“Every time.”
“The rarity thing?”
She nodded, swiped hair away from her face again, and said, “I’ve got a hair clip in my workroom. You need anything from the kitchen first?”
“No thanks. There’s a great taco place only a mile from here.”
“Pedro’s Burrito Gordo?” she asked.
“That’s the one. Nuclear hot sauce. I had to order milk to put out the fire.”
“I noticed.”
Sam licked his upper lip and felt the roughness of dried milk. He rubbed at it with his hand. “Well, damn. It’s hard to have command presence with milk on my manly mug.”
She snickered and felt the tension ease. If she had to have a cop hanging around, she’d take one with a milk mustache and a bent sense of humor. Watch it, girl, she told herself. He’s not supposed to have a sense of humor. He’s too damn appealing already.
“So you don’t have motion sensors in your alarm system?” Sam said, looking at the status lights.
“No. When the system was installed I had a cat. It came with the house, sort of a package deal. But no matter how the security guys tinkered to give me a pet zone, I still had too many false alarms. I got tired of paying for the call-outs, so I canceled the motion sensor.”
Sam looked around. No sign of a pet anywhere. “What happened to the cat?”
“Gone. She liked the neighbors better.”
Enjoying the female sway of hips beneath butt-hugging jeans, Sam followed Kate toward her workroom. He started to tell her that she didn’t need to clip her hair in place as far as he was concerned but decided that was the kind of unprofessional remark he should avoid. Just like he should avoid noticing her long legs and fine ass and the citrus fragrance that floated from her skin if he stood close enough.
And while he was at it, he should sign up for sainthood.
“So,” he said, “except for cutting and polishing, you aren’t supposed to do anything to gemstones?”
“That’s the ideal.” She opened the door to her workroom and started looking for her hair clip.
“We’re talking human beings here, not saints,” Sam said dryly.
“Ya think?” She found the clip on the first worktable with a set of dop sticks and began taming her hair. “Some treatments are so old that they’ve become acceptable. It’s the newer treatments that are a problem.”
“Sort of a grandfather clause? If your grandfather did it, that’s okay, but you can’t do anything new?”
She nodded, felt her thick hair come loose, and started all over again with the clip. “Actually, you can do anything you want as long as you tell the buyer what has been done, particularly if the treatments aren’t permanent or don’t need special handling to keep their glow.”
“But if you tell the buyer,” Sam said, “he might not want to pay top dollar.”
“Bingo. All treatments are supposed to be disclosed to the buyer, but too many mall jewelers—and some upscale ones as well—figure if the buyer doesn’t ask, the buyer doesn’t care, because everyone knows that gems are treated somewhere between being mined and being set in precious metal.”
Sam’s left eyebrow rose. “I consider myself a fairly well-educated dude, but I don’t know squat about the difference between a treated and an untreated stone.”
“Neither do ninety-nine percent of mall shoppers, which is why disclosure is so important.” She spoke fast, telling herself that the fact that he could raise one eyebrow wasn’t sexy and neither was the width of his shoulders. “Some gemological societies boot out members who sell treated stones and don’t mention it, especially if the treatments aren’t permanent.”
“So some folks dick with the stone and make it a better-looking gem and sell it without comment.”
She looked away from his intense sapphire-blue eyes. He’s not sexy. He’s a federal robot. Remember that. “Emeralds have been oiled to deepen the color for hundreds of years. Rubies and sapphires have been heated for the same reason for thousands of years. Take corundum that’s too light or too orange or too purple or whatever, add controlled heat, and you end up with better color in your gems. For every gem in creation, there’s a way—usually several ways—to enhance it.”
He leaned against a table and told himself he couldn’t smell her citrus scent. Really. “So why the fuss? If everyone does it, who cares?”
“Rarity. Rarity. Rarity. A synthetic gem is the bottom of the barrel. We can make them by the container load. A treated stone is more valuable because naturally occurring gems of any color or clarity are, by their very nature, relatively rare.”
“What you’re saying is synthetics suck bad water.”
The corners of her mouth curled upward and she admitted that the man was getting to her. “Yeah. Treated stones are naturals that weren’t up to par. All treatments I know about can be detected if you and your tools are good enough. Heat treatments leave traces that any expert should recognize. Despite that, a treated stone of fine color will almost always cost more than a natural stone of inferior color, and a synthetic of any color is just plain dismissed.”
“Okay.” He leaned slightly toward her, breathed in. Lemony and warm. Definitely. “So what kind of premium does a natural stone get?”
Kate’s hair slithered out of its coil. With a muttered word she gave up trying to look professional and clipped it all at her neck.
“Say you have two blue sapphires of equal weight and extra fine color,” she said, tugging at the clip. It held. “One is heat treated. One isn’t. The stone that hasn’t been treated is priced at least a third higher—sometimes a lot more, depending on size—than a treated stone of equal weight and color. When you’re talking natural, untreated gems, you’re talking about the best of the best.”
“So when Lee disappeared, you started looking for the natural, fine, very rare blue sapphires he’d been carrying.”
She blinked and reminded herself that a half rubbed-off milk mustache didn’t make the man slow or stupid. “I hoped I could backtrack one or all of the Seven Sins and find out where it came from.”
