The Color of Death (29 page)

“Fair enough. And that would certainly connect Sizemore’s company with Lee in a big way,” Sam said. “If Lee told Norm what was in the courier packet, and Norm told his brother Jase, who also happens to be Jason Gallagher, and Jason mentioned it to his boss…”

“That’s a lot of ifs,” Kate said dubiously.

“Yeah. But it’s a link we didn’t have before. Let’s see if it goes somewhere.”

“Are you going to call Jase?”

“First I’m going to be sure that we have brothers. If we do, we’ll assume linkage.”

“Why not just ask Jase?”

“Because if Sizemore is dirty, Jase could be dirty too.”

Kate shifted unhappily. “Are you saying that Jase set up his brother’s lover?”

“I’m saying I don’t know who’s dirty and who isn’t. Until I do—or can at least make a reasonable guess—I’m not going to go broadcasting my suspicions.”

“But they were going to be married.”

It took Sam a moment, but he made the connection. “Look, Jase could have tipped someone, or Sizemore could have, or someone else who had the information, without intending to harm anyone but the insurance company. Up until Lee died, the couriers weren’t killed.”

“What changed that?”

“Good question.” Sam fiddled with a piece of pizza crust and stared into the middle distance. “The Purcells were killed to keep them quiet about where they got the sapphire. I think the female courier was roughed up to change the MO so that the cops would
assume South American gangs were at play, rather than the guys I call the Teflon gang. The female courier happened to have a thin skull, so she died. The courier who was shot in the parking lot is just one of those things that go down when crooks carry guns. A screwup. Otherwise it was a classic Teflon job—homemade remote key, inside information on the courier and the route, the courier isn’t around for the grab, no one is hurt, in and out and gone in thirty seconds.”

“How many of these nineteen couriers fit that profile?”

“Twelve, if I’m right about the female courier and the parking lot screwup, and one or two others where the MO is mixed.”

“What does your boss say about your theory?”

“My SAC says that his boss told him that when we round up all the South American mutts, and the courier hits continue, then and only then will Kennedy start looking under his maiden aunt’s bed for Teflon ghosts.”

“Got it. Kennedy’s not impressed.”

“Neither is Sizemore. Kennedy controls the Bureau information pipeline, so nothing gets in the files that would make him unhappy. Sizemore has the media in his pocket, which only feeds the frenzy for South American gangs.”

“That’s what you meant when you said facts that don’t agree with the brass don’t make it into the final report.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s a wonder anything ever gets done.”

He smiled wearily. “It’s not just the Bureau. It’s human nature. We don’t like the bearer of bad news. We reward the folks bringing good news. Guess which messenger gets ahead in the world?”

Kate just shook her head.

“Okay,” Sam said, “next civilian under investigation is CGSI. Raul Mendoza did a preliminary on them and came up with nothing interesting. Ditto the accountant. Only thing of interest is that they handle their own courier and security information, always.”

“Dad has tried to interest them in using his company. No sale.”

“Tell him not to take it personally. Sizemore got the same treatment when he tried to include them in his security umbrella for this show. They told him to go crap in his mess kit. A few other security companies tried, but they weren’t gem and jewelry specialists.”

“Is CGSI any better off for doing its own security?” she asked.

Sam turned and went to work on the computer keyboard. “They’ve been hit once in four years. South American gang MO. That was two years ago.” He tapped out a rapid series of commands, calling up an FBI evaluation of various companies involved in the gem and jewelry trade. The screen changed to a graphic representation. “Considering the amount and value of the stuff they move, CGSI is doing much better at not getting hit than the average company with the same volume of goods.”

“That doesn’t make Mandel Inc. or Sizemore Security Consulting look very good, does it?”

For a moment, Sam didn’t answer. “No, it doesn’t. But it could just be a factoid. It’s too soon to tell.”

“What’s a factoid?”

“A fact that doesn’t mean anything in the larger scheme. If you get enough of them and they all point in the same direction, then you take a closer look.”

“I see.” Kate picked up a pencil and made a little circle on the Mandel Inc. and the Sizemore Security Consulting sticky notes. Then she put circles on each employee’s note.

“What are you doing?” Sam asked.

“Entering factoids.”

“You’re going to drive yourself crazy.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Gently, he tangled his fingers in her hair. “You doing okay, darling?”

“No. How about you?”

“Want to take a time-out?”

“Right after we finish with the civilians.”

“They have a lot of cross-references and factoids,” he warned her.

“That’s okay. I have a lot of pencils.”

He looked at his watch. “Go sharpen them while I call in some names to fingerprinting.”

“What names? Why?”

“My personal six most-likely suspects. I want the lab to compare any prints on file with whatever they got off the rental car.”

“Isn’t it a little late—and on Saturday night?” she asked.

“Not a problem with Kennedy’s pull.”

“I didn’t know he was behind you.”

“Neither does he.”

“He’ll be pissed.”

Sam smiled grimly. “How will I tell the difference?”

Glendale

Sunday

2:15
A.M
.

