Rarities Unlimited 04 - The Color of Death

looking like idiots.”
    Doug didn’t disagree. Nor did he point out the real reason for Kennedy’s temper. All crime strike forces began and ended in politics. So did the careers of supervisory special agents. Arthur McCloud, who had lost the shipment that had kicked off the crime strike force, was the brother of a sitting president’s wife. If Kennedy broke the ring of hijackers, his career was made. And if he didn’t, well, he could always take early retirement.
    For a man of Kennedy’s ambition, retirement was worse than death.
    Sizemore slammed the phone back into its cradle and stalked past the coffee urn on the way to the tub of ice and beer. Before two P.M . he drank the light stuff. After that, he went for the gusto.
    “Well?” Kennedy asked him.
    Sizemore yanked the tab. Foam spewed. “Nothing.” He drank. “Not a fucking thing. You?”
    “Possible ID on an Ecuadorian that informants say is into drugs, murder, robbery, and gems,” Kennedy said. “He came in on a private plane that landed in the Scottsdale airport.”
    “You nail him?”
    “No warrant,” Doug said. “No probable cause.”
    “Give him to me,” Sizemore said. “In a few hours I’ll have enough probable bullshit to bury a judge.”
    “There’s the small matter of the Constitution,” Doug said mildly. “It gets in our way a lot, but we’ve grown fond of it.”
    Sizemore snorted and took another hit of the beer.
    Kennedy smiled reluctantly. Doug might have a soft spot for hardheads, but he also had a way of defusing anger. With Sizemore around, it was a useful talent.
    “So, what’s old that might lead to something new?” Sizemore asked.
    “We’ve requested that local law enforcement keep an eye on any couriers in their territory who are known to be driving goods to the show.” Kennedy shrugged. “The various agencies will do what they can, but everyone who works for the state or county or city is doing two jobs already to make up for budget shortfalls.”
    Sizemore grunted. “I’ve told the traders to foot half the bill for someone to ride shotgun twenty-four-seven with their couriers. I’m paying the other half. Had to hire some square badges to cover everyone, but there wasn’t any choice.” He grimaced at the thought of resorting to hiring men who had never carried a real law-enforcement shield. “We lose any more shipments and the clients lose confidence. Rentacops are better than nothing. Barely.”
    Kennedy finished his coffee and dropped into a nearby chair with the heaviness of someone who hasn’t been getting enough sleep. “We lose any more shipments and it will be my face on the evening news. The media is baying for blood on this one.” He lit a cigarette and blew out a weary stream of smoke. “Bastards don’t care who’s dead as long as they get a sound bite out of it.”
    Sizemore lowered himself into his favorite chair—beer on one side and documents stacked on the coffee table in front of him. “It’s not like the Purcells were frigging saints,” Sizemore said, flipping through a report Sharon had prepared for him. “The background I did reads like a how-to for losers and grifters.”
    “Yeah?” Kennedy held out his hand. “Let me see. Maybe I can drop some stuff to a media source and get a different spin for today’s news. I’m getting sick of hearing about ‘slain grandparents of three.’ ”
    So much for not talking to the media, Doug thought without surprise. What’s sauce for the goose definitely isn’t sauce for an SSA whose dick is in a wringer.
    “What about Groves’s CI?” Sizemore asked.
    “He’s working every lead he can,” Doug said. “Mario is helping.”
    “What leads?”
    “The ones Kennedy told you about.”
    “He didn’t mention any.”
    Doug looked concerned. “Then I shouldn’t.”
    “Tell him,” Kennedy said without looking up from Sizemore’s report.
    Doug would rather have kept his mouth closed, but he knew better than to dodge a direct order. “There might, just might,” he stressed the word lightly, “be some connection between the Purcell murders and Lee Mandel’s disappearance five months ago.”
    Sizemore’s eyes narrowed. “Mandel? Refresh my memory.”
    “The courier who vanished in Sanibel, Florida,” Doug said. “I’m sure you have a copy of our file on that somewhere.”
    Sizemore dug through one pile of papers, then another, until he came up with a file. He went through it with a speed that said beer might be his