped off some bad dudes about where and when the pickings were good, yeah.
But he hadn’t ever pulled the trigger, so he wasn’t guilty.
Plastic ties cut into his wrists. His stomach heaved. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to go to Aruba, not some federal lockup where the only women he saw were in his dreams.
“My lawyer wants to talk to you,” Peyton said through pale lips. Then, almost desperately, he leaned closer to Doug. “I’ve never killed anyone. You have to believe me!”
Doug didn’t bother to answer. He put the phone against his own ear and started going through everything from the numbers on the warrants being simultaneously exercised in L.A. and Scottsdale, to the specific federal laws that had been violated in the death of Lee Mandel.
Sam didn’t listen. He’d heard it all before, so he just kept on exercising the rights granted by the search warrant. He unzipped Peyton’s fat black computer case and pulled out the laptop. Though tempted, he set the machine aside for later investigation and began going through the multitude of zippered pockets that covered the inside and outside of the case. It took a lot of fiddling to be sure he looked at everything. He’d seen less elaborate Chinese puzzles.
“Look, at least tell me about this Lee Mandel,” Peyton said to Doug. “The name sounds kind of familiar, but hell, I know a lot of people. Where did he die? How? C’mon, help me out.”
Doug put his hand over the receiver, closing out the lawyer. “Mr. Hall, I’ve noted your objections. Your lawyer has noted them. Do us all a favor and shut the fuck up.”
Sam’s cell phone quivered into life again, tickling his belly. He ignored it because he’d just come across a shape that made his heart kick. He dug deeper in one of the side pockets and came up with an antacid container. Grinning like a wolf, he popped off the cap of the wide-mouth bottle and tipped the contents onto the coffee table.
Bright, brilliant, sapphire blue winked among the powdery white discs.
“Bingo,” Sam said savagely, watching the prisoner rather than the gems.
Peyton was staring at the display with wide eyes and a dead-pale face. He swallowed hard. Twice. “Where did that come from?” he managed.
“You saw where it came from,” Doug said. He tugged on Peyton’s arm. “Let’s go.”
“No, they’re not mine! Somebody else —”
“That’s what they all say,” Doug cut in, disgusted by the lack of originality in criminals. “I suppose you’re going to tell us the maid put them in there?”
“I don’t know.” Peyton looked at the gorgeous blue sapphires and began to sweat visibly. “I’ve never seen them before in my life.”
“Yeah, they grew there, like mold,” Sam said. “Funny, I never get fine gems growing in my Tums.”
“I don’t even
take antacids! Check with my doctor. He gave me something much better —”
Sam’s cell phone kept vibrating. He tore it off his belt and snarled, “What!”
“This is the —”
“I know who it is,” he broke in. “What do you want?”
“That list you gave us?”
“Yeah?”
“We got a match on three partials from the trunk of the courier’s rental car.”
Sam smiled coldly. “Kirby? Or White?”
“Neither.”
“Peyton Hall? Ted Sizemore?”
“Close. His daughter.”
Sam looked like the phone had just pissed in his ear. “What?”
“Sharon Sizemore. Right thumb, right index.”
Sam remembered Kate standing alone in the hallway, waiting for them to arrest the wrong murderer.
He headed for the door at a run.
Chapter 70
Scottsdale
Monday
9:25 A.M.
Kate shifted against the wall and wondered how long it took to arrest someone. Then she remembered that the room had to be searched. She felt like banging her head on the wall. If she’d thought of that sooner, she would have argued harder against being left out in the hall. Not that it would have done any good. Sam had a stubborn streak in him that was as wide as hers.
It was one of the things she really liked about him.
A sound caught Kate’s attention. Hopefully, she looked down the hall toward Peyton’s room. All she could see was a maid’s cart piled high with towels staggering down the hall toward the elevators. The young woman pushing it was too tiny to see over the towels. She barely missed a guest backing into the hallway close to the elevators, towing a suitcase.
“Watch it,” Sharon said sharply.
“Sorry, señora.”
Sharon tugged her bronze jacket into place over her bronze trousers and black blouse, and headed for the elevator. She saw a casually dressed woman there, leaning against the wall as though waiting for someone. She looked familiar.
With a mental shrug, Sharon punched the down button. Whoever the woman was, it no longer mattered. Nothing did. She was out of here.
Kate smiled automatically at Sharon Sizemore even as she wondered if the other woman knew how badly she’d been used by her boyfriend.
The two women waited for the elevator with the forced politeness of strangers sharing a public space. Kate was relieved when she saw Sam striding down the hall toward her.
“That was fast,” Kate said. “Did you —”
Then she saw the Glock held down along his right leg.
Kate had a really bad feeling. It might have been the grim line of Sam’s mouth. It might have been the flicker of raw fear in Sharon’s eyes when she saw the weapon.
Sharon reached inside her purse.
Sam started to lift the Glock.
The elevator door opened. Two kids holding pool towels and plastic swim goggles looked out.
Sharon yanked a snub-nosed gun from her purse and leaped toward the open elevator.
Without stopping to think, Kate threw herself at Sharon, knocking her to the side. The elevator doors jammed on her suitcase, tripping Kate.
Sam got to the elevator just as the two women hit the hall floor, each slugging and kicking for an advantage. Kate had been ham-strung by the suitcase just long enough for Sharon to get on top. He saw the flash of a gun in her hand and lashed out with his foot. Sharon screamed as her wrist broke.
She was still screaming when he kicked the gun away from her, yanked her head back by the hair, and rammed the muzzle of the Glock under her chin.
