Rarities Unlimited 04 - The Color of Death

didn’t know what was going on.
    “Gavin,” Sam said. “Someone called him, asking about you.”
    He watched understanding take the light from her eyes.
    “I see,” she said huskily. “That was quick.”
    “Kate, I’ll stay if you—” he began.
    “No,” she cut in. “It’s all right. I don’t want you taken off the strike force.” Leaving me with men I have to trust and can’t, because I’ll be wondering which one of them is hand in hand with a killer . “I’ll do whatever I have to.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed his lips. “Be safe.”
    He pulled her close and held her, just held her, trying not to think about how fragile life was.

Chapter 48
    Scottsdale
    Saturday
    4:00 A.M .
    Sam awoke to the hotel phone ringing. And ringing. He looked at the bedside clock, then at the other bed. Empty. Colton must have the graveyard shift tonight.
    Sam grabbed the phone. “What!”
    “I’m very sorry, sir,” the night clerk said quickly. “A fax just came in for you. The cover letter said it was most urgent. I—”
    “I’ll be right down.”
    He disconnected, rubbed his sandpaper face, and told himself to hang tough, it was only a few more years before he could dump his shaver in the trash and never look back. He went to the bathroom, splashed cold water on his eyes, and grabbed the jeans he’d dumped on the floor after he finished drawing up diagrams of who knew what and when regarding various couriers and deliveries. Then he’d looked at them and wanted to bang his head against the wall.
    He had enough suspects for a dental convention—and a headache to match.
    He still had one. Four hours’ sleep wasn’t enough.
    I’m getting too old for this shit.
    But not all of it. He smiled when he remembered how he’d spentthe best part of last night with Kate. She liked it all the ways he did, hard and fast, slow and mind-blowing, slipping and twisting and turning until there wasn’t any breath in his lungs but hers….
    He splashed more water on his face and then reset the hotel’s complimentary automatic coffeepot for cook right now instead of at seven A.M .
    Barefoot, still buttoning the shirt he hadn’t bothered to tuck in, his hair looking like it had been stirred rather than combed, and his weapon harness hanging loosely on his shoulders, Sam rode the elevator to the lobby.
    The clerk took one look at the man walking out of the elevator toward the desk and glanced nervously toward the lobby guard.
    Sam fished his badge holder from his rear pocket and said, “Special Agent Groves. You have a fax for me.”
    The guard and the clerk relaxed.
    “Yes, sir. If you’ll sign here…” The clerk pushed a form and a pen toward Sam.
    He signed for the fax, wondered if the ten bucks per page charge included the fancy sealed folder with the hotel’s logo, and took the papers up to his room. The welcome smell of coffee greeted him. He tossed the folder on the bed, poured a cup of coffee, drank it, and poured another. That took care of the free coffee provided by the hotel. If he wanted more, he’d have to wait until the maid came to refill the coffee basket in maybe nine hours, or he could order from room service and watch Doug’s blood pressure spike at the expense report.
    Sam reached for the phone. “This is two-twelve. Send up a pot of coffee. Black.”
    He hung his weapon harness on a chair and went to the bed. Sipping on the lethal black brew, he opened the folder. The cover sheet informed him that the contents were privileged information not to be read by anyone without clearance from the FBI.
    “This better be good, Mecklin,” Sam said, “or I’m going to call you at four A.M . tomorrow and sing every frigging verse of the ‘Battle Hymn of the Republic.’ ”
    Sam scrubbed away a yawn and turned over the cover page. It lifted, slid, and came to a rest halfway to the hall door.
    He ignored it.
    The first sketch showed a flashy female figure with light eyes, Dolly Parton hair, and tits to match. Caucasian, if you could trust the artist’s rendition of a description given by an unhappy citizen remembering what had happened five months ago.
    The second sketch showed the same busty female with dark hair and dark eyes, as Sam had requested. He studied it for several minutes, but couldn’t pin down why she looked kind of familiar. Caucasian, Hispanic, either was possible. Which meant that better than half of the female population of the United States between the ages of twenty and