Devil's Bargain

Chapter 3

Lucia kept silent all the way back down the steps. Without being asked, Jazz got on her hands and knees and fished the gun out from under the car.

“Thanks,” Lucia said, and returned it to the pancake holster behind her back.

“Yeah, well, you’re wearing a nice suit.” Jazz shrugged. “I don’t figure my jeans will suffer from a little contact with the concrete.”

Once they were in the sedan again, the metal door cranked up like a castle gate, allowing them to exit into the bright morning air.

“So what,” Lucia asked with absolutely precision, “the hell was that?”

“That is Manny Glickman.” Jazz pretended to concentrate on the flow of commuter traffic, which wasn’t too much of a stretch—K.C., like most semilarge cities, was hell in the morning rush hour. She was trying to decide what to share. “Used to be the go-to guy at Quantico for the big cases after the shakeup of the lab, you remember the scandal over the evidence problems—”

Lucia nodded, eyes fixed on the cars around them. Sweeping the street for surveillance.

“Anyway, he went through a bad patch. Started private practice a couple of years ago, after he got out of the hospital. Most of the P.I.s and lawyers use him, or try to, but he won’t do any cases with violent crime elements.”

“Sounds like he’s limiting his business pretty severely.”

“Yeah. But he’s got money, and he doesn’t want to go back into that world.” Jazz shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. He’ll get us what we need. Manny’s hell on wheels when it comes to evidence.”

Lucia thought about that for a few seconds, and then turned her head to look straight at her. Sunlight flashed between the buildings and painted her skin in strobing flashes of gold. “What happened to him? Really?”

“Really?” Jazz made up her mind in a split second. There were few people she told about Manny—the real story—out of respect for his privacy, but she couldn’t start out with lying, not to Lucia. She’d know. “He was buried for almost forty-two hours in a black box eight feet under the ground, with nothing but some oxygen tanks to keep him alive, and a continuous loop recording playing the sound of the killer’s previous victim being tortured. That kind of thing will take all the fizz out of a person.”

Lucia understood immediately, it was all over her face. A deep, sad appreciation for everything Jazz didn’t say about that ordeal. “Did you find him?”

“No,” Jazz said softly. “No, I was across town, interrogating the suspect. My partner found the spot. He and two FBI agents dug Manny up.”

“My God,” Lucia murmured. “Did you know him?”

“Not then. He was a case file shipped down to us. I met him when he woke up in the hospital.” She’d never forget that bloodied, dirt-caked figure. Shaking. Weeping. The FBI agents turning away while Ben McCarthy pulled up a chair and took one of those filthy hands, nodding for her to hold the other. Holding Manny in the world.

“It was related to an investigation.” Lucia didn’t make it a question. “Something Manny was working on.”

“Serial killer,” Jazz agreed. “Just our blind luck he decided to dump Manny in Kansas City. He was a coast-to-coast, equal-opportunity son of a bitch. We all got lucky. Me, Manny, Ben…”

Lucia didn’t ask about Ben. No doubt she knew everything there was to know on that subject already, had made up her mind as to Ben’s guilt or innocence.

“Anyway…now Manny’s a friend,” Jazz finished awkwardly. “And if he’s twitchy, well, hell, you’d be twitchy too after that. But he does his best. He gets by.”

“And three thousand dollars? You’ve got that amount of money lying around to pay him?” Lucia wasn’t being insulting, just matter-of-fact. She’d done her research, Jazz knew that. Lucia knew her finances, down to the penny that was breathing its last gasp in Jazz’s bank account.

“No,” Jazz said. “But I’ll get it.” She sounded confident.

Lucia threw her an interested look but didn’t ask.

If there was a tail on them, it was good enough that neither Jazz nor Lucia spotted it. Just in case, Jazz did some acrobatics on the freeway, taking I-435, then I-70 toward St. Louis through Independence before looping back home. “You know, they have to know where you live,” Lucia pointed out. “Don’t you think this cloak-and-dagger business is a little over the top?”

“No,” Jazz said shortly, and felt a blush high in her cheeks. Dammit. Lucia made her feel like some unschooled hick, which she wasn’t. She’d been one of the youngest, most highly decorated detectives ever in KCPD. She’d trained with the FBI at Quantico. She wasn’t an idiot. Okay, maybe she wasn’t up on international terrorism and proper spy etiquette, but dammit, she was trying.

Lucia let it go. “Your gas to burn.” She shrugged and tapped her fingernails on the window glass. “If your lawyer was sincere, and if these letters mean what they say, what does that tell us? What are we going to do, in that case?” Lucia’s dark eyes turned toward her. Jazz didn’t take her attention off the road. “Are you tempted to accept?”

“Hell, yes, I’m tempted. That’s a hundred grand you’re talking about, not to mention the time and resources to devote to clearing my partner’s name. And an actual job would be a good thing, for the sake of my apartment rent, not to mention the gas-burning you’re so concerned about.” Jazz blew out her breath in an irritated sigh. “But you’re probably not into this thing, are you?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Oh, come on. You fly in from some supersecret mission looking like you dressed out of a Bond girl’s closet. You’re so hooked up that you can score a gun without leaving the airport, for God’s sake. Why would you tie yourself down with a partner? Particularly one that isn’t, you know, all spy-worthy?”

