“Must have pissed someone off.”
“Yeah. I’m just wondering who.”
She shrugged. “Why do you care? You don’t deal with the Colombians, do you?”
“Just want to make sure that no one is trying to muscle in on the business,” Peyton said, sidestepping her question. “The way L.A. is today, you have enough ethnic gangs around to make nineteenth-century New York’s problems look like squabbles on a playground.”
Sharon shrugged. “I think of it as job security.”
“I think of it as a pain in the ass.”
She pushed away the rolling room service table and patted the bed next to her. “Come tell me all about it.”
“I thought you said you had some work to do for your father.”
“It will wait.”
He glanced at her computer on the bedside table. Before breakfast had come, she’d been following some interesting threads on various couriers. He hadn’t planned on hitting anything so soon, but after Eduardo’s death in the cutting room, he’d have some ground to make up.
He kissed Sharon with lips that tasted of coffee. “I’ll take you up on it tonight. Go ahead and work now. I’ve got some things of my own to do.”
Sharon pulled her computer into her lap, settled against the headboard, and called up a file. The mattress gave in heavily as Peyton settled next to her, his own computer in his lap. Soon she was immersed in her work, trying to connect courier thefts with the information the FBI had. She knew how much her father wanted to break the case before the Bureau did. And she wanted to be the one who gave him facts every step of the way.
From time to time Peyton glanced at her computer screen. If she noticed and looked at him, he just smiled at her, kissed her, and went back to his own computer without a word.
The companionable silence was broken only by the click of keys.
Chapter 61
Scottsdale
Sunday
1:10 P.M.
Kate looked at the black motor coach with its blanked-out windows and grimaced. “Why do I feel like I’m about to be thrown in irons and grilled like a cheese sandwich?”
Sam smiled faintly. “Not you. Me.”
“What for?”
“Oh, they’ll think of something.”
The door opened before Sam could reach for it. Doug stuck his head out. “Took you long enough.”
“I wanted a doctor to look at Kate’s cheek.”
Doug glanced at the thin line across Kate’s cheekbone. “Not deep enough for stitches. Already scabbed over. Clean. Looks good to me.”
“You sound just like the doctor,” Kate said, “but if you try to give me any more shots, I’ll go for your throat.”
Doug’s smile flickered, then settled. “Sam said you were a tiger.”
Her smile turned upside down. “Was that before or after I threw up?”
Sam wanted to gather her in a comforting hug, but he couldn’t. Not in front of the boss. “You didn’t throw up.”
“I wanted to.”
“So did I.”
She gave him a look of disbelief.
“What?” Sam said. “Do you think I shoot men on a weekly basis?”
“I—I didn’t think.” She looked at him and saw the new lines around his eyes, the new shadows, the pallor beneath the strength. Why did I assume it wouldn’t reach him the way it reached me? Because he’s an FBI agent? She wanted to touch him, comfort him, tell him she understood and it made him all the more a man to her. She kept her hands and thoughts to herself. Doug might be a friendly boss, but he was still Sam’s boss. “I’m sorry,” she said to Sam.
“Don’t be,” Doug said, gesturing Kate inside. “Jack Kirby was a miserable piece of shit.”
“Then you have an ID?” Sam asked, following Kate up the steps.
“Oh, yeah. Kennedy will fill you in.”
“Don’t try to tell me the mutt was Ecuadorian,” Sam said under his breath.
“Nope,” Doug said with faint malice. “Pure d American, born and raised in southern California and educated by the U.S. Army, and from there to the DEA. Spent a lot of time undercover.”
“Army? Was he a Ranger?” Sam asked.
Doug paused in the act of reaching for Kennedy’s door, which was partway open.
The door opened fully. Sizemore stood there looking impatient and curious at the same time. Obviously, he’d been listening.
“Why do you think Kirby was a Ranger?” Sizemore asked Sam, closing the door after everyone was in the room.
Sam gestured Kate in and looked at Kennedy, who nodded curtly.
