Devil's Bargain

Chapter 5

W hen she woke up, it was morning, and she had a visitor. For a cold second she thought it was Stewart sitting in the shadows watching her, and how creepy would that have been, to have that vulture staring at her in her sleep, but no, this was a tall shadow, kind of lanky.
"Hey, you're awake," said a low, warm voice, and the shadow scooted forward into the soft dawn light.
Lawyer Borden. He looked tired, and a damn sight more informal than at the office; she got a quick impression of blue jeans and a black V-necked knit shirt before she focused on his smile. Luminous, that smile. Like morning.
"You're not allowed to get shot," he continued. "It's against the rules, you know."
"Rules?" she asked, and blinked. She was feeling slow and had a ridiculously strong desire to run into the bathroom, take a shower and brush her teeth before continuing this conversation. Not that she was going to be running anywhere right now. Her side felt as if she'd been sucker-punched by a giant. Bullet holes were no laughing matter, even if no organs got perforated.
"Yeah, rules," he said. He stood up and loomed over her, and for some reason, that felt good. Safe. She let her gaze slide down him, and had an instant appreciation for the way the black knit shirt hugged him. She had a sense-memory of soft skin, hard abdominal muscles fluttering under her touch as she'd checked him for broken ribs. Okay, that's enough. Back off, Callender. Must be the drugs.
She dragged her focus back up to his face. "Why didn't you tell us about Max Simms?"
Borden blinked. "Simms?"
"Founder of your little society. Serial killer."
"Laskins told me to." He paused. "I just - I knew you'd walk away. And I didn't want you to walk away."
Her breath caught, but it wasn't pain this time. "Who says I don't walk away now?"
"I don't think you can. Walk." He held up a hand to stop her response. "You might, but at least you've had time to look into things, think about it. If you go now - there's nothing I can do."
"We signed the agreement," she said, apropos of exactly zero. But Borden just nodded, unsurprised. "Lucia gave you the papers?"
"Yeah, they should be filed tomorrow."
"Shouldn't you be doing that, instead of flying off into the buckle of the Bible Belt to loom over me?" Not that she minded the looming. But she wasn't about to let him know it.
As if she'd reprimanded him, he sank back into the chair, but he reached out and captured her IV-punctured hand in his. "I did everything I needed to do and sent it on to Pansy. Special courier. It'll be in her hands in about - " he checked his watch " - two hours, give or take. By the way, I've been asked to say that Mr. Laskins sends his regards, and your hospital bills are being taken care of."
"What?"
"The firm's picking up the tab."
"Bullshit, they are!"
"He feels responsible," Borden said, and his warm thumb rubbed gently up and down her palm. "Not a big deal. It's part of the partnership agreement, you know. The firm pays up any medical bills you incur in the line of duty for us. Technically, we aren't liable because this happened before you signed, but..."
She yanked her hand back. "I pay my own bills."
"With what?" he asked calmly. "The signing fee wasn't that generous. Apply that toward leasing the office, getting the utilities set up, furniture, maybe hiring someone to run the place for you, and what do you have left? Enough to live on. Not enough for extravagances like painkillers and surgery."
Not to mention she already owed Manny three grand. She opened her mouth to tell Borden to go to hell, then closed it again.
This was already starting to feel like a spiderweb, wrapping tightly around her. Holding her in place for a good sucking-dry. I should have talked to Ben first. Ben would have known what to do.
Oh, yes, that sarcastic part of her brain replied. Go running to the murderer for advice. Don't you ever learn?
She swallowed and tasted dust. Her tongue felt as if it had grown fur. "Water?" she asked. Borden, eager to please, nearly fumbled pouring from the little pitcher on the nightstand, but got a cool glass of K.C.'s best, straight out of the tap. She gulped it down in long, breathless spasms until the cup ran dry, then held it out for a refill. The second dose she took slow, in sips. She could already feel the heavy weight of the water in her stomach, and the last thing she needed was nausea with a hole in her side.
"Okay," she said at last, "let's say I let you guys pay for the medical stuff. This time."
"There's going to be a next time?" Borden said, as he replaced the pitcher.
"Could be." She smiled wolfishly. "I tend to get into trouble, in case you haven't noticed."
"Hasn't escaped me," he agreed. "Jazz..." He leaned forward, and clearly didn't know what to do with his hands. He ended up dangling them between his knees, looking lost. "You baffle me. You're all edges and angles and whup-ass, but..."
"But?"
"I don't know," he said. "I hate seeing you like this. I feel like I got you into it, and I don't like it."
"Counselor, don't strain a muscle shouldering the blame. Besides, wasn't this the point? Didn't you want us in this thing, me and Lucia? Well, you got your wish. We're in."
He looked briefly grim, tired, and older than his age in the soft morning light. This time, he knew what to do with his hands. He ran them through his hair. "That's not what I wanted," he said. "It's what the firm wanted. I'm not the firm."
