For a man of Kennedy’s ambition, retirement was worse than death.
Sizemore slammed the phone back into its cradle and stalked past the coffee urn on the way to the tub of ice and beer. Before two P.M. he drank the light stuff. After that, he went for the gusto.
“Well?” Kennedy asked him.
Sizemore yanked the tab. Foam spewed. “Nothing.” He drank. “Not a fucking thing. You?”
“Possible ID on an Ecuadorian that informants say is into drugs, murder, robbery, and gems,” Kennedy said. “He came in on a private plane that landed in the Scottsdale airport.”
“You nail him?”
“No warrant,” Doug said. “No probable cause.”
“Give him to me,” Sizemore said. “In a few hours I’ll have enough probable bullshit to bury a judge.”
“There’s the small matter of the Constitution,” Doug said mildly. “It gets in our way a lot, but we’ve grown fond of it.”
Sizemore snorted and took another hit of the beer.
Kennedy smiled reluctantly. Doug might have a soft spot for hardheads, but he also had a way of defusing anger. With Sizemore around, it was a useful talent.
“So, what’s old that might lead to something new?” Sizemore asked.
“We’ve requested that local law enforcement keep an eye on any couriers in their territory who are known to be driving goods to the show.” Kennedy shrugged. “The various agencies will do what they can, but everyone who works for the state or county or city is doing two jobs already to make up for budget shortfalls.”
Sizemore grunted. “I’ve told the traders to foot half the bill for someone to ride shotgun twenty-four-seven with their couriers. I’m paying the other half. Had to hire some square badges to cover everyone, but there wasn’t any choice.” He grimaced at the thought of resorting to hiring men who had never carried a real law-enforcement shield. “We lose any more shipments and the clients lose confidence. Rentacops are better than nothing. Barely.”
Kennedy finished his coffee and dropped into a nearby chair with the heaviness of someone who hasn’t been getting enough sleep. “We lose any more shipments and it will be my face on the evening news. The media is baying for blood on this one.” He lit a cigarette and blew out a weary stream of smoke. “Bastards don’t care who’s dead as long as they get a sound bite out of it.”
Sizemore lowered himself into his favorite chair—beer on one side and documents stacked on the coffee table in front of him. “It’s not like the Purcells were frigging saints,” Sizemore said, flipping through a report Sharon had prepared for him. “The background I did reads like a how-to for losers and grifters.”
“Yeah?” Kennedy held out his hand. “Let me see. Maybe I can drop some stuff to a media source and get a different spin for today’s news. I’m getting sick of hearing about ‘slain grandparents of three.’ ”
So much for not talking to the media, Doug thought without surprise. What’s sauce for the goose definitely isn’t sauce for an SSA whose dick is in a wringer.
“What about Groves’s CI?” Sizemore asked.
“He’s working every lead he can,” Doug said. “Mario is helping.”
“What leads?”
“The ones Kennedy told you about.”
“He didn’t mention any.”
Doug looked concerned. “Then I shouldn’t.”
“Tell him,” Kennedy said without looking up from Sizemore’s report.
Doug would rather have kept his mouth closed, but he knew better than to dodge a direct order. “There might, just might,” he stressed the word lightly, “be some connection between the Purcell murders and Lee Mandel’s disappearance five months ago.”
Sizemore’s eyes narrowed. “Mandel? Refresh my memory.”
“The courier who vanished in Sanibel, Florida,” Doug said. “I’m sure you have a copy of our file on that somewhere.”
Sizemore dug through one pile of papers, then another, until he came up with a file. He went through it with a speed that said beer might be his drink of choice, but his brain wasn’t pickled yet.
“Okay. Lee Mandel…gone, no trace…no contact with family…father owns Mandel Inc. courier service…” Sizemore grunted. “No credit card or check transactions…no cell phone use…no description of the missing package or its contents.”
“That was Arthur McCloud’s choice,” Doug said. “He said he had better means of tracking the lost shipment than we did, and the less said the easier it would be to find the lost package. His insurance company agreed.”
“But you think it was gems?”
“Given that McCloud is a well-known collector of rare and extraordinary gems,” Doug said carefully, “the Bureau is assuming that gems were involved in some manner. McCloud didn’t say either way. Nor did his insurance company, other than to put a price of one million U.S. dollars on the missing package.”