Lucia blinked slowly. “When you put it that way,” she murmured, “it’s a very good question.”

“Yeah. Well.” Somehow, this didn’t feel like a victory.

“You don’t know anything about me,” the other woman said. “Yes, I have a job. I have a decent wardrobe. I have resources. That doesn’t mean—” She shook her head, frowning. “That doesn’t mean I’m not trapped, Jazz. Or that I don’t want out of the place I’m in.”

She didn’t say anything else. Unsure how to take it, Jazz didn’t push things.

She rolled up to her apartment building, cruising at a normal speed, and said, “See anything interesting?”

“No.”

“Yeah, me neither. Don’t you think that’s interesting, in itself?”

No sounds or movement, all the way to her apartment. Jazz motioned Lucia away and took the lock-and-handle side of the door. She slotted the key into the dead bolt at arm’s length, staying well out of range if anybody decided to put a bullet through the door itself.

Nothing. Lucia watched as the door swung open, then snapped her gun up into an effortlessly graceful firing position and flowed forward, shouldering the door flat against the wall with a soft bump. The speed with which she checked and dismissed blind corners was incredible. Jazz shut the door and dead-bolted it again, then went to the gun safe in the corner and keyed it open.

The familiar weight of her H & K nine-millimeter pistol felt cool and heavy, weighing her down, grounding her against that feeling of having been blown off course by the day’s events.

Lucia stopped appraising the room from a tactical point of view long enough to say, “I like your taste in colors.”

“You’d be the only one, then,” Jazz smiled. The rug was olive green, the furniture a throwback to the worst of the seventies—dull oranges and duller golds, a truly obnoxious plaid that somehow captured all three colors plus a muddy brown for variety. She’d finished it off with a kitschy velvet painting of a matador and a print of one of Dali’s lesser works from his conquistador period.

“I was being polite,” Lucia said, and ran her fingers over the gold armchair’s back. “Possibly even sarcastic. Tell me the place came furnished.”

“Nope, it’s all mine. However, in self-defense, I did have to match the carpet. This was the best I could manage.”

“Plus,” Lucia said thoughtfully, “it makes people think you have no sophistication. Which is all part of your persona, isn’t it?”

That came as a shock. Not a pleasant one. “What?”

“You, Jazz, are a lie. A subtle one. It probably works very well for you. Under all that ragged hair and frumpy clothes, you’re good-looking. You could make this place look sophisticated—you deliberately choose not to. I think you like having people underestimate you.”

Jazz blinked, nonplussed. “That’s a load of crap.”

“Yeah?” Lucia’s carefully shaped eyebrows rose and fell. “My specialty is in controlling perceptions. I do it consciously. I have to take command in a psychological way when I enter a situation. I have to make people believe that I’m capable of anything and everything to avoid a fight.”

“You don’t strike me as the kind to avoid a fight.”

“My point exactly,” Lucia said, and smiled. “I’m not nearly as strong as you are, Jazz. It’s better for me if I can avoid the fight instead of taking things head-on. Not that I can’t win if I’m pushed, but I can’t do it fairly, like you can. I fight dirty, and I try not to fight at all. Like most women, actually.”

Jazz cocked her head, trying to get all that through her head; she knew, intellectually, what Lucia was saying, but she’d grown up fighting just as hard as her brother, and the idea that most women weren’t wired that way…it had always thrown her off. She’d blamed it on wussy girl attitudes about not mussing their hair or breaking a nail, but she had to admit, there was nothing wussy about Lucia. And she didn’t strike Jazz as somebody who admitted to shortcomings just for the hell of it, either.

“Okay.” Jazz shrugged. “So maybe I like to sucker people in. You like to intimidate them into avoiding a fight. We can agree to disagree.”

“Actually,” Lucia said, and picked up a particularly hideous ceramic bull getting ready to gore a gaudily gilded matador, “looking at this, for the first time, I believe we have something we can use to form a solid partnership.”

“Because of my amazingly bad taste?”

“Strengths and weaknesses,” Lucia said, and put the bull back in its place. “We complement each other. Also, I like your sense of humor.”

“How do you know I have one?”

“The bull.” Lucia smiled. “It’s anatomically correct.”

“You should see the matador in the bedroom.”

“It’ll be twenty-four hours before Manny gets back to us,” Jazz said about a half hour later. “You want to stay?”

Lucia, who was sipping coffee from a plain black mug and watching low-playing CNN on the TV, said, “Why?”

“Why not? I’d say you might have cats to feed back home, but women like you don’t have cats,” Jazz said, and made kissy noises at Mooch, who was peeking around the corner of the bedroom door. He froze, slitted green eyes wide in his smushed-in fluffy face, and darted back out of sight. “Women like you have, oh, fish. Colorful ones.”

“I might be a dog person.”