"Are you telling me - "
"No. I'm telling you that objectively, it's good you took the deal. But personally, I'd rather not see you laid up with tubes in you. That's all." He sucked in a deep breath. "Not that I know you. I just - think you're kind of cool."
"Really." She kept any hint of encouragement out of her voice, although her pulse jumped and the monitor beeped out a betrayal. "Cool." Her dismissive tone painted a slight flush along his sharp cheekbones. "Thanks. Don't let me keep you."
He stood up, and looking down at her, there was no sense of protectiveness this time. Just height and distance.
"I just wanted to make sure that my client stayed alive long enough for the ink to dry on the legal agreements. I'll catch the noon flight back."
"Hope you have a use for all these frequent-flyer miles."
"Vacation," he said shortly. "With my girlfriend."
He left. Jazz waited long enough to make sure he was gone for good, then buzzed the nurse and told her to get the tubes out, because she was leaving.
Lucia was, predictably, not happy with her, what with the checking out against medical advice, the bleeding into the bandages, and the shortness of breath, but Jazz wasn't one to worry about things like that. She dry-swallowed some of the painkillers the doctor had pressed on her, fed Mooch the Cat and listened to Lucia's cool, unemotional account of the day.
"I suppose it won't do any good to tell you to go to bed, so I won't bother," Lucia said, and that was the end of the lecture, to Jazz's satisfaction. Lucia dug in her purse and came up with a folder crammed with papers. She began laying them methodically on the kitchen table. Bank stuff. Jazz signed until it was done and then sat back, watching Lucia stuff it all into her bag.
This was moving too fast. Jazz felt massively tired. She swigged orange juice and focused on the cat happily chowing down in the corner of the kitchen. "It's real, isn't it?"
"Real enough," Lucia agreed. "By next week, we're going to have an office, a phone, Internet access...and hopefully, we'll both still be alive to enjoy it."
"We'll also have our first case," Jazz said. She picked up her orange juice, limped out of the kitchen into the living room and, with her toe, nudged the four file cartons stacked in the corner. "You may want to start reading up."
Every box was labeled McCarthy, Benjamin, with the case number and box ID. Wasn't legal for her to have them, either, but since they were all duplicates she didn't figure anybody but Stewart and his crowd would care much. An ex-boyfriend in Records had done her the favor - and it had been a big one, but then she'd been real grateful - and she'd been poring over them obsessively for months now. The answer was in there. She just knew it was in there.
Lucia, who was carrying some kind of odd-looking sports drink, took a sip and raised her eyebrows. "Who's paying us to work on your partner's case?" she asked bluntly. Jazz just looked at her. "Ah. That's what I thought. I don't suppose we can count on friendly local cops sending business our way, either, can we?"
Jazz shrugged. "I've got a few buddies left."
It didn't sound convincing, even to her own ears. She wondered if Borden had gotten on his noon flight. She wondered if he really had a girlfriend, and if he did, if he was really going to fly her off to Jamaica soon and spend a week making love on white beaches with surf foaming over their feet. Probably. She'd been an idiot to think -
The doorbell rang.
Lucia, in the act of flipping open the first McCarthy carton, paused and looked at Jazz, then set down her drink. "No, I'll get it," she said when Jazz turned toward the door. "Sit."
Jazz sank down in the straight-backed desk chair with a tiny sigh of relief, and watched Lucia move toward the door. Not, she noticed, coming at it in a straight line; Lucia hugged the hinge side of the door and slid a gun out of the holster at her back. She held it down at her side, leaned over and covered the peephole with one finger for a few seconds.
Nothing happened. No bullets came flying through the door.
"Who is it?" Lucia asked.
"Borden." Definitely his voice. Jazz nodded. Lucia holstered the gun and undid the two dead bolts with sharp clicks.
Borden still looked casual and rumpled and tired, but he'd thrown on a leather jacket over the black knit shirt. Not the aggressively biker-wannabe thing he'd worn the first time Jazz had seen him; this one was cut straight, hung down to mid-thigh, and had lapels. Nice. It looked soft enough to cuddle, well-worn and conforming to his angles.
"Hey," he said, and came in. Lucia shut the door behind him, locks and all. "I went by the hospital."
"She's out," Lucia said simply.
"So I heard. The words against medical advice came up - " He spotted Jazz sitting at the table, and stopped dead in his conversational tracks.
"Counselor," she said. "Nice of you to drop by. What, no flowers?"
"No, I brought a card," he said. He reached into his jacket and came out with a red envelope, exactly the size and shape of a holiday card. Maybe not Valentine's Day after all. Maybe something left over from Christmas instead.
He handed it to Lucia.
"What's this?" she asked. She knew, though. She'd gotten a red envelope before.
"Your first case," he said. "Nothing too demanding, considering Jazz has a thirty-two-caliber disability. But something to start you off. Listen, I'd stay to chat, but my flight's leaving soon. Try not to get yourselves killed before we can get your paperwork finished, okay?"