If the neighborhood had been
quiet a few hours ago, now it was dead. A few night-lights glowed in a house here and there, and the dusty old streetlights pushed small gold halos into the darkness. After that, it was completely dark. Even the fingernail moon had already set.

Headlights off, Kirby parked in the driveway of a rental house in back of the target’s address and waited, wishing he had brought his beer with him. But that would have been stupid. He shouldn’t even have had the beers he’d drunk while waiting for the bar to close, but there hadn’t been any choice. Bartenders and barmaids notice the patrons that don’t drink. He didn’t want to be remembered.

After five minutes of watching the street, Kirby felt confident that if anybody had noticed him, they didn’t care. No house lights came on. No doors opened to the street.

Quietly, he opened the car door. Nothing flashed on because he’d already pulled the fuse controlling the interior lights. No dog barked at hearing his footsteps, because his soles were soft and he was walking lightly. He soon reached the garage, went over the low fence down a narrow side yard, and along the backyard. Every step of the
way, chest-high shrubs with thin leaves and long thorns plucked at his dark clothes. Beneath the black ski mask, he was sweating with a combination of beer and adrenaline.

The lot next door to the target house had more of the thorny shrubs scattered across the bare land. Instead of avoiding them, he used their thin cover to blur the outline of his silhouette against the sandy dirt. It wasn’t a conscious decision but past training that kept him moving at a slow and steady pace, gliding from shrub to shrub until he reached the target.

The first thing he noticed was the wires on all windows and doors.

The second thing was the alarms.

He smiled.

People slept deeply when they were guarded by wires and alarms. It made his job easier, once he was inside. And he would get inside. Security depended on electricity, which could be outsmarted by crossing the right wires. Same for alarms.

The really sweet thing about residential alarm systems was that they had a thirty-second grace period built in. In thirty seconds he could short-circuit the two wires on a window, taking it out of the alarm loop. Then he could cut a big hole out of the glass and take a look around. If she had motion sensors, he could deal with them too.

Thirty-second alarm delays made his life easy.

He took one last look around. Smiling at the glittering rush of his blood that heightened all his senses, he opened the briefcase and went to work. His heartbeat picked up in his eagerness to feel the woman’s softness and terror when his knife bit into her.

Glendale

Sunday

2:25
A.M
.

Sam woke up with a rush
of adrenaline that told him something was wrong. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew it was real.

Next to him, Kate stirred briefly, then went completely still. The change in her breathing told him that she was awake. Wide awake. Whatever had pulled him out of sleep had done the same to her.

The alarm panel above the bed showed green at every station.

Sam didn’t believe it.

Slowly, he brought his lips to Kate’s hair. When he spoke it wasn’t a whisper, which would carry in the stillness like a hiss of steam. His voice was a bare thread of sound that went no farther than her ear.

“Don’t move,” he breathed, reaching for the weapon harness he’d left right by the bed. “I’ll check out the house.”

“My gun,” she murmured, shifting carefully as she spoke.

“Where?”

She reached down and under the bed and came up with a handful of metal. “Here.”

The gun was smaller than his, but by no means a girly weapon. It would do just fine putting a hole in someone’s bad intentions.

“Don’t shoot me by mistake,” Sam murmured.

“Same goes.”

“Stay here.” His hand tightened in her hair. “Promise.”

“Unless I hear shots.”

He wanted to protest. He shut up because he knew he wasn’t going to win and arguing could give them away to whoever was prowling around outside in the yard.

Or in the house.

Jesus, I hope not.

But Sam wasn’t going to count on it. Whoever had managed to get close enough to wake both of them up and yet not trip any of the alarms was a pro, not some careless hype breaking into homes for drug money.

Naked as the gun in his hand, Sam walked silently to the closed bedroom door and listened.

And listened.

All he heard was his own light, slow breathing and a softer whisper in the room behind him that was Kate’s careful breath as she sat up in bed.

From somewhere in the house came a muffled thump. If Kate had had a cat, Sam would have thought the sound came from a feline jumping from the kitchen counter to the floor. But Kate didn’t have a cat…

Silently, Sam waited, judging the danger of staying put versus trying to get past the squeaky bedroom door handle and into the rest of the house. He opted to stay and let the attacker come to him. Assuming there was anyone out there.

He really hoped there wasn’t.

A slight rustle from the bed told him that Kate was on the move. He glanced briefly over his shoulder. Her naked body was a paler shade of darkness sliding off to his right. He wanted to tell her to stop, to get in the closet, to go out the window and run like hell—do anything except quietly position herself so that if the door opened quickly, slamming into him, she would have a clean shot at the intruder.

And even as Sam wanted her to flee, he silently saluted her pragmatism.
She knew that the bedroom door handle squeaked, that neither one of them could get out without giving away the game.

So they waited.

A few minutes later there was another muted noise, not enough to worry about except that both of them knew there was no reason for anything in the house to get up and move on its own.

The door handle turned slightly, squeaked softly.

Stopped.