“The only animal you’d keep on a leash is a boyfriend.”

Lucia laughed. It had a nice sound, easy and unselfconscious, and Jazz found herself smiling in return. “Mira, have you been through my closet? I thought I’d put all the leather away where nobody else could find it.”

“Am I right?”

“About the boyfriend?” Lucia still sounded on the verge of laughter.

“About the pets.”

She nodded. “Too much trouble. I travel.”

“So, you can stay another day.”

“Actually, I was thinking that the two of us might want to use the waiting time productively,” Lucia said, and finished her coffee in three gulps. “How do you feel about taking a flight this afternoon to New York?”

“To see Borden.”

“Yes.”

She had to admit, she felt a little tug in her guts at the thought. Good tug? Bad? Not sure. But then she felt a wave of frustration roll over her. “Not possible.”

“Why not?”

God, she was going to hate admitting this. “I’m tapped. I’ve got no cash, and I’m already on the hook with Manny for three grand. I’d better not. You can go on, if you want to, and let me know what you think of the setup.”

“I have half a million frequent-flyer miles in my account,” Lucia said.

Jazz, openmouthed, just stared at her for so long that she was sure she was starting to look like the hick Lucia made her feel. “Oh,” she finally said. “Right. And you’d buy me a ticket with—”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

Lucia rolled her eyes in exasperation. “I wouldn’t have mentioned it if I didn’t mean it. Of course I’m sure. Also, the three thousand for Manny? If this works out, you can pay it from the hundred thousand. If not, I’ll cover it. Call it an investigative expense. Believe me, I won’t miss it.”

Mooch abruptly left the shelter of the doorway and stalked over the carpet to stand directly in front of Lucia, tail high, back arched. Staring.

She stared back.

Mooch let out a velvet-soft purr and rubbed his head against her black pant leg, leaving a trail of gray.

“I think he likes you,” Jazz said, and grinned at Lucia’s expression. “All right. I’ll go with you to New York.”

Lucia sighed. “First, find me a lint brush.”

Lucia left her .22 in the gun safe, along with Jazz’s nine-millimeter, and Jazz took about ten minutes to pack. She spent three minutes of that in the bathroom, staring at her reflection, frowning. Maybe Lucia was right. Maybe she’d been deliberately cultivating this unkempt look instead of just failing to spend time and money on something she’d always considered frivolous. And maybe Lucia was right, that it would serve the two of them well to be mismatched.

Maybe.

But she had a sudden impulse to clean herself up a little, for Lawyer Borden. Stupid. He’s not a date, he’s a…a what? A witness? A suspect? Suspected of what, exactly?

It was too complicated and cloudy to work through. She shoved essentials into a ditty bag, hesitated, and fumbled in the surplus-stuff drawer for perfume. People were always giving her perfume, most of it sickly sweet and horrible, and she’d always made a point of keeping herself fragrance-free on assignments. Bad guys had noses, too. You couldn’t exactly get away with playing a homeless woman if you reeked of Obsession.

She compromised with two tiny dabs of some red variant of Poison given to her two Christmases ago by Ben…it had a warm feeling to it. Made her feel, well, feminine. She tossed the bottle into the ditty bag and zipped it closed, then added that to the small carry-on bag that held exactly two changes of clothes, both casual. One more than she’d need, but she liked being prepared.

Lucia was examining her CD collection when she came back, ready to depart. She held up one for inspection and said, “I never would have thought you liked Beethoven.”

“Hey, I’m down with Metallica, too,” Jazz said. “I’ve got layers. Let’s move. We’ve got two hours before the flight.”

Nobody followed them. Nobody Jazz could spot, anyway. Without discussion, Lucia kept scanning crowds once they’d reached the airport, even while giving rote answers to the security questions and submitting to a wand scan and bag search. Jazz was passed through without a second glance. She waited, checking her watch, as Lucia patiently underwent the security process and finally ducked through the crowd to join her. They took off at a jog for the far end of the terminal.

“What was that about?” Jazz asked. Lucia looked at her, unsmiling. There was a glitter in her dark eyes.

“Think about it,” she said. “You’re blond and pink. I’m not.”

“Racial profiling’s—”

“Illegal, yes, but you’d be amazed how many random searches I turn up on,” Lucia replied. Her voice sounded tight. “I’m lucky I’ve got federal credentials. As much as I travel, this could get to be a real problem.”

The flight was full. The vast majority of travelers were sour-faced businesspeople with more bags under their eyes than in the overhead compartments. She and Lucia had wing seats, midcabin, next to an emergency exit. Jazz didn’t think it was luck. Lucia seemed to think about these kinds of things.

They chatted about light stuff during the inevitable delay and the bumpy takeoff…family, to start. Lucia had none to speak of beyond an aunt in Spain who didn’t approve of her. They moved on to favorite movies and bad dates. Jazz didn’t have a lot to offer on the dating story front, although she was hell on wheels with the movies. She was content to listen to Lucia spinning stories, after a while.