“Answer him,” Kennedy said.
Same old shit, Sam thought. Sizemore and Kennedy and to hell with the rest of us.
Sam looked at Sizemore and wondered, really wondered, if he was dirty. Or if Kennedy was. Much as the idea appealed to him on a purely personal level, on a professional one it had no appeal at all.
“Kirby fought like he’d been trained,” Sam said evenly, “and I don’t mean the usual smash and slash method they teach army grunts. He was unexpected. Quick. I was damn lucky to take him down.”
Kennedy grunted. “You always had high marks in shooting and unarmed combat, as well as in case clearances. It added up to just enough to keep your head above water with the Bureau.”
Why do you think I did it? Sam asked silently. You think I got off on punishing myself at the firing range and gym?
“Anyway, the mutt’s ex-Ranger,” Kennedy said. “Fingerprints just came back. Army, then DEA. Retired with pension and two ex-wives to support. He ran with another ex–Special Forces type, one John White. A SEAL. White is a sweet piece of business. Barely got an honorable discharge.”
“So he was a U.S. citizen?” Sam asked.
“Yeah. At first we thought he was South American with an alias, but it didn’t come down that way. Maybe some of his pals. We’re checking it.”
“What did he do to get bounced out of the military?” Sam asked.
“Some really expensive special-ops equipment went missing one night,” Doug said. “White was the only one who could have taken it. But considering his past good service to the country, yada yada yada.”
“They cut him loose,” Kennedy said. “He left the country and worked around the world. South America, mainly.”
“Mercenary,” Sam said.
Kennedy shrugged. “Fancy name for a thug with an automatic rifle.”
“Okay, so Kirby was American, ex–DEA, with two ex-wives to support and he hung with former special-ops men,” Sam said. “Anything else?”
“We’re checking into that right now,” Sizemore said.
“Does he have a record?” Sam asked Kennedy, ignoring Sizemore.
“Kirby is clean. White has been smacked for speeding, drunk and disorderly, beating on his girlfriends, that sort of thing,” Doug said when Kennedy just glared at Sam. “Clean for last six years, which is interesting, because his only job is about one step above burger flipper, yet our preliminary investigations indicate he spent money on cocaine and women.”
Kate looked from face to face. Even without Sam’s terse explanations in the past, she would have known that Kennedy didn’t like Sam, and Sizemore positively despised Sam, and Doug was trying to oil the troubled waters.
“Kirby and White lived in L.A.?” Sam asked Doug.
“Santa Ana.”
“Close enough,” Sam said. “Was either of them ever hired by or connected in any way to Sizemore Security Consulting, Mandel Inc. or—”
“What the hell are you suggesting?” Sizemore snarled, shoving his face into Sam’s.
“I’m saying that Kirby was hired for a hit on Kate by someone who has a stake in keeping this investigation swimming around in the toilet until the department flushes it—and us.” Sam’s voice was calm, but his whole body radiated a desire to pick Sizemore up and throw him through the closed door. “Someone, by the way, who’s in a position to know every fucking thing the Bureau knows as so
on as the Bureau knows it.”
Sizemore’s face turned red and his hands fisted. “Are you accusing me?”
“Should I?” Sam asked.
Doug stepped between them. “Nobody is accusing anyone. Right?”
Sam met Doug’s eyes for a long minute, then nodded. “There are several people and/or organizations that might be dirty,” Sam said. “Sizemore’s company is just one of the pack.”
“Why, you son of a bitch!” Sizemore yelled, reaching for Sam around Doug’s sturdy body.
Sam shook off Sizemore’s grip with a swift motion of his hands that could just as easily have broken the other man’s wrists.
“Back off,” Kennedy said in the kind of voice that reminded everyone the SSA had once been in the Marines. “Both of you.”
The words penetrated Sizemore’s anger. He visibly reined in his temper.
Sam hadn’t lost his temper, but he’d really been looking forward to doing it all over Sizemore.