“Must be nice to be the president’s brother-in-law,” Sizemore said. “You don’t have to say dick if you don’t want to.”
“McCloud has better wires into the international gem community than we do,” Kennedy said, still looking at the Purcell file. “Purcell was a putz. The guy who whacked him did the world a favor.”
“If being a putz was a capital crime, there would be about two hundred people left alive on the whole planet,” Doug said, relieved to be off the subject of Sam’s CI, “and we’d be hunting each other.”
“I’d pay to see that.” Kennedy grinned and dumped the file back on one of Sizemore’s stacks. “I have to make a call. Which do you think sounds better—lecherous grandpa or thieving granny?”
“What did she steal?” Doug asked.
“Their website was a scam.”
“Yeah? When were they convicted?” Doug asked. “I didn’t see anything in their file.”
Sizemore’s empty lite-beer can thumped down on the table. “They weren’t convicted. Nobody wastes time on Internet grifters unless they’re doing kiddy porn.” He flipped to another page of the Mandel file.
“Besides,” Kennedy said, “since when do reporters care about the fine print? They need sensation to sell ads.”
“What about the lawyers?” Doug asked.
“You can’t libel a dead man,” Kennedy said cheerfully, reaching for the phone.
Chapter 33
Scottsdale
Friday
11:20 A.M.
Peyton adjusted his dark suit jacket and waited impatiently for Eduardo to answer the damn cell phone that Hall Jewelry International paid for.
“Bueno, hello!”
Grimacing, Peyton held the cell phone away from his ear. Eduardo was shouting to be heard over the usual noise of the cutters reworking “estate” stones.
“Get to a quieter place,” Peyton said loudly. “I’ll wait.”
“Sí, yes, of course. Momentito.”
Peyton waited until the racket and jabber of the stone-cutting room faded to an irritating background.
“Is more better?” Eduardo asked.
Peyton didn’t waste any time with small talk. “In three days you’ll pick up a package at the special PO box. About half a kilo. Mix it with the May fourth shipment from Thailand and follow the normal procedures.”
“Sí. Yes.”
“There will be a second package at the same time. Good stuff. Some of it will have to be reworked.”
“Yes.”
Peyton tucked his tie beneath his jacket. “Eduardo?”
“Sí, señor?”
“If you skim more than five percent of the second package, I’ll cry at your funeral.”
“Mi primo is then muy unhappy, señor.”
“Your primo isn’t the only one in L.A. with a gun,” Peyton retorted. “No more than five percent, understand?”
“I understand. I not cheat you, señor. You know that, yes?”
“Saint Eduardo, eh? My ass.” Peyton laughed roughly. “Five percent or you’re dead.”
And after thinking about the
goods he’d seen an hour ago, Peyton knew just who he’d call to do the job.
Chapter 34
Scottsdale
Friday
1:30 P.M.
Worldwide Wholesale Estate Gems had a booth in the same room that the Purcells had recently inhabited. Everything in the room had been shuffled to cover the gap left when the Purcell booth was removed. WWEG had done its part by expanding with another case of “antique” gems.
“A big blue sapphire?” Tom Stafford asked, leaning forward over the heavy glass counter of the booth. “How big?”
Sam put his badge holder in his hip pocket and took out one of Kate’s photographs of the emerald-cut blue sapphire. He put the shiny photo faceup on the WWEG counter. “About forty carats, give or take.”
Stafford whistled silently. “If that photo’s color register is accurate, that’s one fine stone.”
“You see a stone like this recently?”
Stafford looked uncomfortable. “Uh…”
Sam wondered if he should shove his badge up Stafford’s uncooperative nose. He certainly was in a mood to do it.
Kate had been right: no one wanted to talk to the FBI, even after a grisly murder in their own gem-studded backyard.
“Think hard, Mr. Stafford,” Sam said easily. “Other people have identified the stone from this photograph. It would be a little odd if you, a dealer who had a booth next to the Purcells, never noticed a gem like this.”
Stafford shifted his feet, fingered his tie, and drummed fingers on the countertop. “The Purcells had one that might have looked like that,” he said finally. “But I can’t be certain they’re the same stone.”