“Chefs are the worst,” Lucia was saying, as the plane leveled out its climb for the relatively short arc to New York City. “Never marry a chef.”

This was a novel sort of idea. “You’re kidding, right? Don’t marry a guy who can actually cook?”

“That’s their day job. Sure, they can cook. And while they’re trying to impress you and charm you into bed, it’s crème anglaise and shrimp soufflé, but after that, it’s all too much work for them. You’ll never get anything right, and you can’t go out to dinner with them, either. Everything’s a review. The soup’s too thin, the meat’s too tough, the dessert’s not served hot enough.” She shook her head and flipped pages in the Cosmo she’d retrieved from the magazine rack. “And God forbid you shouldn’t ever care for something they create. There’s less drama on HBO.”

“Did you marry him?” Jazz asked.

“Hmm?” Lucia lifted her eyes from contemplation of the Fall Fashion Lineup. “Michel? Oh, no. He would have been a disaster as a husband. He never met a hostess he didn’t greet, if you know what I mean.” Those dark eyes appraised her for a cop’s hard second. “How about you?”

“Hey, I can promise you I never greeted Michel. Hell, I don’t even know any man French enough to be named Michel.”

“I mean—”

“I’m clear on your meaning,” Jazz said. “You’re trying to find out if I’m gay.”

Lucia blinked. “No…I was actually wondering if you and Ben McCarthy…?”

Sore subject. Jazz swallowed and fixed her gaze on the beverage cart slowly trundling its way down the narrow aisle toward them. She felt like a drink, early morning or not. Maybe she could get away with something disguised as healthy, like a mimosa. “None of your business,” she said. It sounded hard and cold.

Lucia stared at her for a long second, then went back to her magazine.

Sex, and Ben McCarthy. Jazz sighed, leaned her head against the backrest and closed her eyes.

Maybe, with the help of the mimosa, she could sleep the rest of the way to the city, without dreams.

JFK felt crowded, breathless and a little grubby. Lucia led Jazz past baggage claim and toward the outside, where New York was having a fabulously—probably unexpectedly—golden day.

She slowed in her stride before they reached the doors.

“What?” Jazz asked. She was already alert, but Lucia’s change in body language elevated it a sharp notch to outright paranoia.

Lucia jerked her chin sharply. “Look.”

A uniformed chauffeur, cap under his arm, was holding up an erasable board on which were written in block letters the names MS. GARZA/MS. CALLENDER. He was a tall guy, long in the torso and wide in the shoulders, probably pumped under the well-tailored coat. A burr haircut, light blond heading toward gray. Eyes to match. Ex-Marine, Jazz would have said, straight out of Central Casting.

“My ID,” he said, and produced a picture ID card with watermarking and some kind of fancy holography on it, with the bold logo of Gabriel, Pike & Laskins, LLP under the lamination. “Can’t be too careful these days. May I see yours, please?” He held out his hand. Lucia wordlessly produced her ID. Jazz fumbled hers out a second later, watched him scrutinize the postage-stamp picture and then turn those laser-beam eyes on her. She revised her estimate of his rank upward to drill sergeant. “Nice flight?”

“Fabulous,” Lucia said. “I didn’t arrange for ground transportation.”

The Marine settled the cap back on his head, adjusted it to his exacting specifications and nodded. “No, ma’am. The firm arranged for it.” He reached out and took their bags with the proprietary air of a man who never expected to be refused. Jazz let him do it, though her impulse was to stiff-arm him and snarl Back off in her most intimidating voice. She restrained it mainly because she knew picking a fight with this man wasn’t just stupid, it was damn near suicidal, and besides, he hadn’t done anything.

Yet.

She looked over at Lucia, who had a rueful half smile on her face. “I made an appointment,” she said, “with Borden. Apparently, he’s a thoughtful guy.”

“Apparently,” Jazz agreed. They fell in behind the Marine, who marched them through the doors and to a black Town Car idling at the curb with a cop standing guard. The Marine nodded to him as he stowed the bags in the copious trunk, and the cop nodded back, and then they were on the way.

The Marine drove along a scenic route, but Jazz couldn’t follow it; she’d never been to New York City before, and the scale of it overwhelmed her. Pictures didn’t do it justice, really. Buildings loomed impossibly tall, not just one or two, but dozens, all jammed together. The patch of sky overhead looked pale and on the verge of disappearing altogether.

Lucia had out some kind of computerized personal organizer and was making notes, ignoring the scenery. Jazz doubted it was her first trip to the city. She could probably give the Marine helpful tips on shortcuts.

Three traffic jams and one near-crash later, they pulled in at the curb, and the Marine unpacked their gear onto the sidewalk. He touched the brim of his cap and refused Lucia’s offer of a tip. “The firm pays me very well,” he said, and handed them each a bag. “Forty-fifth floor. Mr. Borden is expecting you.”

Jazz craned her head back as the car whispered away from the curb, back into traffic. The building soared in stacked tiers, each one smaller than the last, like some very angular wedding cake. The polished brass number over the revolving doors read 6716, but she had no idea what street they were on.

