Rarities Unlimited 04 - The Color of Death

natural blue sapphire of that size might have an identically cut synthetic and wear it instead of the more costly stone. It’s a way of keeping down insurance rates.”
    Sam nodded.
    “It’s also a way of protecting valuable stones from thieves,” the dealer continued. “Most gem thieves, particularly the South American gangs, couldn’t tell glass from synthetic from natural.”
    Sam managed not to grimace over the mention of South American gangs. He heard enough of that song from his supervisory special agent and from Ted Sizemore.
    You’d think that there was only one nationality of gang on the whole frigging planet.
    “Really?” Sam asked. “I wouldn’t have thought gem thieves were that stupid.”
    “There are one or two real smart ones out there,” the dealer said unhappily. “I’ve heard rumors that some dealers were making decoy shipments to thwart those hijackers when there were some particularly fine gems to protect. Perhaps your well-cut stone came from one of those decoys.”
    “Thanks for your time,” Sam said, turning away.
    Kate followed because she didn’t have a choice. She looked narrowly at him as she lengthened her stride to keep pace.
    “Well, sweetheart, what next?” she asked.
    His smile was a lot less easygoing than the one he’d given to the dealer. “We go somewhere quiet and talk.”
    “No.”
    He raised his left eyebrow. “Why?”
    “I don’t want to and you don’t want to force me.”
    “What makes you think that?”
    “Because you’re undercover and don’t want to be burned over something that’s going nowhere in terms of a bust.” She smiled a razor kind of smile. “Right?”
    He thought about it. “Close enough. For now.”
    “Now is all there is.”
    She jerked her wrist.
    He held on just long enough to let her know that she wasn’t escaping, he was letting her go. Then he watched her retreat with the lazy interest of a predator that wasn’t particularly hungry at the moment. Whatever her game was, it wasn’t part of the reason he was in Scottsdale. Until that changed, she was off his menu.
    He had bigger fish to catch, gut, and fry.

Chapter 8
    Scottsdale
    Tuesday
    10:03 A.M .
    The FBI’s crime strike force had a formal headquarters in a million-dollar motor coach that was parked off to one side of the Scottsdale Royale’s employee lot. The strike force’s informal headquarters was Ted Sizemore’s suite at the Royale, or whatever suite Sizemore took in whatever city was hosting a gem show big enough to draw dealers and the thieves and hijackers who preyed on them.
    When Sam walked into the suite, he saw that the door to the other side of the suite was closed. He took the hint and left his SSA and Sizemore alone to talk about whatever part of the Good Old Days turned their crank. Patrick Kennedy and Sizemore went back a long way. Thirty-three years, to be precise.
    Sam grabbed a cup of bad coffee from the urn that room service had set up. Then he pulled a pack of peanut butter and cheese crackers from his sports coat pocket. Not much as brunches went, and it was all he was going to get. Sizemore might buy coffee for the strike force, but his idea of food was pretzels and beer.
    A lean man still in his twenties walked in. “Hey, Sam, what’s happening?”
    “Sweet fuck all. How about you?”
    “The same.” Mario yawned and stretched. Like Sam, he was wearing casual civilian clothes. Unlike Sam, Mario was a detective for the Phoenix PD. “The cell traffic we’re picking up is all about meeting for lunch at the local Taco Hell. I came close to falling asleep, and your SAC was in the HQ with me.”
    Sam shook his head. “Bad form. Doug’s a bear about staying awake on the job. Takes snoring as a personal insult.” He lifted his mug. “Have some coffee.”
    “How lousy is it?”
    Sam took a swallow. “How lousy is your imagination?”
    “That bad, huh? Must be why ‘Our Hero’ Sizemore drinks beer.”
    A shrug was Sam’s only answer. Anyone who had beer with every meal wasn’t Sam’s idea of a hero. “Who’s on the earphones now?”
    “Bailey. You should hear him bitch. An NYPD detective is too good for that shit. Just ask him.”
    “No thanks.”
    “What a prick.” Mario grabbed a handful of pretzels and ignored the bucket of iced beer. He pulled a can of Pepsi from his jacket pocket, popped the top, and spewed brown foam in all directions. Then he came closer to Sam and said softly, “We’re picking up more Spanish