Rarities Unlimited 04 - The Color of Death

Sons, plus everyone on the strike force who reviewed the schedule of incoming couriers.”
    “Do we look like South Americans?” Sizemore asked sarcastically.
    “My college roommate married a Hungarian gypsy,” Mario said. “Does that count?”
    Muffled laughter went around the room, but everyone was careful not to be caught at it because Kennedy wasn’t even smiling.
    The SAC took his balls in his hand and stepped up. “Special Agent Groves has a point,” Doug said. “If we assume too much, we risk missing something.”
    The phone rang.
    “She- it, ” Sizemore said. “What do you want, a fucking business card left at the scene by the South American gangs?”
    “Naturally, we’ll look at every possibility,” Kennedy said curtly to Doug, “but I can’t allocate resources on the basis of a wild-ass theory. I have to stick with what’s most likely according to past and present information.” He looked at Sam. “Any questions?”
    “No. Sir.”
    Kennedy gave Sam a look that had Fargo, North Dakota, written all over it.
    The phone shut up.
    “Next on the list,” Kennedy said grimly, “are the murders of Mike and Lois Purcell in the employee parking lot of the Royale, about ninety feet from the strike force’s headquarters.”
    A murmuring went through the room.
    “Yeah. Really sweet.” Kennedy’s voice was ripe with disgust. “It’s not anyone’s fault. We weren’t supposed to be guarding the gypsy brigade camped out all over the lot. But since the media picked up on our proximity to the murders, we’re going to spend too much time covering our asses and not enough time investigating. I want the murderer or murderers busted before we look like fools on the network feeds.” He paused to glare around the room. “Now, I know that everyone here has media favorites. I have a piece of advice for dealing with the media that I don’t want to have to repeat: shut the fuck up.” He waited for a long three count. “Any questions about how to handle the media?”
    No one spoke.
    The telephone started ringing again.
    Kennedy leaned over, picked it up, and hung it up an instant later. “Here’s what we have on the murders so far.”
    Everyone leaned forward a bit, not wanting to look inattentive. Kennedy was in a pisser of a mood.
    The phone rang.
    Sharon Sizemore picked it up, put the line on hold, and hung up without a word.
    “Thank you,” Kennedy muttered.
    “My pleasure, sir.”
    The phone in the second room started in.
    “I’ll take care of it,” Sharon said, standing up.
    He nodded at her, then went back to his notes. “We can’t be sure at this point, but from the evidence gathered so far, it looks like a one-man job. Any more and they’d be tripping over each other, the motor home was that small. The perp was a pro. He opened the service bay on the motor home, took out the electricity, which took out the alarm, and picked the lock on the motor home door.”
    “No other sign of forced entry?” one of the Phoenix cops asked.
    “None. Just scratches consistent with what you’d expect from rakes and picks working a lock,” Doug Smith said.
    Sharon came back to the room and sat down.
    “We’re taking fingerprints throughout,” Kennedy said, “but we don’t expect anything to come of it. Like I said, a pro. He would have worn gloves. He was in the motor home with the door shut behind him long before anyone had a chance to spot him.”
    “What about the Royale’s roving night security?” Sizemore asked.
    “Never saw anything,” Doug Smith said. “My guess is he made predictable rounds and the murderer knew it.”
    “When I had my conference with all the employees, I emphasized that the security personnel shouldn’t be predictable. Did they listen? Shit.” Sizemore took a final drag and crushed his cigarette out on a plate that had once held fried eggs and sausage and still held the fresh fruit that he hadn’t touched. “The hotel security is a bunch of square badges, dumb as they come.”
    Snickers rippled through the cops. “Square badges” was the ultimate insult. Real law-enforcement officers had oval shields.
    “You get what you pay for,” Sam said. “Your breakfast probably cost twice what that poor security slob makes per hour.”
    “Square badges” was all Sizemore said.
    “Once the murderer got inside,” Kennedy said, “he went to the bedroom and tied and gagged the victims with garden-variety duct tape. No leads there. We don’t have the