Lucia was already on the move, shouldering through the rotating glass. Jazz followed.

Beyond, the lobby was small and chilly, with some leather armchairs and throw rugs near one corner and a reception desk all in marble at the other, near a massive elevator bank. Three people were behind the desk. The woman gave them a warm smile. The two security men gave them blank, appraising stares.

“Here to see James Borden at Gabriel, Pike & Laskins,” Lucia said. “We have an appointment.”

They had to produce ID again, but it was fairly painless, and one of the security guys detailed himself to escort them up. Floor forty-five required a key card. He used his and stood in silence, hands at his sides, watching as the floor count moved in red dots on the readout. Around the thirtieth floor Jazz had to pop her ears. That was the only excitement.

The elevator doors opened onto what surely must have been a lawyerly version of Shangri-la. They stepped out onto a massive marble deck facing a huge bank of floor-to-ceiling windows with a spectacular view of the Manhattan skyline.

“May I help you?”

The voice was, somewhat to Jazz’s surprise, a honeyed Southern drawl. Once her eyes got past the shock of the view outside, she focused on the reception desk located over to the side, next to a black wall of stone with a near-silent curtain of water wavering over it. Another perfectly made-up woman, this one deserving the cover of Elle at the very least. Brunette, brown eyes, a smile that looked collagen enhanced even if it wasn’t.

If Lucia was intimidated by the competition for the I’m-the-Most-Beautiful-Girl-in-the-Room award, she didn’t show it; she gave Reception Goddess a warm smile and produced ID for the third time in an hour. Jazz followed suit. “James Borden’s expecting us,” Jazz added, before Lucia could blurt it out. It felt good to take charge, even in this petty little area.

“Ah,” the woman said, and touched buttons on some hidden console behind the marble counter. “He’s on his way. Please have a seat.”

Jazz eyed the chairs, which looked modern, uncomfortable to sit in and impossible to get out of, and decided to disobey. She paced restlessly, examining bromeliads and exotic flowers. This was the kind of place that had fresh arrangements delivered every day, just for the effect. Lucia settled on a hard-looking couch, looking poised and deadly.

“Jazz?”

She turned at the familiar sound of James Borden’s voice, and paused, blinking. If it hadn’t been for the voice, and the warmth he put into the sound of her name, she wouldn’t have even known him. He was wearing a flawlessly tailored double-breasted blue suit, something with just enough of a sheen to the fabric to make it look rich instead of cheap. A turquoise-blue tie with subtle dark gold flecks. A crisp, blindly white shirt. A single gold stud in his ear, which these days she supposed qualified as corporately daring.

His dark hair was combed down, no longer gelled into spikes, and looked…conservative. A little too long, maybe, but good.

She focused on his dark brown eyes and got a flash of deep-seated warmth, then remembered her manners and stepped forward to take his hand in a firm shake. “Counselor,” she said. “Nice suit.”

He grimaced. “Yeah, the judges seem to like it. You all right?” He was looking at her too closely, holding her hand a little too long. She didn’t know whether it was flattering or insulting.

“Fine,” she said, and pulled away. “This is—”

“Lucia Garza,” he finished, and did the handshake thing again. Lucia was tall enough to look him in the eye, and her smile was at least twice as winsome as it needed to be. But maybe she was just overpowered by the suit, which Jazz had to admit was pretty damn fine. “I’m glad to meet you.”

“We have questions,” Lucia said, still with that winsome smile, and no softness at all in her eyes.

“Yes,” Borden said, and glanced from her to Jazz. “I figured you might. Please, follow me.”

He led them down a shallow flight of stairs through what looked like a meditation garden, with stone benches and mannered vegetation and a Zen sand pool in the center.

They walked along a dark wood corridor, with spotlit portraits of old men and a few old women who must have been former partners of the firm. At about the halfway point, Borden opened up a door with one of those sliding nameplates that read James Borden, Esq. Inside, a perky young woman in a short red suit was bustling around a hissing espresso machine. She had pixie-cut dark hair and a gap in her two front teeth, which made her look like a cheerful urchin for all her polish and gloss.

“Pansy…”

“Coffee, boss, yeah, I’m all over it,” she said, and waved a hand at the machine. He gave her a thumbs-up and opened the inner office door.

Standard lawyer office, straight off of a movie set. A massive dark desk, a green-shaded banker’s lamp, executive pen-and-pencil set, framed diplomas on the wall. Law books, ranked according to color and size. Two visitor chairs, big and leather in a manly dark green. Jazz sat at Borden’s gesture and noted that Lucia settled comfortably, legs crossed, chin down as she watched Borden move around the room. Jazz, as usual, was antsy. She wanted to pace, but she controlled the impulse to a light tap of her fingers against her leg.

Borden perched on the corner of the desk, not behind it. “Sorry you came all this way,” he said. “There’s nothing I couldn’t tell you over the phone just as easily.”

“I like to do my deals face-to-face. Less chance of…misunderstandings,” Lucia said pleasantly, as if she hadn’t just implied, oh, a world of things. “Nice offices. Criminal practice?”

