Rarities Unlimited 04 - The Color of Death

hours to talk to her. It was one of the downsides of working and living in the same place.
    With a caution that came from handling small, very valuable, easily portable goods, Kate looked out the expensive peephole in her sturdy front door.
    Not Lee.
    The Fed.
    How did he find me?
    Kate flipped on the intercom and left the locks as they were. “Sorry, wrong number.”
    “Not according to Gavin Greenfield,” Sam said.
    “What—how—is he all right?”
    Sam found it interesting that both of them were so concerned about the other. Family friend and stepdaughter of family. Maybe Gavin was part of the scam, whatever it was.
    “He was fine when I left him half an hour ago,” Sam said. “Do you remember my name and serial number, or should I entertain your nosy neighbor across the street by dangling my badge beneath your porch light?”
    “What do you want?”
    “To talk.”
    “You mean you want to grill me like a cheese sandwich.”
    Sam’s mouth kicked up at the left corner. “I have better manners than that. You going to let me in or do you want to do this the hard way?”
    Kate stared at the unexpected smile for an instant. She started to ask him what the hard way was, thought better of it, and began opening the unusually strong bolts and locks that secured every door in the house.
    “Don’t faint if you see my handgun,” she said. “And don’t bother to ask to see my permit. Arizona has an—”
    “Open carry law,” Sam cut in. “It’s just one of the things that make this such an interesting state to work in.”
    The door opened. A single look told Sam that the door had a magnetic contact on it. If it was opened after the alarm system was armed, bells would ring somewhere. The door also had a steel plate embedded in it and extralong bolts on the lock. Once that puppy was shut and bolted down, it would take a shaped charge to open it. He went to a window and saw that it was wired into the house alarm system.
    Either the lady was paranoid or she had a lot to protect.
    Sam turned from the window to the woman who was watching him warily, a woman whose hands were smudged with something fine and dark, like soot.
    “You have more security than Fort Knox,” he said.
    “I doubt it.”
    “Any particular reason, or are you just paranoid?”
    “For doubting you?”
    “For the security,” he said. “The neighborhood isn’t rich enough or poor enough to need it.”
    “Then I must be paranoid.”
    Sam shook his head slightly. “Try again.”
    “Why should I?”
    “Why shouldn’t you?” he asked, smiling.
    Kate stared at him and wondered how many people he’d questioned with that same combination of easy patience, professionally genial smile, and hard-eyed intelligence. “What do you want from me?”
    “The truth about you and that sapphire you switched.”
    She tilted her head to one side and studied him in silence. Hair slid out from the clip that was casually anchored on top of her head. She ignored it.
    Sam’s eyes followed the slide and bounce of the strand of glossy hair. Hair like that had to be natural. None of the dyes were good enough to put that kind of richness and sheen into the hair shafts. No matter how costly the salon job, sooner or later dyed hair looked like what it was. Fake. And if he had any remaining doubt about the naturalness of her color, all he had to do was stand close enough to verify that the random flashing threads of light in the black were silver rather than gold.
    So he stood that close.
    “What are you doing?” she asked, stepping back.
    He noted that she was fussy about her private space, which must have made flirting with Purcell hard work. “I’m looking at your gray hair. Most women would hide it.”
    “My father was completely gray when he was forty. I’ve had thirty-three years to get used to the idea of my follicle destiny.”
    Sam’s smile was different this time, real, like his laughter. “You really don’t add up, do you?”
    All she said was, “You should laugh more.”
    “Why?”
    “It changes your eyes from hard blue to the kind of shimmer you only get from fine, untreated Burmese blues. Sapphires.”
    His smile shifted to that of a male who has become intensely physically aware of an interesting female. The resulting expression wasn’t quite predatory, but it was a long way from safe.
    Sam cursed the quickening of his body and concentrated on business, “You sound like you know a lot about sapphires.”
    She nodded.
    “You’re