Rarities Unlimited 04 - The Color of Death

confidential. Out of any open files.”
    “Why?”
    “The last time I told the FBI anything, I was told if I kept pushing, I would die.”
    Sam went still. “The FBI told you what ?”
    “It wasn’t the FBI. At least I don’t think it was.” Kate shrugged. “Hell, it could have been. They sure were tired of hearing from me.”
    “How, precisely, did you get the death threat?” Sam asked distinctly.
    “On my voice mail. I have a tape backup so I can have a record of client requests.”
    “Do you still have the message?”
    “Sure, but it won’t do you any good.”
    “Why?”
    “They used a voice distorter.”
    “I’d like to send the message to the lab.”
    She hesitated, then went to a filing cabinet. A minute later she handed him a small cassette tape that had been sealed into an envelope with her business logo on the outside.
    “You’re sure the voice was distorted?” Sam asked, pocketing the tape.
    “Yes. I could hardly understand the words. Then I wished I hadn’t.”
    “You could hardly understand, yet you assumed the caller was somehow connected with the FBI?”
    “No. I assumed that whoever sent the message knew that I’d been to the FBI again. It could have been the local cops. That’s possible, isn’t it?”
    “If this someone has access to FBI files, or local police files, and somehow knew that the Lee Mandel file had been updated, yes, it’s possible. Just.”
    “You don’t believe me.”
    “Ms. Chandler—”
    “Never mind,” she cut in. “You won’t believe me even after you file your report and Lee’s file is updated and I’m found with my throat slit in my own house. Suicide, no doubt.”
    The sarcasm didn’t move Sam, but the edgy fear in Kate’s eyes did. Whatever he believed or didn’t believe about the quick, sexy con artist, she was sure her life was at risk if she kept trying to solve the mystery of Lee Mandel’s disappearance.
    “You’re going to keep pushing anyway,” Sam said.
    “Until I have answers, yes.”
    “Or you die.”
    She bit the corner of her mouth and said nothing.
    Sam decided quickly, going with his gut rather than with FBI procedure. Trusting his own judgment was just one of the many things he’d been in trouble for over the years.
    “Ms. Chandler, do you know what a confidential informant is?”

Chapter 18
    Scottsdale
    Early Wednesday morning
    Kirby grabbed his digital phone off the bedside, looked at the incoming number window, and swore. The number was blocked.
    “If this is a six A.M . telemarketer from Nebraska,” he muttered to himself, “I’m going to find the asshole and make his headset a permanent part of his equipment.”
    Kirby answered the phone anyway, but only after he started the built-in digital recorder. The person he knew only as “the Voice” used the digital phone to send him new information. He—or even she, who could tell?—used a voice distorter. The meaning of the conversation was always clear though. Every call put Kirby onto a courier who was carrying portable, anonymous wealth. Gems. Rolex watches. Bearer bonds. Even cash. Kirby had several sources, but the Voice was the best. He didn’t mind putting half of the take in an offshore account, even though he couldn’t trace the money’s ultimate destination.
    And he had tried. He wanted to know who his informant was. More important, he wanted to know how the caller had gotten the information to blackmail Kirby into working for him in the first place.
    “Yeah?” he said roughly.
    “Mike Purcell. Clean him out and give him a Colombian necktie.”
    Adrenaline kicked as Kirby recognized the Voice. “That’ll cost more.”
    “I won’t expect a split on this one. It’s all yours. Should be worth at least a hundred thousand to you, maybe more.”
    “And if it isn’t?”
    “Have I ever cheated you?”
    “No.” It was the sole reason Kirby put up with taking orders from a ghost. The Voice was smart, thorough, and wired into the gem trade. Since the Voice had started calling three years ago, Kirby’s overseas accounts had fattened into six figures, heading toward seven. “When do you want it done?”
    “ASAP. Purcell is sleeping in a motor home parked in the Royale’s employee lot. An old Winnebago. Security is battery operated. Pull the leads in the service panel.”
    “He’s not using the hotel safe for his goods?”
    “He doesn’t trust anyone.”
    “Smart,” Kirby said. “Dumb too.”
    “Make sure you get the big sapphire.