“Not really. We have two criminal attorneys on staff, and one’s a full partner, but we specialize in tax and corporate law,” Borden said. “I’ve never taken on a criminal case in my life.” He made it sound like a failing. “Not really cut out for it.”

“No?” Lucia let her head fall to one side, watching him. “Why not?”

“If you want to practice criminal law, you end up spending a lot of time with criminals,” Borden said, and shrugged. “Not really my thing.”

“I’m sure associating with corporate polluters and tax dodgers is much better,” Lucia agreed. “How did you get my résumé, Mr. Borden?”

“James,” he said, and flicked his eyes toward the door as it opened. “Coffee?”

The assistant—Pansy? Did anybody really name girls Pansy anymore? — entered burdened by a black lacquer tray, and passed out delicate little cups of espresso. Jazz sipped and thought her veins would explode. The stuff was like black oil. She knew she was making bitter-coffee face and set the saucer and cup aside on a small octagonal table. Borden didn’t even try to drink his.

“I repeat the question,” Lucia said once Pansy had withdrawn. “My résumé. How did you get it?”

“It was provided to me,” Borden said, and held up a hand to stop her from going on. “I can’t tell you, Ms. Garza. I’m sorry. If I had to guess, I’d say that it was passed along from within the FBI, but that’s just a guess.”

“You use information without knowing its source?”

Borden sent Jazz a look. Not quite a plea, more of an assessment, trying to see where she stood in all this. “I trust the source. He’s very reliable.”

Lucia’s eyebrows indicated sarcastic doubt. Jazz drummed her fingers on leather, and said, “Yeah, okay, fine. You got the résumé from a file clerk at Quantico. Let’s talk about this deal you’re offering.”

Borden straightened up and met her eyes again. “It’s simple enough. The initial funding, plus we pay five thousand per case you take for us. Do you want to review the partnership agreement?”

“No, I want you to explain to me whose money is funding this,” she said. “Or there’s no deal.”

Borden let several dry ticks of his mantel clock go by, then slid off the edge of his desk and went behind it to open a drawer. “You know the check is valid,” he said. “You verified that with the bank.”

“Yeah, I did. I know it’s drawn on your corporate account. I also know that no law firm in the world fronts money for its clients without a damn good reason. You specialize in tax cases, right? Trying to hide some money the feds want to confiscate? This is all some bullshit designed to get the two of us to take the heat as accessories. Somebody wants us brought down.”

Lucia flicked her an unreadable look. Borden let out a slow, aggrieved breath. “Look, I’m not saying nobody’s out to get you. I’m sure that between the two of you, you might have charmed your way into a few…trouble spots. But this is a legitimate deal, offered legitimately. I’m an attorney. Believe it or not, I take my fiduciary responsibilities seriously.”

Lucia’s mock surprise was really too funny. “An honest lawyer? Now you really are making me suspicious, Mr. Borden.”

He looked from one of them to the other, brown eyes bright. “You two really were separated at birth, did you know that?” Borden reached into the drawer, pulled out a thick manila folder and slid it across the highly polished surface. He had lovely long fingers, Jazz noticed against her will. Well manicured. No wedding ring, and no sign there’d ever been one.

“I’ll leave you to look it over,” he said. “I’ve got a meeting down the hall. Back in about thirty minutes. Oh, don’t try to walk out with any loose change or files or anything, Pansy’s tougher than she looks.”

He left them without a backward glance. Jazz knew her eyebrows were soaring, and her lips compressed against a laugh. She caught the same glitter in Lucia’s eyes.

“Well,” Lucia said in the silence after the door had clicked shut, “he’s not what I expected.”

“Taller?”

“Smarter.” She edged her chair closer to the desk and reached for the folder. “Oddly, that does not make me feel better about this.”

The folder contained loads of legal paperwork about the partnership. Jazz blurred out after a couple of pages, but she was pretty expert in shaking wheat from chaff, when it came to legal papers, and flipped through the thick sheaf until she found what she was looking for.

“Looks like the money’s coming from a nonprofit organization called the Cross Society,” she said, and scooted over to give Lucia a lean-in on it.

“A religious thing?” Lucia hooked silky black hair back over her ear.

“Um…no idea, actually. Why. Are you a zealot?”

“I’m religious, I’m not actually militant.” Lucia shrugged. “You?”

“Define religious.”

Lucia gave her a warm, quick smile. “And that answers my question. So, what do we know about them?”

“Not a damn thing.” Jazz flipped through the rest of the paperwork. “Address is care of the law firm. I don’t see anything else to go on.”

“Ah.” Lucia nodded, and went around Borden’s desk to test the drawers. Locked. She reached into her neat little designer purse, came out with lock picks in a zippered leather case, and set to work. It took her about ten seconds flat to open up the file drawer and start flipping through. “Hmm, he works for some interesting people—do you want to know about Donald Trump? — never mind, here it is. The Cross Society.”

She pulled out a fairly massive-looking folder and spread it open on the blotter, on top of the partnership paperwork. Jazz came around to take a look as Lucia’s elegant fingers fluttered pages.