“Don’t move,” he told her. “Don’t give me an excuse.”
Sharon looked at his eyes and went completely still.
“You all right, Kate?” he asked without looking away from his prisoner.
“Yes. What about the kids?”
“They’re fine, thanks to you.” He glanced for an instant at the children. “Right, girls? Don’t worry, I’m FBI. One of the good guys.”
Kate looked at Sam’s blazing eyes and the gun jammed under Sharon’s chin. The older girl looked at him too. Then the girl shoved the suitcase out of the way, the elevator doors slammed shut, and the car went down.
“Guess you didn’t look like a good guy,” Kate said.
Chapter 71
Phoenix
Evening
Five days later
Kate sat on a hunter-green leather couch and watched Sam walk in from the condo kitchen carrying two steaming mugs of coffee. Like the condo’s decor, he was relaxed and masculine. He handed her one mug, picked up the TV remote from the coffee table, and settled onto the couch next to her. Right next to her, thigh to hip to shoulder. She leaned into his solid warmth and sighed.
“You make better coffee than I do,” she said, saluting him with the mug.
“I grind my own beans.”
“Yikes. Way too much trouble.”
He kissed her nose and nibbled at the corner of her mouth. “Good is never too much trouble. Great is worth all kinds of effort.”
She smiled and took a bracing swallow of caffeine. The last two weeks had been long on adrenaline and short on sleep.
The television flickered to life. It was one of the plasma types, two inches thick and four feet wide.
“Your TV makes mine look like it belongs in a museum,” she said, yawning.
“It does.”
“It still works. If something works, I don’t throw it away.”
“I’ve noticed.” He looked at her intently. “You’re loyal.”
“So is a cocker spaniel.”
He laughed and wondered how he’d gotten through the years before he met Kate.
Life hadn’t been as good, for damn sure.
“Look, that’s Kennedy,” Kate said, pointing at the TV.
Sam looked. “Yeah, that’s Kennedy.” Front and center and being adored by Tawny Dawn’s wide, wide blue eyes.
The camera angle shifted, drawing back.
“And there’s Doug Smith, and…” Kate hesitated, trying to remember.
“Raul Mendoza,” Sam said. “He’s the strike force’s federal entry from Homeland Security.”
“Who’s that other one?”
“A Phoenix PD captain. Ralston, I think.”
“Where’s Mario?” Kate asked, frowning. “He’s Phoenix PD.”
“At home with his wife and kids, if he’s lucky.”
“But didn’t he really help with —” Kate objected.
“The whole crime strike force wouldn’t fit on a TV screen,” Sam said before she could finish her question.
Kate reached for the remote and switched on the sound.
“— being here tonight with us,” Tawny said in an unusually husky voice. “I know how tight your schedule is.”
Kennedy nodded, managing to appear both busy and gracious.
“He looks more important on camera than in person,” Kate said.
“Are you saying you like him at a distance?” Sam asked dryly.
“Yeah. The more the better.”
“We’re all sleeping soundly again in Phoenix, thanks to the FBI. Mr. Kennedy, could you tell us in your own words how you cracked this murderous gang?”
“The usual way,” Sam muttered. “Underlings and gofers.”
“Ssshhhh. I want to hear.”
He rolled his eyes and took a drink of coffee.
“First of all, I want to make it clear that although it is an FBI supervised crime strike force, we had the help of the Bureau of Homeland Security and many police departments across the United States, from New York to Florida, Chicago to Phoenix to Los Angeles.”
“Cut to the chase,” Kate said under her breath.
“That is the chase,” Sam said. “Just one big happy family of crime busters taking a bow in front of the taxpayers.”
“Working together, we brought to justice one of the most vicious gangs it has ever been my
misfortune to discover on American soil.”
“The Teflon gang,” Tawny said eagerly. She knew a good sound bite when she had it in her mouth.
“Exactly.” Kennedy gave her the kind of smile a man gives a dog that does tricks on cue. “This evil gang wasn’t content with robbing couriers and hardworking businessmen. When the crime strike force started closing in on them, the Teflon gang began murdering people who had information the gang wanted kept secret.”
“Is that what happened to the Purcells?” Tawny asked.
“I’m not at liberty to say for fear of prejudicing any future jurors.”
Annoyance flashed over Tawny’s face. “I understand that there is a connection between the Teflon gang and two recent murders in Los Angeles, those of José de Santos and Eduardo Pedro Selva de los Santos.”
“Yes. We believe that the Teflon gang overlapped with the South American gangs that have been preying on couriers.”
“Is that true?” Kate asked, turning to Sam.
“It is now.”
“…investigating multiple leads that show cross-connections among the gangs,” Kennedy continued.
“But really?” Kate insisted.
Sam hit the mute button. He’d heard enough self-serving bullshit for one evening.
“The whole point of a press performance like this,” Sam said, “is to define what is real for public consumption now and in the future. Kennedy was forever publicly baying after South American gangs. He can’t just suddenly admit this crime spree was completely home-grown, now can he? Wouldn’t look good.”
“And that’s what it’s really all about,” she said, waving her hand at the TV. “Looking good.”
“Everyone up there will get an ‘attaboy’ letter from the president within a month. Promotions soon to follow.”
“But you were the one who did most of the work!”
“So what?”
Kate opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
“I bet you were going to say something about ‘fair,’ ” Sam said, giving her a hooded look.
“Um…”
“I cut a deal with Kennedy that I’m happy with,” Sam said. “That’s all the ‘fair’ I care about.”
ColorofDeath Page 35