He moved to the door, threw back the dead bolts, and didn't look at Jazz directly at all.
"Borden," Jazz said. He froze but didn't turn to look at her. "Sorry. Listen, you're being careful, right?"
"Always," he said neutrally. "You should try it sometime. Might cut down on the scarring."
He opened the door and left. Lucia relocked the bolts before saying, eyebrows raised, "Forgive me for noticing, but we've barely started and you're already having a problem with our benefactors."
"No," Jazz sighed. "I'm having a problem with lawyers. Specifically, that one."
Lucia sounded amused. "Are you really? Because that's not how it looks from over here."
"Shut up, will you? And open that thing, if you're going to do it."
Lucia took an elegant-looking pocketknife out and zipped it through paper with a hiss to open the envelope. She shook out two things: a Polaroid photograph and a folded sheet of paper. She looked at the picture for a few seconds, then passed it over to Jazz.
It was a photo of a young woman, maybe twenty-five. Blond, tall, walking with a load of books in her arms. Mod-looking glasses and a blunt haircut. Rounded shoulders. That, and the fluffy pink cardigan, screamed librarian. The camera had caught her frowning, looking three-quarters toward the lens, as if a sound had startled her. It had been taken on the street, in full sunlight. Going to work, maybe? The outfit didn't look like casual wear, although it wasn't a business suit, either.
No ring on her finger. Not a lot of jewelry, period, although there was a diamond glint in her ear.
Lucia was studying the piece of paper.
"What?" Jazz asked.
"We're supposed to go to this address, sit in a car and watch her load up her van," Lucia said. "Take some pictures. That's it."
"That's it?" Jazz examined the picture again. "Does she look like a criminal to you?"
"How do criminals look? I've busted seventy-year-old grandmothers running counterfeit operations out of their garages," Lucia said. "Sure, she looks like a grade-school teacher. Doesn't mean anything. Maybe she's hiding an Uzi under the cardigan."
Which was an odd enough image to make Jazz laugh. She reached for the paper. Lucia passed it over. She hadn't misstated; that was all it said. It gave an address, a time, no names or other information. Just directions on what to do and how long to do it.
Watch her load the van. Document with still and video photography. Forward all records and reports to James D. Borden at Gabriel, Pike & Laskins.
Okay. No problem. At least it would be easy work. The notation at the bottom - in Borden's handwriting, Jazz felt sure - said that the fee would be two thousand dollars, but that both of them were required to be there, since Jazz was, quote, "impaired." Get your leather-jacket ass back here, I'll show you impaired, she thought, smoldering, and handed it back. Lucia folded it and stuck it back in the envelope, along with the photograph, which they'd both handled carefully, without getting their prints on it. Jazz felt warm and fuzzy over the fact that they hadn't even had to talk about it.
"Manny?" Lucia asked.
"Just the photo," Jazz said. "Have him run the prints and do an image recognition search through his databases. See what turns up."
It was a little amazing, really, that they were thinking along the same lines. Lucia seemed to think so, too. They exchanged a slow smile, broken by Jazz clapping a hand to her forehead and then wincing at the hot pull along her side at the movement.
"Shit, I forgot," she said. "Manny was being watched, too. I have to get his new address from a dead drop."
"Well, you're not driving," Lucia said, and picked up the keys as Jazz reached for them.
"They won't let you open up the mailbox. I'm the only one with access, and even then, they card me for it."
"I won't go in. Taxi service only."
Not much choice, really. Jazz nodded and levered herself out of her chair with only a small wince. She limped to her gun safe and got out her backup piece - a snubnosed.38 - and attached the clip-on holster to her belt. The cops had confiscated her main gun, of course, along with Lucia's. She hadn't asked where Lucia's backup piece had come from. Probably wouldn't be wise to ask too many questions.
The cloak-and-dagger show proceeded slowly; Jazz retrieved the new phone number from the dead drop and spent thirty minutes convincing Manny to let her leave the photo in the same spot. He wanted to switch locations, too, all the way across town. She was more than a little out of the mood to coddle his paranoia. She was the one who'd been shot, after all.
Which did nothing to calm him down, of course. But she got him to agree to send a courier for the photo. He could dead-drop it all over town if he wanted. She had a job to do.
That was a nice change, she decided. And if she hadn't been, well, shot, she'd have probably proposed a drink in celebration.
Just as well, all things considered, that the bars weren't open, and painkillers didn't go down well with alcohol.
And that having Lucia along lessened the desire to screw up her life any further.
An hour later, they were parked on a suburban street, eating food from a paper bag marked with a logo, and sipping diet drinks. Jazz hurt all over but didn't complain about it. Lucia kept the radio on, tuned to a classic rock station, and they sat in comfortable silence watching the nondescript tract home with its pale brick and black shutters and closed garage door.