Sam had already taken the safety off his gun. Distantly, he was aware of adrenaline firing up his blood, sharpening his senses, picking up his heart rate, his body silently demanding that he
do something.

All he could do now was wait and pray that there was only one man testing the door, and that the attacker never had a chance to get close to Kate.

The handle turned more. Squeaked.

Stopped.

Kate felt cold sweat slide down her back and turn slick along her ribs. She ignored it along with the wild beating of her heart. Her instructor’s words ran in her mind like a jingle from an obnoxious commercial.

When you can’t run, use the gun. When you can’t—

Squeeeak.

Silence.

The door handle was halfway turned. A little more patience, a few more squeaks, and it would open.

When you can’t run, use the gun.

Without realizing it, Kate silently took off the safety and assumed the shooting stance that had been drilled into her during the hours of practice that had left her hands numb and her arms aching.

Did the targets have guns?

As she’d been taught, she shoved thought aside and let her body take over.

Squeak—squeeeak.

Her gun came up as though someone else was holding it, someone
else training it on the door to the right of Sam, someone else waiting. She had a hard time believing it was happening to her.

It isn’t real. Just another practice. Just—

Waiting.

Waiting for the
squeeeak
and the sliding shadow of darkness that would be a man intent on killing her.

Waiting.

The door moved with dreamlike slowness, opening into the room.

“Don’t shoot!” Sam yelled to Kate even as he slammed into the door with the full force of his body.

A man cried out in fear and anger and pain. He left arm was caught in the vise of the door. The knife in his hand gleamed dully.

“FBI,” Sam shouted. “Drop the knife!”

Kirby twisted and threw himself at the door, trying to get his arm free and throw his attacker off balance.

It almost worked. Sam had been expecting the man to retreat rather than attack. If Sam had had any doubt about what they were up against, he no longer did.

Not only a pro, a well-trained one.

Sam grunted with effort and put his weight into the door. “If he gets past me, start shooting and don’t stop until he does. Got it?”

“Yes.” Thin, flat, the voice didn’t sound like Kate’s, but her understanding was clear.

“Last chance, asshole,” Sam said. “Drop the knife!”

Kirby went slack.

Sam shifted to reach for the knife.

On the other side of the door, Kirby lunged forward. His entire body slammed into the door, knocking Sam back an inch. Just one.

Way too much.

Kirby yanked back his trapped arm. Instead of running away, he drew back and hit the door like a pile driver. It splintered away from its hinges. Off balance, Kirby staggered into the bedroom.

Sam bent under the impact of door and attacker, rolled, and scissored his legs. He didn’t connect the way he’d wanted to, but he managed to knock the attacker off balance again.

Kate looked for a target. All she saw was a windmilling kind of darkness rushing around the open doorway.

A knife blade sliced through the air and thunked into the wall so close to her cheek that the metal felt hot and cold at the same time. She gave a startled cry.

Sam shot twice quickly, then twice more. In the small room it sounded like four cherry bombs going off on top of each other.

The man on the floor jerked and went still.

“Sam, are you all—”

“Not yet,” Sam said harshly to her. He went to where the man lay and bent down far enough to wedge the muzzle of his government-issue Glock up under the intruder’s chin. Even if the man was playing possum, now he couldn’t move without getting his head blown off. “See if the lights work,” Sam said to Kate. “If they do, don’t look real close.”

The lights worked.

She tried not to look. It was impossible. There was blood and…
something
…everywhere. The intruder was dripping scarlet everywhere he wasn’t black. Bone gleamed in an open wound.

Her stomach turned over.

“Damn, I told you not to look,” Sam said. “Breathe through your nose and hiss it out through your teeth. It will help the nausea.”

He ought to know. It was how he was keeping his stomach in place. Then he glanced up briefly and saw the blood on her cheek.

He stopped breathing.

“Kate. You’re bleeding.”

She blinked. “I am?”

“Your cheek.”

She touched her cheek with her free hand. Her fingers came away red. Vaguely, she became aware of a burning sensation. She probed more deeply.

“Just a little cut,” she said. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Sam started breathing again. It felt good. “Find my cell
phone. Punch one and then two. When Doug answers, tell him what happened. Can you do that?”

She wiped her bloody fingers on her bare thigh and looked everywhere but at the man on the floor. “Yes.”

Kneeling, Sam put the fingers of his left hand lightly on the attacker’s neck where the arterial pulse of life should be. If it was there, his own heart was beating too hard for him to pick it up. But all in all, he didn’t think there was a pulse to be found.

Fuck.

He’d been looking forward to questioning the mutt.

Grimly, Sam began the job of going through the would-be assassin’s clothing, looking for anything that might identify him. No wallet, which didn’t surprise Sam. Pros don’t make it easy for cops. There was a remote car key with a rental tag on it in a front pocket of the man’s bloody slacks. Nothing else. No credit card, no money, not even change in his pockets, which could have jingled and given him away.

Automatically, Sam patted the body down for other weapons.

It took him about forty seconds to find the sapphire.