Rarities Unlimited 04 - The Color of Death

it?”
    Instead of answering, she hugged him hard. “I never should have encouraged Lee to become a courier.”
    “Aw, honey, that’s just pure, double-dyed crap. Lee was happy to find work that paid decent, sent him all over, and didn’t bore him.”
    Kate just burrowed closer and smelled the familiar scents of tobacco and aftershave. Then she stepped back. “Does Aunt Mary know you haven’t stopped smoking?”
    “I don’t smoke unless I’m on the road.”
    “Better wash everything before you go back.”
    “That bad?”
    “She loves you anyway.”
    Gavin grinned. “And that’s a fact. You have time for some pie and coffee? I can be a little late to the meeting.”
    Kate was just starting to say yes when she saw someone she didn’t want to see get out of an elevator not six feet away. Quickly she moved around Gavin until he was between her and Sam, the FBI man.
    “I’d love to, but I’ve got an appointment I’m late for,” she said, watching the nearby bank of elevators rather desperately.
    One of the doors opened. Kate didn’t look to see if the elevator was going up, down, or sideways. She just took it and hit the button that closed the door. Then she leaned against the steel wall and practiced breathing.
    It was something she’d done a lot of since she’d met Special Agent Sam Groves.

Chapter 11
    Scottsdale
    Tuesday
    1:05 P.M .
    Sam saw the sexy con artist slide into a handy elevator, thought about following her, and decided against it. Instead, he memorized the name on the bald man’s conference ID tag and mentally filed it. Sweet Natalie was jumpy enough that she might rabbit if he started questioning her buddies. He didn’t want that to happen until he knew more about her. Enough to find her, for instance.
    He checked the window of his cell phone. Still blank. No missed calls. No messages.
    C’mon, boys and girls. How long can it take to run a name like Natalie Harrison Cutter through our databases?
    “Problems?” Mario asked from behind Sam.
    “Slow response from records,” Sam said.
    “You running that woman—Natalie Whatshername?”
    “Cutter. Yeah. Figured I’d try our records first.”
    “Want me to run her name through Arizona’s databases?”
    “Thanks, but until I know where she’s from, or until Kennedy upgrades her from my punishment to a viable lead, I don’t want to waste anyone’s time except my own.”
    “Leave wasting time for Sizemore, right?”
    Sam grimaced. “You said it, I didn’t.”
    “Sizemore doesn’t work for Phoenix PD.” Mario flashed a grin that made him look like a teenager.
    “Don’t push it,” Sam said quietly, looking around the lobby. “Sizemore is a bona fide member of the federal old-boy club.”
    Mario gave a fluid shrug. “Every law-enforcement operation has a club like that. Cops don’t retire—they just hang with one another and talk shop. Hell, I’m not even saying that Sizemore is wrong. I’ve seen the files on the South American gangs. They’re really busy, really bad boys.”
    “The MOs aren’t the same in all the courier robberies.”
    “Different gangs.”
    “So Sizemore says. All South American.”
    Mario gave Sam a sideways look. “The Teflon gang? I ran the name and got nothing.”
    “That’s because it’s my personal name for the gang. Since my ‘wild speculations’ never got past my SAC or SSA into a file, it’s not surprising you never heard the name. You get any hits with the maids or bellmen yet?”
    “Nada.”
    “What does your gut say?”
    “The help doesn’t like talking to cops because no one wants to be shipped south if their illegal status is discovered. So they’re nervous. Big surprise. No one I’ve questioned is from Colombia, Peru, or Ecuador. Some Guatemalans. A lot of Mexicans.”
    “Mendoza do any better?”
    “If he has, he’s not sharing,” Mario said.
    “Then he hasn’t. He’s not a glory hog.”
    “So what did you find about our gem switcher, the one that leaves good stuff and keeps the bad? You sure she isn’t a blonde?”
    “Haven’t you heard?” Sam asked. “Blonde jokes are out. De-meaning to groups like Blondes Demanding Respect.”
    Mario did a double take. “There’s no such group.”
    “Prove it.”
    The cop gave a bark of laughter and headed for the bell captain’s desk, shaking his head.
    Sam checked his cell phone, saw the terse message— NO HITS —and swore silently. No female Caucasian between the ages of twenty-five and forty using the