"What if she loads it in the garage?" Jazz asked. Lucia shrugged. "Do we still get paid?"
"I think we'd better take pictures anyway," Lucia said, and proceeded to click the shutter. The camera was sleek, digital, and right out of the box. The battery was charging off a car adapter. Lucia checked the time code on the photo and said, "We're right on time, according to the letter."
Jazz nodded and took a bite of her hamburger. "Hey, if I fall asleep from the adrenaline, scream if there's anything interesting."
The day was still bright, although sunset would be coming on within the next hour; Jazz chewed mostly tasteless food and wondered if the silver plane threading the clear blue sky was carrying Borden back to New York. Lucia snapped pictures at some military interval known only to her own internal stopwatch. Cars drove by, some slow, some faster. None of them seemed interested in the house they were focusing on.
"We look suspicious," Jazz said.
"Stakeouts do," Lucia agreed. "And I'd suggest we get out and jog around, but neither of us is dressed for it and I don't think that was what the doctor had in mind for you when he said light exercise. If you think sitting in a car looks suspicious, keeling over and bleeding profusely attracts even more attention."
Jazz grunted around a mouthful of French fries. "Probably," she agreed.
"I know it's not necessary to say this, but if something goes wrong, you're going to let me handle it, right? You're not going to decide to kickbox a dozen ninjas and die on me?"
"Ninjas? Let me see the file."
"Funny." The light tone left Lucia's voice. "I mean it. Don't do anything to jeopardize yourself. You shouldn't even be here, much less be exerting yourself."
"Listen, at this rate, I'm more likely to die of cholesterol overload than a bullet."
"Let's keep it that way...heads up."
A black van - cargo, not mini - turned the corner behind them and proceeded slowly up the block. Jazz felt a sudden flicker of something. Instinct, maybe. She dropped the rest of the fries into the bag, tossed it into the backseat, and made sure she could get to her gun.
Lucia snapped some pictures and watched the van glide up the street. Most of the houses were vacant of cars or people - it was a working-class neighborhood, largely deserted during the day - but there were kids out playing three yards down.
No sign of life from the house they'd been assigned to watch.
The van slowed, turned and bumped up into the driveway.
"I think we're officially on duty," Lucia said unnecessarily. "Think she's going to load it up?"
The front door of the house swung open, and Pink Cardigan came out. It probably wasn't fair to call her that, as the pink cardigan wasn't in evidence today - there was a brown pullover sweater and khaki slacks, instead. Lucia snapped off a photo as the woman walked toward the driver's side of the van. From their perspective, the driver was hidden.
"We should have parked up there for a decent shot of the driver," Jazz noted, nodding about twenty feet ahead. Lucia didn't respond. She was focused on the van, the woman. Snapping multiple photos of the license plate. Jazz left her to it and checked the side mirrors again. The kids were still galumping around in the yard a few doors down, spraying each other with water hoses. Nothing seemed to have changed.
Pink Cardigan went back into the house, and after a few minutes, the garage door rattled up.
"Uh-oh," Jazz said. "That's it. They're going to pull it inside."
But there wasn't any room. The garage was packed full of boxes, and a small silver Nissan was squeezed into the remaining space.
Lucia took a picture.
Pink Cardigan grabbed a box - it appeared to be fairly heavy - and went around to the back of the black van. She opened the rear doors and slid the box inside.
Click.
Box number two. Same drill.
"Why isn't the driver helping?" Jazz wondered. "They'd be done in half the time. He's a little obvious sitting there idling the engine."
"Maybe he doesn't want to be seen," Lucia said. Which was logical, and Jazz wished she hadn't opened her mouth. She sucked on diet cola and glanced at the side mirrors again. Nothing sinister going on anywhere that she could see.
Pink Cardigan went back for the third box. Click. "Watch out for lens flash," Jazz said.
Lucia threw her an irritated look. "I'm not a novice," she said. "Relax."
That really wasn't possible, because this was feeling really wrong. Not that there was anything obviously strange going on...another bright shiny day in suburbia...but Jazz felt tension creeping up her spine and into her shoulders.
Pink Cardigan was getting red in the face, hauling boxes. She was working on the fifth one now, looking harassed. If what she was doing was illegal, she was pretty unconcerned about it. Of course, that was the secret to getting away with it, not being furtive. Still, this was a little too blatant, wasn't it? Out in the open, at her own house, personally loading up the shiny black obvious van?
Didn't make sense.
Click. Lucia ran off another photo. Jazz was willing to bet they all looked pretty much the same.
"What are we looking at?" Jazz asked.
"Good question," Lucia answered. "I have no idea. She's a neat person, conservative dresser - I'd put the outfit she's got on at high-end department store - and there aren't any markings on the boxes. Plain brown cardboard and tape. Everything sealed up, like for shipping. I don't know."
"Drugs?"
"Not like any drug shipment I've ever seen. Way too obvious. And look at the number of boxes stacked in there. She'd be a Colombian drug lord, with that inventory. And the lack of security..."
