The Color of Death

by Elizabeth Lowell

  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 ha
cker.”

  “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, Mandel. 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.”

  “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 t
hinking 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?”