“Ted,” Kennedy said. “I need a few minutes, okay? I’ll call you.”
Sizemore shot a deadly look at Sam and Kate, then turned around and left the small room. The motor coach’s floor vibrated from the weight of his angry steps.
Without a word Kennedy opened his belly drawer, reached in back, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Doug had a lighter ready. Still saying nothing, Kennedy took a deep drag, and another. Then he pinned Sam with a steel-gray glance.
“I assume you have proof backing up your accusations,” Kennedy said with deceptive mildness.
“Courtroom proof?” Sam asked. “No.”
Kennedy’s lips flattened. “It’s too late to be coy. You better have something besides a big mouth.”
Kate reached into the oversized purse she’d brought with her. She took out a sheaf of papers and put it on his desk.
The SSA glanced down, saw the lines and handwriting, and frowned. “What’s this?”
“Special Agent Groves and I spent a lot of time trying to figure out who knew what and when,” Kate said carefully. “This is the result. It suggests some new avenues of investigation.”
“Give me the bottom line,” Kennedy said impatiently. “And it better be good, Groves, or you’re finished.”
Sam reached into his pocket, pulled out a sealed, transparent evidence holder, and put it on Kennedy’s desk.
Emerald-cut blue sapphire, as big as a man’s toenail, the gem inside the plastic drew light into its depths and returned it as blue fire.
Kennedy looked from the gem to Sam. “Is this what I think it is?”
“Yes.”
“Judas Priest.”
Kennedy picked up the papers and began to read.
Chapter 62
Scottsdale
Sunday
1:30 P.M.
Sizemore stalked into his hotel suite, only to find that Peyton was there with Sharon.
“I need some time with my office manager,” Sizemore said through his teeth.
Peyton knew an invitation to leave when it was shoved in his face. “Dinner at eight?” he said to Sharon.
“She’ll be busy,” Sizemore said.
Sharon started to argue, then saw the pallor beneath her father’s fading flush of anger.
“She,” Sharon said coolly, “doesn’t know what she’ll be doing at eight.” She stood, kissed Peyton, and said softly, “I’ll call you as soon as I know what’s going on.”
He shrugged and left without a word.
“All right,” Sharon said as soon as the door closed. “This better be more than the usual ‘Why are you hanging with that shitheel?’ harangue.”
Sizemore grabbed a beer, opened it, and drank most of it in three long swallows. He wiped his mouth and said, “Groves is trying to frame me for the courier deaths.”
Sharon’s eyes widened. Her skin went as pale as her father’s. Cold sweat gathered on her spine. “What? What? He’s crazy! What’s his so-called evidence?”
“I don’t know. Kennedy kicked me out of the office before they got down to it.”
Slowly, she sank back down onto the couch. “There must be something then. Groves is a wild card, but he’s not stupid.”
A beer bottle slammed into a wastebasket. Sizemore grabbed another brew out of the ice and opened the top with a savage jerk of his hand. “There’s something.”
“What?”
“I know Jack Kirby.”
“Kirby, Kirby…” She frowned and drummed her fingers against her leg. “Do I know him?”
“He was on the task force with me in Florida when I took down the South Americans. I don’t think Groves knows it. Yet. So was John ‘Tex’ White. He’d been with the army working on taking down the Colombian gangs.”
“So what? That was a long time ago.”
Sizemore looked bitter at the dismissal of his greatest moment, but didn’t argue the point with her. “Yeah, well Kirby is a PI and he’s working a case here and I had a drink with him a few days ago. Someone must have seen us together. Kirby and White still hang together, I guess.”
“Who cares?” she said impatiently. “You have drinks with a lot of people.”
“None of those people got shot to pieces by Sam Groves while trying to kill Kate Chandler.”
Sharon took a breath, shook her head, and took another. She felt like the top of her head was coming off. “Wait. Back up. I’m missing something.” At least, she really hoped she was. “When did all this happen?”