Jazz's cell phone rang, caller unknown. When she answered, it was Manny.
"Jazz," he blurted before she could say a word. "That picture? Her name's Sally Collins. She's a single mother, one daughter, Julia, fourteen. No criminal record, not even a speeding ticket in the last ten years. Normal debts. She co-owns a ceramics shop."
"Thanks, Manny...." He'd already hung up.
She relayed the information to Lucia.
"Ceramics," Lucia said. "Could be what's in the boxes."
"Ceramics with drugs?"
"It's a stretch," Lucia admitted.
"Yeah." Jazz chewed her lip. "So what do we do?"
"Take pictures," Lucia answered. "Until it's done."
Pragmatic, but not satisfying. Jazz sipped cola and scanned the mirrors again. Still, all quiet on the neighborhood front. It was positively Mayberry out there.
Pink Cardigan carried a total of ten boxes out. When she had the tenth one stacked in the van to her satisfaction, she closed the rear doors and walked around to the driver's side again. A short conversation ensued.
"Parabolic mike," Lucia said softly.
"On the shopping list," Jazz agreed. "We definitely need more toys."
The black van reversed out onto the street. Lucia leaned over, angling for a driver's side shot, but the windows were tinted and rolled up tight.
It pulled away and made a left turn out of sight.
Jazz turned back to the house. Pink Cardigan was standing there, arms folded, staring down at her shoes. Frowning.
Lucia took another picture.
In between one breath and another, everything changed.
An engine growled behind them, and Jazz's eyes flew to the side mirror. An electric blue car was turning the corner - a big thing, probably dating back to the seventies, square and solid and shining with chrome.
Pink Cardigan looked up, alarmed, saw the car and backed up.
Lucia swore, and dropped the camera to reach for her gun. Jazz was already going for hers, as well. The car glided nearly silently down the street, casual as a shark heading for a plump baby seal.
The car slowed even more. The kids in the yard played on, oblivious...and then, suddenly, it lurched into motion with a squeal of tires. Accelerating fast.
"Down!" Lucia yelled at Jazz and aimed across her. Jazz grabbed the handle that controlled the car seat and yanked it up, gasping as her seat slammed into full recline and she dropped hard with it. Gut-shot abdominal muscles complained with a hot, dizzying flash. She was staring up at Lucia, who was leaning over her, gun extended in firing position and braced with her left hand. Steady as a rock.
She didn't fire. The muzzle of the gun tracked smoothly in an arc.
Jazz heard a world-shaking rumble, saw a shadow flash over Lucia's face, and then the blue car was past them and still accelerating. No gunfire.
Jazz grabbed the dashboard and pulled herself back upright, ratcheting the seat to a straight position. Lucia slowly relaxed, both hands still on the gun, staring at Pink Cardigan.
The blue car swerved left at the corner, taking the same route as the black van.
"What the hell was that?" Jazz blurted, and turned to look at Pink Cardigan, who was staring at the car intently, but not as if she recognized it. She turned and went back into her house, slamming the door shut behind her with such violence that it echoed like the gunshots that hadn't been fired. After a few minutes, the garage door cranked down, as well, and rattled shut with a hollow boom.
"I don't know," Lucia admitted. She still looked pale, breathing fast. Jazz related. She was about to pass out from the rush of adrenaline. "I thought they were going to kill her."
"What stopped them?"
"Us," Lucia said. "They saw us and kept driving. I think we just saved her life."
"Without firing a shot? Excellent. I really don't want to talk to Stewart twice in one day." Jazz sounded steady and cheerful; she didn't feel that way. Sweat dripped down the back of her neck, soaked her shirt. She needed to pee. Badly. Straight-up fighting she could take. This battle-of-nerves thing, not so much. "Man. That was..."
"Weird?" Lucia supplied. "Yeah." She finally realized she was still holding the gun and put it away. "Sorry. I should have gotten the plate number."
"One-six-four HCX," Jazz said automatically. "That's not the weird thing."
She had Lucia's full attention.
"The weird thing is that the license plate was black with yellow letters," she continued. "Missouri plates, all right, but Missouri hasn't issued that style since 1978."
Lucia was outright staring at her. Big eyed. "You know the state license-plate colors by year?"
"Yeah." Jazz shrugged. "Useful knowledge."
"Just for Missouri, right?"
"If I say no, will you think I'm weird?"
That got an outright blink. Lucia, the calm and unsurprised, was finally thrown for a loop.
Jazz smiled, reached into the glove compartment, and pulled out a steno pad. She wrote down the plate number and details about the plate itself.
"So what does that mean? About the plate?" Lucia asked finally.
"Means they probably pulled it off a junker at an auto graveyard," she said. "Although it fits the age of that car."
She flipped open her cell phone and hit the fourth speed dial on the list. She got an answer on the second ring, as always.