“You must have had some luck.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Someone offered to kill you.”
“But it didn’t make any sense.” Kate threw up her hands and looked away from Sam’s vivid blue eyes. “Sure, I’d been bugging the FBI and the local cops and putting pictures of the missing stones online so that I’d be notified if any of them turned up, but nothing—”
“Hold it,” Sam cut in. “You have photos of the McCloud sapphires?”
“Both the Seven Sins and the synthetic ones I cut while I was deciding how best to work the rough.”
He shook his head like a dog coming out of water. “Back up. You cut synthetic sapphires?”
“Of course.”
Sam told himself to be patient. “Why?”
“Burmese rough as valuable as McCloud’s doesn’t come along every year or even every fifty years. Take my word for it,” she said quickly, heading off another question. “The Thai dealers who control sapphire and ruby rough have a stranglehold on mines, miners, and smugglers. Everything is treated. McCloud’s rough had been mined more than a hundred years ago, before every last gem was cooked, filled, oiled, pressure diffused, and in general dicked with.”
“Got it. Rarity, rarity, rarity.”
“Right. So when I saw the McCloud rough, I did what a lot of high-end cutters do. I bought a synthetic version of the rough and practiced on it, trying out various cuts and sizes so that I would get the most valuable finished stones possible out of the natural rough.”
“Isn’t that work computerized now?”
“A lot of it is, especially at the lower end of the trade. And some high-end gem cutters are enthusiastic about the computer-aided design programs they use on their computer when it comes to deciding how to cut rough, but I’m not convinced.” She shrugged. “For me, nothing works as well as hands-on experience.”
“Well,
that explains it.”
“What?”
Sam rubbed his short, almost spiky hair. “Why you didn’t have to chase around and hustle up a big blue stone to run the con on Purcell. You already had one right at hand. I thought maybe you went to him the first time to size up the stone, then came back with the fake the next day.”
“You talked with Purcell again?”
“His wife. She remembered you.”
“What a harridan.”
“She loves you too.”
Kate grimaced and began fiddling with one of the dops that had been next to her hair clip.
“What’s that?” Sam asked, eyeing the slender rod rather warily.
“A dop. A cutter’s tool used to hold the stone against the lap.” She brightened. “You want a tour of my workshop?”
“Right after you tell me why you switched stones on Purcell. Twice.”
She bit the corner of her mouth. “You’re really quick, Special Agent Sam Groves.”
He could have said the same about her, but he didn’t; if he was talking, she wasn’t, so he waited for her to speak. It wasn’t a hardship. It gave him an excuse to study her dark brown eyes and wide, tempting mouth.
Trying to ignore Sam, Kate leaned her hips against the worktable, crossed her arms, and tried to decide how much she could safely tell him.
“All of it,” he said.
She gave him a startled glance. “Are you a mind reader?”
“No more than any other cop. Don’t hold out on me, Ms. Chandler. You won’t like what happens.”
“Call me Kate,” she retorted. “The other guy who threatened me did.”
Sam filed that away for future reference and waited for silence to do its trick of opening Kate’s mouth.
“All right.” She braced her hands on the table and crossed her ankles. “I’d been looking for the Seven Sins, using my photos of the finished stones.”
“Any luck?”
“Everybody I asked said some variation of ‘Nice stones’ and ‘Sure, babe, I’ll let you know if I see them.’ I waited for calls. The only one that came was a death threat. So I started going to high-end gem shows and not telling anyone my name or connection to Lee. I was about to give up when I saw Purcell’s sapphire. I asked about it and he gave me a load of bullshit.”
“So you rushed home, got the twin stone, and switched them the next day.”
“Yes.”
“That took balls.”
“So to speak.”
He grinned.
So did she. “When I was younger, I used to do magic tricks. I earned money at kids’ birthday parties and even thought about magic as a career. Then I realized that the only women I saw in magic acts were centerfolds that were cut in half while wearing glittery underwear. One look in my bathroom mirror, plus a love of gemstones, saved me from the stage.”
Sam’s eyes gleamed with humor at the thought of a younger Kate dazzling her friends by pulling coins or bunnies out of their ears. “Okay, so you did the switch on Purcell. Then what?”
“I brought Purcell’s sapphire home and photographed it from all angles and compared the photos with the original photos of McCloud’s stones. There’s no doubt about it. Purcell’s stone is one of the Seven Sins.”
“So after you verified the identity of the stone, you switched it back.”
“That’s when we met.” Kate’s humor vanished. Sam hadn’t come here to swap smiles with her. He’d come as a cop.
“Why did you go back to Purcell with the synthetic sapphire? What was the point of the risk?”
“I wasn’t swapping the stones for fun and profit,” she said, her voice curt. “I figured that if I had proof that the stones were the same, Purcell would have to talk to me about where it came from. And if he wouldn’t talk to me, the FBI might help him change his mind. Either way, I’d be closer to what really happened to Lee between Fort Myers, where he last called in, and Captiva Island, which was his final destination.”
“So you’re not sure where Lee went missing?” Sam asked.