“Here. Not religious, apparently. The Cross Society is a nonprofit organization established seven years ago with a mandate to research time, physics and causality.”

“What the hell is causality?” Jazz asked.

“I was hoping you’d tell me. They seem to have given out quite a load of grants and loans over the past couple of years. Take a look at the list. Anything look familiar to you?”

“Nope, but I’ll bet if we did an Internet search, we’d turn up with science stuff.”

“Not all of them,” Lucia murmured, and ran her finger down the list to stop on one name. Gregory Valentin Ivanovich. “I know this one. Definitely not a scientist.”

“Who is he?”

“Spy,” she said absently. “Once upon a time. He’s in security these days. Or that’s the euphemism for it. Actually, I think he more or less works for the highest bidder…. What would you say, there must be a few thousand names listed here, right?”

Jazz felt her eyebrows quirk again. “Seems to be a lot. This Ivanovich guy…you know him from business or pleasure?”

“Both,” Lucia said, and ran her fingertip over the name again, as if it was a bar code she could scan. “Although you mix those together often enough you get something that doesn’t fit the definition of either. Anyway, Gregory isn’t a scientist by any stretch of the imagination.”

“Neither are we,” Jazz pointed out, and pointed at the footnote on the page.

Offers extended to Jasmine Evelyn Callender and Lucia Imelda Losano Garza on March 23…

“Interesting.”

“Yeah, no kidding. I’d call it more like shocking. Imelda?”

“Shut up, Evelyn.”

“If they’re researching egghead stuff, why do they need spies, cops and whatever the hell you are, anyway?” Jazz asked, and tapped the paper nervously.

Lucia said, “Let’s find out,” and flipped through the files again.

“What are you looking for?”

“I don’t know. Anything out of the ordinary, I suppose.” She flicked the tabs, reading names. “Active cases. Mr. Borden’s a busy young man. He’s defending an insurance company against a class-action suit on denial of claims…a tobacco company…some rich billionaire with tax problems—not The Donald…”

She paused, backed up, and eased a file out of the middle of the drawer.

“What?” Jazz asked.

“Eidolon Corporation.”

“Never heard of it.”

“I have.” Lucia kept staring at the file folder. She pulled it out and opened it on the desk, flipping pages.

“Well?” Jazz prodded.

“I know the name. I just can’t remember—” Lucia shook her head and looped silky dark hair behind her ear as she bent over the folder. “This is nothing. Tax accounting on assets, standard corporate stuff. But I know this name, I know I do.”

They were interrupted by the sound of the door opening. In retrospect, Jazz supposed it would have been a good idea to keep an eye out, even though Borden had said he wouldn’t be back for thirty minutes. Rookie mistake. She controlled the impulse to sweep the folders off the desk and looked at Lucia, who was looking utterly cool and composed and not at all tempted to try to hide what she was doing.

Must have been a spy thing.

“Ah. Eidolon Corporation.” The voice had a hoarse edge that came from a lifetime of close acquaintance with cigarettes or, Jazz amended, maybe Havana cigars. The old man standing framed in the doorway—short, neat, white-haired, with electric blue eyes—looked as if he’d never stoop to anything so pedestrian as cigarettes. Old money. Polish and style and sophistication. His immaculate tailoring made Lucia look dowdy. “I thought you might recognize it. You have an excellent memory, Agent Garza. That’s one of the reasons you came so highly recommended to us.”

Lucia said nothing. She met the newcomer’s stare squarely, chin firm, eyes bright. He came forward and put his hand on the back of Jazz’s chair, and turned his attention to her for a few seconds. “Miss Callender,” he said, and nodded down at her. His eyes were Paul Newman blue, and they looked as if they might require a separate power source. Maybe he recharged them at night, along with his cell phone. “My name is Milo Laskins. I am a senior partner with the firm, and Mr. Borden’s immediate superior. You may address any questions you have about the agreement to me, as Mr. Borden has been temporarily detained.” He nodded toward the file still sitting on the desk under Lucia’s hand. “Although I see your research is going quite well without me.”

“Are you expecting me to apologize?” she asked.

“Hardly. But I do expect you to abandon the attempt to rifle through the firm’s confidential records, if for nothing else than simple courtesy.” Laskins took the desk chair and looked at Lucia expectantly. She shrugged, slotted the files back in place and closed the drawer. “And if you wouldn’t mind locking it…?”

She took out the lock picks again and turned tumblers, then came over and sat in the visitor chair again, legs crossed. Jazz met her eyes for a brief second, and was surprised at the strength of communication between them. Careful, Lucia was warning her, which was the same that she was broadcasting.

“Tell me about Eidolon and how it connects to this Cross Society,” Lucia said. “You know that if I have five minutes and an Internet connection, I’ll find out everything I need to know anyway.”

“True,” Laskins said, and shot his cuffs and inspected his cuff links, which were gold and looked expensive. Like the suit. “Eidolon Corporation,” he said. “I’m sure what you’re remembering is the scandal some years ago in which the company’s chief executive officer was convicted of murder.”