“Oh, so you see a lot of stones like this?” Sam asked, smiling.
It was the kind of smile that made smart people look for the nearest exit.
Stafford cleared his throat and stroked his tie again. “Well, no, not a lot, of course not, but I’ve heard rumors of a synthetic stone that looked like your photo.”
“What rumors?”
Stafford shifted unhappily and glanced toward the booth near the doorway. “I don’t know. You know, you hang around with gem traders and you just hear things.”
Sam followed the other man’s glance. Sam hadn’t really expected the helpful gray-haired lady trader to keep such a juicy secret, but it would have been nice.
“Have you seen or heard of either stone since the murder?” Sam asked.
“No.” Stafford’s face, like his voice, didn’t invite more questions.
“And you’d tell us if you did,” Sam said cynically, pocketing the photo of the sapphire.
“Of course. Terrible thing. Just terrible.”
“The stone?” Sam asked, deadpan.
“The murders,” Stafford said, trying to look like a preacher or an undertaker—not part of the inner circle of mourners, but sympathetic all the same. “Just awful. I heard there was blood all over the place. Were you there? Did you see it?”
Jesus, another vulture. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Stafford.” Sam pulled out a business card that had the deep blue and shiny gold shield of the FBI on it. “If you think of anything, or hear anything, at any time, please call this number.”
“Of course. I know my duty as a citizen.”
Sam’s smile went no farther than his teeth. “I’m sure you do.” He started to turn away, then turned back, as though as an afterthought. “Is a stone like that sapphire unusual?”
“Er…” Stafford thought frantically and decided there was no harm in the truth. “If it hasn’t been treated, the stone would be very unusual.”
“And if it had?”
“Well, the cut is unusual for a blue sapphire, but large treated blue sapphires aren’t that unusual, if you know what I mean. WWEG sees hundreds of big colored stones every month, especially since the recent turmoil in the Middle East, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Russia, you name it. Those countries were—and are—home to some of the great personal wealth in the world. When times get bad, Grandmother’s jewelry hits the market. The settings don’t have any value beyond bullion, but the stones do quite well for us.”
“What shapes of blue sapphires have you seen that were forty carats and up?”
The other man looked uneasy again. “I’m not sure I understand your question.”
Sam smiled.
Stafford looked even more worried. “Uh, do you mean have I seen any other emerald-cut—”
“Shapes. Any and all kinds. Over forty carats.”
“Uh, shapes. Over forty.”
Sam waited.
Stafford looked more like a man wondering if he was going to step on a land mine than a man trying to do his civic duty. “Uh…”
“Forty carats,” Sam said helpfully. “That would be about the size of your thumb down to the first knuckle.”
“Carat is a measure of weight, not size. Some stones are heavier than others, so forty carats of a heavier stone wouldn’t be as big as forty carats of, say, feldspar. In fact—”
“In fact, we’re talking blue sapphire,” Sam cut in ruthlessly. “Emerald-cut, brilliant-cut, cabochon, heart-shaped, pear-shaped, oval, square, any old shape you can imagine. Over forty carats. Ringing any bells yet?”
“Uh…”
“Ever hear of the Seven Sins?”
“You mean like sloth and gluttony and—”
“Like this.” Sam slapped a photo of all seven blue sapphires down in front of Stafford and watched his eyes pop.
“God. God. God.” Stafford swallowed hard. “Are these real?”
“Have you seen or heard of anything like these stones?”
Stafford reached for the photo.
Sam pulled it back.
“Did Purcell have all of those?” Stafford asked hoarsely. “My God, where did he get them? Why didn’t he—”
“No one said these were Purcell’s. Is that what you’re saying?”
“No, no, no. It’s just that he had one so I assumed he had the rest.”
“Is that what everyone assumed?” Sam asked.
“I don’t know.” Stafford shook his head like he was coming up from deep water. “I only knew about the emerald-cut stone. That’s all he showed me. I can’t believe he’d keep the rest secret. He loved showing us that one stone, watching us want it. I still can’t imagine why it originally was offered to him instead of…” Stafford’s voice dried up.
“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.
The Color of Death Page 17
