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. Size of your big toenail, emerald cut.”
Kirby smiled. “Where’d a crud like Purcell get that?”
“Who cares? Just be sure that nothing weighs more than four carats when it goes back into the market. Don’t use Hall. At least one of his cutters is unreliable.”
“Which one?” Kirby asked.
The Voice ignored his question and asked another. “You have enough men for another job at the same time?”
“Depends on the work.”
“Standard hijack.”
“Scottsdale?”
“Yes. Incoming from L.A., usually
“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. Size of your big toenail, emerald cut.”
Kirby smiled. “Where’d a crud like Purcell get that?”
“Who cares? Just be sure that nothing weighs more than four carats when it goes back into the market. Don’t use Hall. At least one of his cutters is unreliable.”
“Which one?” Kirby asked.
The Voice ignored his question and asked another. “You have enough men for another job at the same time?”
“Depends on the work.”
“Standard hijack.”
“Scottsdale?”
“Yes. Incoming from L.A., usually
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