“Kennedy just kicked me out of his office.”
“No. The killing. Or the attempted killing. Or whatever.” She stood up and started to pace. “What a cluster.”
Sizemore didn’t argue. He just drank long and deep, telling himself that he was just thirsty, that’s all. It wasn’t that his mouth was dry with fear. It couldn’t be that. He had nothing to be afraid of.
How could this happen?
“Talk to me,” she demanded, turning to face him. “And put a cork in the beer. If word of this gets out, Sizemore Security Consulting is ruined.”
He ignored her until he finished the second beer. Then he reached for a third.
With startling quickness, Sharon stepped between her father and the vat of icy beer. “No.”
He started to shove her aside, only to find that she was stronger than she looked.
“It’s my life too,” she said angrily. “Tell me what’s going on and then you can drink beer until you’re too drunk to care about anything but the next beer.”
Sizemore started to explode, then decided she was right. The beer could wait.
“This is much too important to screw up with a father-daughter shouting match,” she said.
He shrugged. He hated when she was right, which was a hell of a lot more often than he gave her credit for.
“What do you want to know?” he muttered.
“This Kirby dude. Where is he now?”
“The morgue.”
She let out a long breath. “Well, that’s going to make it hard to question him.”
Sizemore gave a laugh that was more like a grunt. “Maybe that’s the whole idea. Dead man, no witnesses but Groves and the CI he’s shagging. Easy enough to point the finger at someone else.”
“Kennedy has known you too long to buy their bull.”
“I hope so.” Sizemore looked at his watch. “I expected him to call by now to apologize.”
She frowned and narrowed her eyes at something only she could see. “So you have a vague connection to Kirby and Kirby is dead. What else could Groves use against you?”
“There’s a leak somewhere on the crime strike force. Groves wants to pin it on me.”
“How?”
“How?” he repeated sarcastically. “Shit, use your head for something besides blowing Peyton. I run a security operation. I have access to a lot of courier information.”
“So do other people. The CI’s father, for instance. Is Groves barking up that tree?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about the couriers themselves?”
“You think they set themselves up to be killed?” Sizemore asked in rising tones.
“Maybe they just expected to get part of the take and they got killed instead. Besides, most of the couriers never even know anything has happened until they check the trunk. They report the theft and walk away perfectly healthy. Only the insurance companies cry.”
Sizemore frowned. “And we look like dickheads.”
“Maybe Mandel Inc. was working with dirty couriers,” Sharon continued. “Maybe the son found out and something went wrong.”
“You think the man killed his own son?”
“Read the Bible. Hell, read the newspapers. It happens all the time. Maybe no one meant for anyone to get hurt,” she said, waving her hand impatiently. “Maybe that’s just the way it turned out. Shit happens.”
Sizemore pulled at his lower lip with his thumb and forefinger. “I like it. Can we prove it?”
“I don’t know.” She went and sat by her computer again. “But if we put our minds to it, we might be able to inflate the theory enough to keep us afloat.”
Chapter 63
Glendale
Sunday
5:30 P.M.
“When do you think he’ll call?” Kate asked.
Sam shifted, lifting her to a more comfortable position on top of him. They’d flipped a coin for top or bottom and he’d lost. Not that he was complaining. The floor wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly. It was just that the bed was a lot more accommodating.
Or had been. Right now the bedroom smelled like industrial strength cleaners. Kate wouldn’t even look at it.
He didn’t blame her.
Besides, the living room floor had a lot to recommend it. Convenience, for starters. Oh, yeah. It was convenient. He smiled at the memory. He liked having her come apart in his hands, his arms, both of them too hungry to make it more than three steps inside the front door to shut off the alarm. He could get used to that kind of heat and loving.
Who are you trying to fool? You’re already used to it. What are you going to do when this is all over? Ask her to make ice cubes in Fargo with you? Because that’s where you’ll be until hell freezes solid or your twenty years are up, whichever comes first.
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