“No. I concentrated on McCloud first, but he never heard from Lee. At that point I worked with the assumption that Lee stopped on Sanibel for lunch at his favorite café.”
Sam remembered one of the entries in the folder he’d spent most of the afternoon memorizing. “McCloud lives on Captiva.”
She nodded. “Lee was taking the finished stones back to him.”
“Seven Sins. Were they all alike?”
“No. Each had a different cut, a different weight. It was a real challenge to maximize the rough and at the same time follow McCloud’s desire for seven sapphires of different shapes and the same extraordinary color.”
“Wonder why he wanted them.”
“He’s a collector. The point of collecting is to have something no one else has. The Seven Sins were just that—the rarest of the rare.”
“Worth killing for.”
“Somebody did.” Her voice, like her expression, was unhappy.
“Can you make up a list of collectors who would have wanted those gems?”
“Everyone.”
“Not everyone would kill for them,” Sam pointed out. I hope.
Kate fiddled with the dop on the table. “You have more faith in human nature than I do.” She released the rod. It rolled against another dop with a metallic sound. “The point is, who knew Lee had the stones and would kill for the Seven Sins?”
“When the FBI interviewed McCloud, he said he hadn’t told anyone about the stones.”
“What would you expect him to say, that he called every collector he could think of and crowed over his incoming goodies?”
“Is that what you think he did?”
“I don’t know, but I’m damn sure I didn’t tell anyone except Lee about the sapphires.”
“Who would Lee have told that he was carrying the Seven Sins?”
She started to say no one, then stopped. “He might have told his lover. I don’t know. Norm didn’t say anything about it when he called to tell me that Lee hadn’t come back to L.A. and hadn’t phoned to say where he was, or why.”
“Are you still in touch with Norm? Does he have a last name?”
“Norman Gallagher. He was so hurt when Lee just disappeared without a word. We both agreed to call the other if we heard anything.”
“Did Norm call again?”
“Just to talk. Not with news.”
“Where does Norm live?” Sam asked.
“Los Angeles. I’ll give you his address and phone, but it’s a waste of time. Norm knows less than I do about why Lee vanished.”
Sam wished he thought she was lying, but he didn’t. “Is it possible that Lee found another lover and just blew off the rest of his life?”
“Anything is possible. But probable? No. That would be against everything that Lee is.” Her eyes filled. “Was. If he’s dead, and I’m so afraid he is. Damn it.” She swiped at her tears with the back of her hand. “How long does it take before it stops hurting?”
“It never stops. You just get used to it.”
“God, you’re a fountain of human cheer.”
“You’ll get used to that too.”
Chapter 22
Scottsdale
Wednesday evening
“You don’t know?” Ted Sizemore stalked around his daughter’s hotel room, which was on the same floor as her lover’s—and that really pissed him off. “What the hell does that mean, ‘You don’t know’?”
Covertly, Sharon examined her nail polish. The right index finger was still chipped. She really had to do some touchup before she went out tonight. Like Sizemore, Peyton noticed every flaw in her appearance, no matter how small. It was like being in the frigging FBI again.
“Well?” Sizemore demanded.
“It means I don’t know.” She met her father’s furious temper. Or maybe it was alcohol rather than anger that had brought the flush to his cheeks. Either way, she was tired of being the target of his scream-and-stomp-
around management style. “The courier was supposed to check in with us two hours ago. She hasn’t called. I don’t know why. I do know that she isn’t answering her cell.”
“Well, by God, find her!”
“The patrol put out a statewide alert for her car. Phoenix PD is checking parking lots at the stadium and airport and other large public areas where a car could be dumped and not noticed for a few hours or days. Arizona Department of Public Safety has run all the traffic accidents since the courier last checked in. Her car wasn’t in any of those accidents. I’ve called hospitals and urgent care centers between here and Quartzite, where she last called in. Short of opening the window and yelling ‘Yoo hoo, where are you?’ I’ve done everything you suggested.” And I did it before you suggested it, but you won’t mention that and I know better than to bring it up. “No one with her name or ID has been admitted for treatment. No one with her name or ID has been involved in a traffic accident anywhere in the state. No one—”
“Don’t tell me your problems. Give me solutions!”
“As soon as I have one, sir, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Well, don’t sit on your ass waiting for something to drop out of the sky. Go make it happen!”
Before Sharon could tell her father what a useless boss he was, her cell phone rang. She answered it, listened, and disconnected.
“They found the courier in a motel parking lot in Quartzite,” Sharon said. “An ER doctor is picking pieces of skull out of her brain right now. Even if she wakes up, she won’t be any help. Concussions like that take away short-term memory.”
Sizemore grunted. “Standard operating procedure for the South American gangs. Beat the crap out of the victims, even if you don’t have to. What about her package?”
What do you think? But all Sharon said was, “Branson and Sons will be spending a lot of time with their insurers, as they were using one of their own couriers.” She waited. “Don’t you want to know the courier’s chances for survival?”
“The only survival I’m interested in is my own. If we don’t get a handle on those South Americans real quick, I’ll start losing customers. I can’t afford that. And if you want to keep working for me, neither can you.”
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