"Hey, Gaz," she said. "Run a plate for an old friend?"
"Don't think so," he replied. Gary Gailbraith was an old friend, and he'd never answered that way before. He sounded guarded. "Things are kind of busy right now. Can't really talk."
Oh, crap. "Has Stewart been on your ass?"
"Positively up it," Gaz said. He was an older cop, white haired, with a broad face and a whiskey-drinker's blush across his nose and cheeks. He always seemed vacant to most of the other detectives, but that was a deliberate cultivation on his part. He was sharp as a tack, was Gaz, just not in any obvious ways. He never competed. And he didn't play politics, more than he had to in order to get the job done. "I think I need a proctologist."
She grinned. "Okay. Call me when the heat's off, right?"
"Right," he replied. "Take care."
"You, too." She hung up. Lucia raised eyebrows at her. "You got any local contacts to do a plate check?"
"Local? No. The sources I have work at, ah, higher levels. And using them might raise a red flag."
"Kind of what I figured," Jazz nodded. "Okay, we do it the hard way."
"Meaning?"
Lucia started the car. She reached down, retrieved the fallen digital camera and handed it to Jazz, who thumbed quickly through the pictures. Too bad they hadn't gotten a shot of the blue car, but Jazz had a pretty vivid mental image, and she was sure Lucia did, too.
"Meaning," Jazz said, staring at Pink Cardigan's picture, "we go see Manny again."
Lucia groaned softly, and put the car in gear.
Convincing Manny to track a plate for her was just about the toughest thing Jazz had ever done, considering she was doing it with a leaking bullet wound in her side, a massive throbbing headache, and an adrenaline-rush aftermath that made her feel like roadkill. Manny eventually figured out that she wasn't operating at her usual levels and decided to take it easy on her, having exacted only a few dozen promises that he wouldn't be put on any hit lists or have shape-changing aliens showing up at his door.
"I swear," Jazz groaned as she flipped the cell phone closed, "I'm personally going over there to set up parental controls to keep him from ever watching The X-Files again."
"Probably wouldn't do any good," Lucia said, pokerfaced. "I think I spotted DVD collections."
"Crap."
Lucia pulled the car into a space near the apartment stairs, killed the low beams, and reached up to flip the overhead dome light off. When Jazz reached for the door handle, Lucia stopped her. "Wait," she said.
"For?"
"My eyes to adjust," Lucia said calmly. "I want to be able to see the shadows before you decide to present another target."
"You know, I think you and Manny might be a match made in heaven."
"Another crack like that, and I catch the next puddle jumper out of here."
Still, Lucia was right; Jazz would have thought of it herself, been more cautious if she hadn't been so tired and hurting. She sat in silence, watching the shadows as her eyes adjusted; nothing she could see waiting out there. Parked cars were always a worry, but there wasn't much she could do about them.
"Okay." Lucia finally nodded. "No deviations. Straight up the stairs, fast as you can. I'll be behind you."
Jazz didn't waste breath on agreeing, just ducked out, kept her head down and took the steps as quickly as possible. Which was agonizingly slowly, actually, given the crappy state of her body. She was gasping and feeling a little sick by the time she achieved the top landing. Behind her, Lucia, lingering down at the bottom, watching the parking lot, turned and soundlessly came up, three steps at a bound.
Jazz felt tired just watching her.
She slipped her key into the first dead bolt, then the second, and reached for the doorknob.
It didn't turn in her hands.
Jazz backed up, fast, breath short again. She planted her back squarely against the wall, eyes wide, and nodded Lucia silently back to the far side, out of the line of fire.
What? Lucia mouthed. Her gun was out, fast as a magic trick. Jazz fumbled her own out, but didn't like the way her hand was shaking. I'll probably shoot myself. Again.
Jazz pointed at the doorknob. Locked, she mouthed. Shouldn't be.
Lucia nodded in understanding. Jazz habitually shot dead bolts, but never bothered with the relatively nuisance-value lock on the knob. They could be overcome by a bright ten-year-old with a hairpin, much less anybody serious about breaking and entering. Lucia held out her free hand. Jazz tossed the keys underhand to her, watched as she neatly - and nearly silently - fielded them, and then stepped up to slot the key neatly into the last lock.
No hail of gunfire. Jazz held her breath as the door swung wider onto darkness. Something moved inside, and her heart lurched, but it was only a bushy gray ghost of a cat stepping cautiously over the threshold. Mooch. She resisted the urge to dive over and grab him, and let him prance his slow way past her and down the stairs. He gave her a curious look and a rumble of a purr as he passed, but he was embarked on serious business.
Lucia moved fast and low, and entered the apartment. Jazz waited. She'd be crap as backup right now, and she knew it. Plus, crouching was pretty much out of the question.
Silent moments passed, and then lights blazed on in the hallway and spilled out in a golden syrupy glow over the concrete and Jazz's shoes. Lucia appeared at the door as she reholstered her gun at her back.
