Rarities Unlimited 04 - The Color Of Death - Elizabeth Lowell by Elizabeth Lowell

Author:Elizabeth Lowell
Language: bg
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-05-13T16:17:40+00:00

Chapter 36

Outside ScottsdaleFriday3:15 P.M.

Kirby sat behind the wheel of a baby-white SUV with heavily tinted glass windows. There was a rental agreement on the passenger seat next to the cut up panty hose that would make his features impossible to identify if he got unlucky with witnesses. On the floor lay the electronic recorder he'd used to catch the frequency of the courier's key and then to program one of the many blank keys Kirby always had. Now all he had to do was get within ten feet of the courier's car and open it with his homemade radio key.

The nice thing about machines was that they were reliable. Stupid, but reliable. Like the mud artfully splattered in the little SUV's wheel wells and across the back bumper and license plate. Not enough mud to attract a cop's attention, but like pulling nylon over your head, it made a useful ID damn near impossible.

As for the rest, according to the rental papers he was Dick Major, head of production for Western Trails Enterprises. He lived in Hollywood and had a California driver's license. At the moment he wore a black Stetson over his temporarily dyed black hair, had fake face fur that itched like fire ants, and a snub-nosed thirty-eight in his boot holster.

And sweat. He wore a lot of that too. He was parked in the laughable shade of a desert "tree" that was shorter than he was. But the parking slot gave him a great view of the New Tires—FAST garage bay. The courier had brought his car into the shop on three tires and a rim.

Kirby had been as relieved as the courier to finally get to a tire store. It had been a bitch to follow a car at twenty miles an hour on the freeway and not get caught. The only good news was that he'd nailed the key signal when the courier locked the trunk before putting the car on the lift.

This time Kirby wouldn't have to stroll through a parking lot with a tire iron tucked along his leg. He could open the trunk the easy high-tech way.

Waiting for the opportunity to get the job done, he shifted in the narrow seat. Cheap rental cars were anonymous, and damned uncomfortable after the first twenty miles.

Change the fucking tire, go to a gas station to piss, I'll key the trunk, and we'll all go home.

The couriers car finally came down off the lift and drove away. Kirby watched him pass up two gas stations with minimarts and a local cafe that advertised five kinds of beer. When the courier took the shortest route back to the freeway, Kirby knew he wasn't going to have a choice. If he wanted the package, he'd have to take it in the Royale employee parking lot.

He hesitated, then decided if it was shift change when he got there, he'd write off the shipment, turn in his car, and go back to being Jack Kirby. But if it wasn't. .

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