Jazz felt an unexpected jolt, and connections fired in her brain. “Wait, I remember. Max Simms,” she said. “Serial killer.”

“Alleged,” Laskins said, and those Paul Newman eyes laser-beamed her.

“Convicted,” Jazz shot back.

“Not everyone believes he was guilty.”

“Sure, conspiracy theorists who also believe that OJ was framed and Elvis is running a bed-and-breakfast in the Blue Ridge Mountains. And those bodies in Max Simms’s basement…? Wait, let me guess—people broke into his mansion, tumbled down the stairs and buried themselves in the mud. Oh, and then mixed concrete and covered themselves. I’ve heard of guests not wanting to leave, but that’s pretty ridiculous.” Jazz remembered the case vividly. She remembered the forensic investigators and detectives climbing out of the crawl space wearing gas masks, looking sick and exhausted. It had made quite an impression.

Laskins was silent a moment, then turned back to Lucia. “You asked about Eidolon. That’s the only event worthy of note. Apart from that event, Eidolon has been a solid corporate citizen, employing thousands of people in dozens of locations around the country.”

“You haven’t answered the question,” Lucia said coolly. “How does Eidolon relate to the Cross Society?”

Laskins’s white eyebrows notched upward a bare degree. “It contains some board members who are, shall we say, alumni of that firm. However, you needn’t worry. Max Simms no longer has the legal standing to associate himself with any organization, nonprofit or otherwise.” He had a self-satisfied smile. Jazz wasn’t sure she approved of it. “Apart from seeing a complete roster of our clients, what can I do to set your mind at ease about the offer we’ve extended? I understand it’s unusual—”

“Unusual?” Jazz interrupted. “Try crazy. You want to give us money for no good reason? You don’t even know us. And how exactly do we fit in with a bunch of scientists and spies, anyway? What makes us a good investment for their money?”

The door opened again. She expected Pansy, but instead, it was Lawyer Borden, strolling in with a chunky-looking coffee mug in his hand. He passed it over to Laskins, who accepted it with a nod. Casual. It almost hid the tension in his shoulders and back.

“Everything okay?” Borden asked without looking at Laskins. He was watching Jazz. She felt a touch of heat in her cheeks. “Enjoying the guided tour of my drawers?”

They’d been monitored. No getting around it. She couldn’t believe Lucia hadn’t picked it up…and then she wondered if Lucia had, and simply hadn’t cared. She wasn’t sure which one was more unsettling.

“It’s not been very enlightening,” she said. “Okay, give. What’s the catch? You give us money, we open a detective firm. Presuming we’re willing to do that, I’m supposing that the Cross Society isn’t in this to perform a public service or they’d give it to the homeless shelter down the block, right? So what’s their angle?”

Laskins and Borden exchanged a look. Laskins sipped coffee.

“I cannot answer for the society,” Laskins said. “It would be a conflict of interest.”

“Right. Whatever.” Jazz rolled her eyes. “I’m thinking you have about ten seconds to start making sense, or the two of us walk out of here, tear up your check and go about our lives. Poorer and sadder, maybe, but—”

“We’d send you cases,” Borden said. “Not many, maybe one a month, if that. Nothing big, for the most part. Escort duty, stakeouts, surveillance.”

“I knew it,” Lucia said, and stood up. “You’re trying to set us up for something illegal.”

“No, I promise, it’s nothing like that. We’re not in that business, and neither is the Cross Society.” Borden spread his hands. Jazz’s eyes followed the sweep of those long, elegant fingers, then snapped back to his face. “You’d be paid for each case. Regular billing rates. The only thing is that we’d expect our designated cases to take priority.”

It sounded reasonable. Surprisingly reasonable. Jazz glanced at Lucia and experienced that surge of communication again.

“In writing,” Lucia said. “No offense, but your word of honor is meaningless if we don’t know you. Also, we’d need to talk to these people at the Society.”

“That won’t be possible,” Borden said. “Before you get upset about it, there’s nothing mysterious going on, it’s just that most of the members travel extensively. Our word is binding to them. We have their power of attorney.”

“How do we know they even exist?” Jazz asked. “Maybe you guys are the Cross Society. Maybe this is just a way for you to funnel drug money through the system.”

“If so, it’s an extraordinarily stupid way to go about it,” Laskins said waspishly, and frowned at Borden. “Can you handle this on your own? I really should be attending the meeting with Richmond and Fieles. God only knows what they’ll bargain away if they’re not supervised.”

“Yes, sir.” Borden nodded. “I can handle it.”

Laskins gave him a cynical twist of his lips that was not exactly a smile. “I’ll hold you to that, my boy.” He put the mug of coffee aside and left without another word.

Borden opened up the folder—the one containing the partnership paperwork—and handed Jazz and Lucia each a bound copy of what must have been a hundred pages of legalese.

“Let’s go through it step-by-step,” he said.

Jazz looked at the pound of paperwork and sighed.

“Maybe I’ll have that espresso after all,” she said.