Rarities Unlimited 04 - The Color of Death

background. A woman’s smoke-roughened voice sang along in Spanish.
    Kirby would like to have handled both ends of the job, but he couldn’t do that and collect the bonus, no matter how often there were flights between L.A. and Phoenix. So he’d give L.A. to TexWhite. That way if there was any splashback from the Colombians over their pet money launderer, White would take the heat.
    “What’s up?” White asked before he bothered to say hello.
    Kirby could tell from the sound of the other man’s voice that he was halfway soaring on cocaine. Or maybe just plain old meth. Whatever. It didn’t matter. White would never have any money to get out of the business. It all went up his nose. He’d gone from righteous soldier to plain old mutt.
    But that wasn’t Kirby’s problem. After this one, he wasn’t going to use White again. After this one, he wasn’t going to use anyone again. He was heading south.
    “Another job,” Kirby said. “You interested?”
    “What’s it worth?”
    “Twenty.”
    “Twenty? What kind of courier carries that kind of small change, even wholesale? We talking wristwatches here?”
    “Not a courier. Two mutts in L.A. Eduardo de Santos and his cousin, José de Santos. Old José gets a necktie. Do the other one any way you want.”
    “Gimme the addresses.”
    “Remember. José gets a necktie.”
    “Yeah, yeah. I hear you. Gimme the fucking addresses.”
    Kirby read off the numbers, then disconnected and began thinking about the job ahead. As he did, he pulled out the sapphire and rolled it in his palm caressingly. Blue flashed and gleamed, flashed and gleamed, an unblinking death’s eye watching everything with equal clarity.
    After a long time he put the stone back in the smuggler’s pocket he’d rigged in his underwear. He’d cracked too many safes to ever trust anything valuable to one, and the sapphire was the most valuable thing Kirby had ever owned.
    He suspected it was also the most deadly.

Chapter 55
    Glendale
    Saturday
    5:20 P.M .
    Sam wasn’t a Bureau hacker, but he’d been taught by one how to get the easy stuff off the ’net. Financial and tax records were nearly always available through one website or another. It was just a matter of knowing someone’s Social Security number, the mother’s maiden name, and the date of birth, which were usually available on other websites.
    He could have asked the Bureau to do it. He still would if he had to. And he could just imagine Kennedy going nuclear when the director asked what in the hell the Bureau was doing prying into the private life and finances of the president’s brother-in-law—without a warrant.
    Sam went back to burrowing into private files. Finally, he stretched and sighed.
    “Well, I can tell you for certain that Arthur McCloud isn’t worried about where his next Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud is coming from,” Sam said. “He’s richer than God and is closing in on Bill Gates.”
    Kate looked up from the piece of intense yellow sapphire rough she’d been studying while Sam used her computer. “Did you think he wasn’t?”
    “Always a possibility. Insurance scams are more common than ticks on a Georgia hound.”
    “Somehow I can’t see Art killing anyone, even for a million dollars.”
    “Most people just hire it done,” Sam said absently while he accessed another website.
    “You make hiring a killer sound as easy as getting a housecleaner or a gardener.”
    Sam glanced at her with world-weary eyes. “Easier, actually. It’s all a matter of connections. If you have them, getting someone whacked is cheaper and a lot simpler than getting a good nanny. Of course, if you want a pro to do the job rather than some mutt with a drug habit and a gun, you pay more. A lot more. But I haven’t heard any complaints from the people depositing money in overseas accounts.”
    Kate was silent for a few moments before she finally asked, “Do you like the world you live in?”
    “A lot less than I used to, why?”
    “It’s…ugly.”
    “Some good guys have to live there or everyone would be forced to. You drink all the coffee?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Now that’s ugly.”
    She smiled without meaning to. “I’ll make some more.”
    “I think it’s my turn.”
    “I’ll trade a fresh pot of coffee for a smile.”
    He smiled the same way she had, without meaning to. They kept taking each other by surprise.
    “And a rain check on a hug,” she added. Since right now you’re about as huggable as a