Rarities Unlimited 04 - The Color of Death

noticed that Kirby was wearing a black turtleneck under the suit coat, that his pants were black jeans instead of true slacks, and that he was sporting black running shoes instead of loafers, it still wouldn’t matter. Lots of middle-level workers dressed like that in the west.
    The briefcase on the seat next to Kirby was glossy leather and entirely fitting for the car and the dark suit. The fact that the case was packed with burglar’s tools didn’t show on the outside.
    Everything was looking routine until he saw the plain four-door sedan parked in front of Kate’s house. The Voice hadn’t said anything about a guard on the female, but the car might as well have great big letters on its side announcing “This turd on wheels is official property.”
    Only cops drove cheap American sedans.
    Shit.
    For a few seconds he thought about turning around, driving away, and to hell with the money, but he was revising his plans before the idea of walking out had a chance to take hold. It wasn’t just the money, although money was always useful. It was just that he’d been…anticipating.
    Warm flesh. Cold steel. Screams that never made it past duct tape. Panicked eyes. The scent of blood, the hot spill of it, the rush that told him he was still young.
    Nothing wrong with a man enjoying his work.
    He drove by the parked car. He couldn’t see anyone through the windows. Maybe the cop was stretched out in the back of the sedan, sleeping on the job. Maybe he was an off-duty cop and her boyfriend and was inside the house. Either way, no alarm would go out on the sedan’s radio. But if the guy was inside the house, that was different.
    Kirby thought about it as he scanned the surrounding houses. None of them had lights on. In neighborhoods like this, most of the people who lived there were old and went to bed early or young and had the kind of jobs that got them up at dawn. In the end, young or old, everyone went to bed before ten.
    The target house had lights on. Unlike the neighbors, somebody was up and around.
    Son of a whore. Decent people are asleep by now.
    He memorized the houses in the immediate area, their approaches, their fences. The target house had empty lots across the street. They wouldn’t be empty long because a developer’s big sign announced that apartments were on the way. Kirby didn’t care beyond the fact that the sign might provide cover for him.
    He drove on, turned right, and turned right again on the next street. The house directly behind the target was weather-beaten, unlit, and had a FOR RENT sign stuck into the dead lawn. The houses on either side were dark, with older cars parked in the driveways.
    After another drive around the block from the other direction,Kirby went to a bar he’d spotted in a small shopping center a mile away. He sat in the parking lot and dialed up White’s cell phone. A little help might be smart.
    No one answered.
    He dialed again, hung up, then called a third time. It was their prearranged signal to pick up even if you were jumping the old lady.
    No answer.
    No voice mail either. Not that Kirby would have left a message even if he’d been able to. The business he and White did together wasn’t the type that you felt good about leaving voice mails.
    So it can’t look like a whack job, and she either has a guard or a boyfriend that drives a government special.
    Cursing silently, Kirby considered the possibilities. If she’d been alone, he wouldn’t have cared about the lights being on, but she wasn’t alone and he did care. He’d have to wait until the guard or boyfriend or whatever left or they got tired of screwing and fell asleep.
    And here he’d been all psyched up and ready to go.
    He got out of the car, locked his briefcase and suit coat in the trunk, and walked toward the bar. In his dark clothes, he was just one more shadow in the parking lot.

Chapter 57
    Glendale
    Saturday
    11:35 P.M .
    The wreckage of mostly eaten pizza and too many cups of coffee lay across one of Kate’s worktables. Another table was covered with Sam’s files. A third sprouted sticky notes with information that hadn’t yet been assigned to a category. Kate sat at the fourth table with tablets labeled Prime Suspects, Persons Unknown, Last Resort, When Pigs Fly, Active, or Pipeline scattered in front of her. Sam was right next to her. Because neither of them had the skill to display complex linkages on the computer, they were working the old-fashioned way—legal tablets,