Rarities Unlimited 04 - The Color of Death

Seguro Jimenez sent the stone to L.A. and his wife’s family.”
    “Who?”
    Mecklin sighed another stream of smoke. “Most likely is José de Santos, who works in the jewelry district laundering drug money through gold purchases. It could be Eduardo de Santos, who works as head cutter for Hall Jewelry International and, if street gossip is true, has a nice little sideline reworking stolen gems passed to him by his extended family.”
    “How big is this sideline?”
    “Nothing much. A little skimming here, a little trimming there. More like a hobby and a retirement account than a profession. It’s his way to become a respected patrón in his little village in Ecuador.”
    “Must be my lucky day,” Sam said. “Finally.”
    “Why?”
    “You actually know L.A. and gangs.”
    “I worked drugs in southern California with a DEA task force and some immigration guys back when it was called the INS. Same players, different merchandise.”
    Sam hesitated. “Your name wasn’t in the Mandel file, but the Miami office handled it.”
    “I was transferred two months ago.”
    “L.A. to Miami.” Sam tried not to be jealous. He’d gone from L.A. to Seattle to Phoenix. A clear downward spiral. “Antiterrorism, right?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Fast track to the top.”
    “Tell my wife,” Mecklin said. “She hates the Bureau.”
    “You ever met a wife that didn’t? Same goes for the husbands of the female agents.”
    Mecklin muttered something.
    Sam hesitated. “I need someone like you, but I have to tell you up front that the only fast track I’m on has Fargo written in big letters at every station. Still interested?”
    “I’m listening.”
    But not committing.
    Sam didn’t blame him. Nobody joined the Bureau to end up in North Dakota.
    “If I call L.A. and ask for follow-up on the de Santos clan,” Sam said, “I might get it sometime this century and I might not, no matter how many priority stamps are on the request.”
    “Who’d you piss off in L.A.?”
    “Hurley.”
    “Christ Jesus.” Mecklin coughed. “I’ll back-channel it and see what I can do.”
    “Thanks.”
    “No promises,” Mecklin said. “They’re all real busy covering mosques and their asses for the time when something blows up. And it will.”
    “Die or fly, let me know.”
    “I will. And Groves?”
    “Yeah?”
    “Thanks for sending me to my kid’s party. She had a grin when she saw me that I’ll never forget. Makes all the rest of the shit I work with not quite so ugly, if you know what I mean.”
    For the second time Sam was jealous. He didn’t even have a wife to yell at him when he came home late, much less a kid to grin and be happy to see daddy.
    “You’re welcome,” Sam said. “If something pops I’ll keep your name out of it.”
    “Do that.” Mecklin blew out a long breath. “Hurley. Of all the people to piss off. You know he’s going to be director in a few years, don’t you?”
    “Yeah.”
    “I’ll write to you in Fargo.”

Chapter 49
    Scottsdale
    Saturday
    9:10 A.M .
    The biggest difference between Kennedy’s “office” in the motor coach and Doug’s was that Kennedy had a working television, four phones, and not a computer or file in sight. None of the phones had a number known to any media, which right now meant that Kennedy’s office was the most peaceful space occupied by anyone in the crime strike force.
    The escape wasn’t total. The muted TV showed Tawny Dawn’s eager features in a replay of yesterday’s news. That was the problem with cable news 24/7. There just wasn’t that much new, much less newsworthy. Repetition, speculation, sensation, and self-promotion filled the gaps. Tawny was good at all of them.
    A line of print crawled across the bottom of the screen as she breathlessly asked Sam Groves about the horrible shootout in the parking lot. And by the way, how did you miss the man if you fired twice?
    “Civilians,” Doug said. “They watch too much TV. They think a pistol is a rifle and every cop is a helluva shot, especially when someone’s shooting back and you have enough adrenaline in you to light up a city.”
    “Yeah, but at least she’s kicking the right mutt,” Kennedy said. “The prick has it coming. CI my ass. Colton is right. Groves is fucking her.”
    Doug made a noncommittal sound, relieved that Kennedy was focused on the CI rather than on the fact that Bureau policy decreed that agents not shoot at fleeing vehicles.
    “The media is short-stroking this for