Devil's Bargain (10 page)

“No, I’ve swept us and the car for bugs,” Lucia said, and combed sleek silky hair back from her face in a distracted motion. “Nothing. There’s no way they’ve retasked a satellite just to follow us around, so if they’re not doing line-of-sight surveillance, then they shouldn’t know where we are. And if they were doing line-of-sight, we should have spotted them.”

“Unless they’re good.”

“More than just good.
I’m
good.” Lucia definitely looked stressed, as if she felt responsible for Jazz lying here, leaking fluids. “Those cops—I take it not friends of yours?—aren’t investigating, they’re filling out paperwork.”

“It’s Stewart,” Jazz said, and stared up at the ceiling. It was blank, white, and noninspirational. “He helped put McCarthy away. He’s been gunning for me ever since. No, actually, I take that back. He’s never liked me. He’s just actively started hating me since the whole thing with Ben.”

Lucia paused in the act of tying her hair back with a businesslike black elastic band. No scrunchies or decorations for her. She looked different with her hair back. Harder. Jazz approved. “About McCarthy…” Lucia began.

“No.”

“You don’t think we should discuss that?”

“No, we’re not talking about Ben, or his case, or whether or not he’s guilty, or what he has to do with this because I guarantee you, he’s got
nothing
to do with it. He’s in prison, Lucia. Let’s leave him out of this.”

Lucia didn’t answer that, just finished wrapping her hair in the elastic with a snap. “I called your sister, told her you’d been in an accident.”

“Oh, no.” Jazz sighed. “What did Molly say?”

Lucia avoided her eyes. “She was concerned. She said she’d tell your dad.”

“I bet. I’ll expect a cheap floral arrangement delivered to the wrong address next week.”

“She’s not that bad.”

“Bullshit.”

“Manny wanted to visit, but—”

“He’s got a thing about hospitals. Manny has a thing about everything.”

“He did some good work for us, looking into the Cross Society.”

“And?”

Lucia shrugged. “On paper, it’s legit. He came up with a few flags—not so much red lights as yellow. Max Simms, for one. He may be in prison, but it’s likely he’s still got some influence.” She fell silent. The moment stretched, long and awkward.

Jazz though longingly of on-demand morphine.

“You should go,” Jazz said. “I’m sorry to have kept you hanging around. You’ve got a life to get back to.”

“Planes leave all the time.” Lucia shrugged. “I’m not going if it means you end up lying unprotected in a hospital bed and the cops aren’t going to put out any effort to find out who shot you. And shot at me, by the way. I take that kind of thing personally.”

The look in her eyes was usually accompanied by shooting back, Jazz figured. Or, at the very least, grievous bodily harm.

“So you’re sticking around,” Jazz said. A tight knot in the area of her chest eased a little.

“For a while. Until you get back on your feet, anyway. Also, I’m going to wake up some sources and see what they can find out for me. I don’t like the way any of this is playing out.”

She started to get up. Jazz stopped her with an outstretched hand. “Wait. Listen, you need to be careful, all right? You’re not from around here. If you disappear…”

Lucia gave her an uncomplicated smile. “If I disappear,
chica,
your cop friends are going to have a lot more trouble than they ever bargained for, because the kind of people who’ll come looking for me won’t take a shrug for an answer. And they don’t ask nicely.” She stood up, gazing down at her. “Also…I’m not that easy to make vanish.”

“I get that.” Jazz found herself smiling back. “Hey. Thank you.”

“That’s what partners are for,” Lucia said, and reached down to retrieve her sleek black oversize purse. She pulled out a large flat envelope and placed it gently on Jazz’s stomach. There was a pen clipped to it. “I signed,” she said. “It’s up to you whether or not you want to.”

Jazz stared at the envelope, frowning. “Why’d you change your mind?”

“Because I don’t think it matters anymore whether I sign it or not. We’re in this together. Whoever these guys are, they’re not going to back off because we go our separate ways, and I don’t know about you, but I’d like to have somebody I trust at my back.” Lucia’s dark eyes were level and clear. “And if somebody’s going to shoot at me, I’d rather get paid for it.”

Jazz laughed. It hurt. She caught her breath, slid the paperwork out and thumbed through it to the last page.

Lucia’s signature was flowing and bold over her typed name. Jazz set pen to paper, hesitated a second, and then scratched out her own messy, jerky autograph.

The check was attached to the partnership agreement with a clip. Jazz took it off, turned it over and endorsed it, then handed it all back to Lucia. “Maybe you’d better handle the bank stuff,” she said.

“Yeah,” Lucia agreed quietly. “I will.”

In the silence after she was gone, Jazz went over all the ways that she’d just totally screwed up her life. There were dozens. Hundreds. Disaster stretched out in the distance, as certain as the Titanic and the iceberg.

What if it works?
That was the scariest thought of all, strangely.
What if it works out, and I don’t need to be a cop anymore?
Because that was secretly what she’d always thought would happen. McCarthy would be vindicated. They’re return in triumph, conquering heroes. Life would pick up where it left off.

What if nothing’s the same?

That filled her with a kind of fear that had nothing to do with bullet wounds and drive-by shooters and people attacking her in bathrooms. Those things she could deal with. External threats.

But this…this was different. She’d just done something that would change her future.

She fell asleep still thinking about that, and reaching no conclusions as to whether or not it was a good thing.

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.