"Come on," she said, and checked the outside again one more time before she locked the door. "You've had company, all right, but they're gone now."
"Crap," Jazz sighed. She stared mournfully at the mess left behind. Mounds of crumpled papers. Drawers pulled open and contents strewn all over the place. Pictures askew on the wall, although truthfully none of that would matter even if they'd slashed every one of them to bits.
The boxes of files, the ones she'd wanted Lucia to look through...they were gone.
She froze, staring at the empty corner. There was an impression in the cheap, ugly carpet where the weight of the stack had rested, but unless the damn boxes had turned invisible, they were gone.
She kicked disconsolately at the papers on the floor, trying to see if they'd left anything behind, but what was abandoned looked like her regular household stuff, correspondence, bills, nothing important.
"What?" Lucia asked, and followed her stare to the empty corner. "Oh, God. They took your case files, right?"
"Right," Jazz murmured. "All the work I did since Ben's arrest. All the notes, all the leads. Everything."
"Anyone in particular come to mind?"
"Besides that asshole Stewart?" She shook her head. Too sick, too tired, too numbed. She sank into a chair and heard papers crackle under her ass, but she didn't care. "I don't know. Ask me in the morning."
Lucia stared at her for a few seconds, then turned and walked into the kitchen. Whatever disaster was there, she returned with a glass of water and a handful of pills. "Take them," she said. "I mean it."
And for once, Jasmine Callender did as she was told. She meekly swallowed the pills and sat watching Lucia straighten up papers, making stacks, clearing the floor. Then straightening up fallen chairs, putting drawers back in place, closing open cabinet doors.
Rehanging those god-awful pictures.
Jazz's eyelids got heavy without warning. She woke up with a start when she felt a hand on her shoulder, and somehow made it on numbed feet back to the bedroom.
Lights out.
She didn't even have time to worry about why somebody who'd broken in and trashed her house had taken the trouble to lock all of her dead bolts.
Or how.
She'd had better mornings after four-day benders.
Jazz woke up sick, aching, slightly feverish, and wishing she were dead for the first full minute before remembering that it was good to be alive. Mostly. Part of the reason that kicked in was the smell of fresh-brewed coffee wafting through the apartment. Unless Mooch had learned how to program the coffeemaker, she still had company.
Jazz groaned, tried to sit up and stayed flat for a few more minutes, gathering strength. Yep, it hurt. A lot. It hurt like the morning after indulging in some insane exercise orgy and doing a thousand sit-ups. Only worse. She wasn't sure she could force her abdominal muscles to do even the simple work of getting her out of bed.
Suck it up, Callender, she ordered herself, and somehow managed to get up. After she'd swung her legs over the bed, she discovered that Lucia had taken off her shoes but left her wearing the loose sweatpants and T-shirt. Beneath, the bandages felt stiff. She tried not to think of what that might mean.
Getting to her feet was an adventure, but she managed. She ran fingers through her hair, felt unruly tangles and shuffled, on athletic-sock feet, into the living room.
Which looked like someone else's apartment.
She blinked, cocked her head and tried to remember if she'd suffered a head injury, in and around the general insanity of yesterday. No, she was pretty sure not.
Maybe it was the same room, it just looked...better. Cleaner, at least. And neater. Weirdly not her home.
Everything was neat, squared up, polished. The carpet had been vacuumed to the point that it looked as if it might have been new, if anyone was unwise enough to make carpet that color in this day and age.
No sign of the chaos of the night before.
Lucia came out of the kitchen, looking glossily perfect, as usual. Sleek and shining. Her hair was still back in the action ponytail, and she had on some tight spandex-type workout pants and a jogging bra.
"Morning," she said, and looked Jazz comprehensively up and down. "You look like hell."
"Thanks. Very comforting." Jazz found the coffeemaker and a mug and poured. She tasted bitter oily heaven, swallowed, and kept going until the cup was empty. Then refilled. Lucia watched her, leaning against the door frame and frowning.
"Wow," she finally said. "That's...frightening. Do you always drink that much caffeine?"
"Any messages?" Jazz asked. Her brain fog was starting to clear, at least a little.
"Borden called. He wanted to check on you. I don't think he was very happy to hear you weren't in bed."
"I was in bed."
"I mean, were planning on staying there. As in, recovering."
"Borden's not the boss of me," Jazz said, and then wondered. Maybe he was. Not a pretty thought. "Did you tell him about yesterday? The assignment?"
"Yes, I told him. I typed up reports and faxed them in. I included the plate number and description of the car, too. I'd have waited for you, but..."
"No, that's okay." Jazz sank down at the kitchen table. Her abdominal muscles gave a sob of relief. "What'd he say?"
"Good job?" Lucia lifted a shoulder in a fatalistic shrug. "I tried to get some kind of idea from him about what it was we were supposed to have accomplished, but he's a brick wall. I think he responds better to you. Maybe you can give him a call."
Jazz shot her a look. "I don't think so. Last thing I need is a lawyer going all sweet on me. No sign of the files, I guess?"
"No, no sign. I did a little canvassing up and down the hall. Nobody saw anything, apparently."
Jazz reflected that if her neighbors were going to talk to anyone, they'd talk to gorgeous Lucia; no leads, then. She felt unreasonably depressed.
"I swept the apartment for bugs, by the way. Nothing. It still looks clean."
"Cleaner than it did when I went to bed," Jazz observed. Lucia looked away and studied the polish on her fingernail. "Never mind. Thanks."
"I'm going out for a run," Lucia said. "You going to be okay here?"
"Yep. Fine and dandy." Jazz filled her coffee cup again and shuffled over to the gun safe. She dimly recalled having stowed her.38 in there, and sure enough, there it was, fully loaded and ready. She got it out and clipped the holster to her waistband. "You're strapped, right?"
"In this outfit?" Lucia shook her head. "I'll be all right."
"No, you won't." Jazz limped to her bedroom, found a reasonably clean floppy sweatshirt and tossed it to Lucia, who pulled it on. It made her look adorably lumpy. Lucia added the pancake holster to the small of her back and nodded.
"Lock it behind me," she said. "And if you have time and energy, you might want to read some things I found on the Internet."
She indicated a small, neat pile of papers on the kitchen table and went out the front door. Jazz followed instructions with the dead bolts, then carried coffee and gun back to the table.
Max Simms had been arrested in the winter of 2000, claiming innocence. Nothing unusual in that, and of course he retained high-powered counsel. What was interesting was whom he'd retained.
Jazz cocked her head and studied the grainy black-and-white AP photo of white-haired, distinguished-looking Max Simms in handcuffs, with the lawyer striding next to him, head bent to confer.
James Borden. What had he said, in the office? I've never tried a criminal case in my life. Next to him was Milo Laskins, stone-faced, extending a hand to block photographers and reporters.
She stroked the printed side of Borden's face with one blunt finger and whispered, "Liar." It felt as if the whole world had shifted to the left, creating a slope, and she couldn't get her balance. From the beginning, from the first time she'd seen him, she'd believed Borden. She'd felt that on some very deep level he was just plain honest.
And if she was wrong about that, what else was she wrong about? Lucia Garza? The partnership? Ben McCarthy's innocence?
She swallowed hard and forced herself to keep reading. Lots of background on Simms, who had all the usual quiet sins that could be dug up on any adult. Gossip from his peers, mostly. Nasty comments about his work habits, ogling his female subordinates, having harsh words for people...the kind of stuff that came to the forefront when someone was down and probably not getting up again.
Simms had taken a plea agreement. Twenty-five to life. Or just life, for someone of his age. He'd been lucky to escape the needle.
The kitschy gold sunburst clock on the wall said that morning was rolling on. She washed up the mug and coffeepot, shuffled off to the bathroom and attempted a sponge bath, with limited results. Her hair was a disaster, and she wasn't up to washing it. Bending over wasn't really in the cards. She settled for giving it a punky spiked look with gel - thank you, Liar Borden - and climbed into fresh underwear and sweatpants and T-shirt.
Then she collapsed back on the bed, spots dancing in front of her eyes. Painkillers beckoned seductively from her bedside table, but no way was she doing that, not today. Too much to do. Too much at stake.
She got out her cell phone and dialed.
"Gabriel, Pike & Laskins," said a crisp female voice, all business. "How may I direct your call?"
"James Borden," she said, and eased herself to a sitting position against the headboard. She didn't want to be lying down for this.
"One moment, I'll see if he's available."
Thirty seconds, a fluttering click, and Pansy's cheerful voice said, "James Borden's office, how may I - "
"Let me speak to the lying rat," Jazz interrupted. "Tell him it's Jasmine Callender."
There was a second's puzzled pause, and then Pansy said, "Ms. Callender, I'm sorry, but the lying rat isn't here. He flew out yesterday. I understood he was coming to see you. Incidentally, how are you feeling?"
"Good enough to kick his legal briefs," Jazz snapped, and heard Pansy choke on what might have been a laugh. "He flew back last night. He's not there?"
"Not at the office. He called to say that he'd be out of town a couple of days at least. Do you want me to try his cell phone?"
"No, I'll do it." Jazz was suddenly struck by an evil inspiration. "Do you like your job, Pansy?"
"Sure."
"Like New York?"
"It's okay," Pansy said. Jazz could almost see the shrug. "I'm from Kansas, originally. New York takes some getting used to."
"If you're homesick, do you want to come to work in K.C. for me?"
"I couldn't do that," Pansy said cheerfully. "But thanks for the offer."
"Suit yourself. But I can promise you that I'll never, ever make you get coffee."
There was a long, long pause, and then Pansy said, "Kansas City, huh?"
Jazz grinned. Take that, Lawyer Borden.