Devil's Due (3 page)

Her turn to score a hit; she saw him blink, saw the prison-hard Ben McCarthy waver for a second to reveal someone far less armored.

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

“Because Jazz never believed you were guilty of anything,” she said, “and you were a dirty cop. She’s incredibly sharp, and you had her completely snowed for years. Do you have any idea how much that hurt her, by the way?”

He stared at Lucia for so long that she felt uncomfortable. Whatever was going on in his head, none of it was showing in his face.

“Yeah,” he finally said. “I know. And you’re right. I’m a son of a bitch.”

“Have you changed? Has prison reformed you?”

He gave her a small, cynical smile. “Doesn’t it reform everybody?”

Outside, the day was cool and clear, the sky a pale, sun-bleached blue. Lucia took in a deep breath to catch the scent of damp earth and green growing things. She missed that, living in the city. Hadn’t been out to hike and climb
for too long now, other than on gritty training ranges. She had the credentials to visit Quantico if she wanted to do so; the woods there would help her get her center again, and she could visit the gun range for an excuse…and God knew, the marines would be more than happy to drive her to the edge of endurance in heavy, sweaty field exercises.

The valet arrived in her silver Lexus, parked and stepped out as she came around to the driver’s side. She was watching McCarthy over the top of the car, but something caught her eye, something…

Something about the valet. Not right. Something…

McCarthy was talking to her. It was noise. Her world had narrowed to the out-of-focus blur of the valet standing there, holding the door for her.

She started to turn her head toward him, and as she did, she saw his hand emerge from his pocket.

A brilliant glint of silver in the morning light.

Fear bolted through her, there and gone, replaced by a deadly smooth calm.
Too late. I’m too late
. She brought her elbow in, drove her left forearm out in a stiff arc. It hit squarely against his extended arm, and knocked his hand into the door frame.

“Ow!” The valet stepped back, surprised, and what he’d been holding thumped to the ground. A small metal clipboard, with a receipt stuck under its holder. “Jeez, lady. Chill. I was just getting a signature. New policy.”

She felt herself blush as the adrenaline chased out of her system, leaving a thick aftertaste of embarrassment. She apologized as she retrieved the clipboard and signed on the line next to her tag number. She slid a twenty dollar bill under the clip holder. The valet’s attitude improved considerably.

In the silence of the car, McCarthy kept studiously quiet
about it. She put the car in gear and pulled out, around the circular drive and back onto the street.

“So,” he said slowly. “About that bodyguard job.”

She glanced at him. At the ill-fitting sport coat, the prison-styled hair, the shirt and shoes so cheap they were the next thing to disposable.

“I’ve already got a bodyguard,” she said. “However, I could use another good investigator. Under one condition. You let me make you look presentable. I wouldn’t want you giving a bad impression to our clients.”

“Deducted from my wages. Like a uniform.”

“If you insist.”

“I do.”

“Then yes, deducted from your wages.”

“Yeah. Okay.” He eyed her mistrustfully. “When?”

“Now.” She thought for a few seconds, mentally measuring him. “Thirty-two regular, I think,” she murmured. “Italian cut. French collar and cuffs. How do you feel about Magnanni?”

“Am I supposed to know what that is?”

“No. Shoe size?”

“Ten.”

“Fine. One other thing.”

“I knew you were getting to it.”

“I’m taking you for a haircut.”

“Do I get to pick the barber?”

“No. It will be a stylist, and there will be a manicure, and, if you’re not polite, skin treatments.”

He sighed and said, “Pull over. I’m getting out.”

“I don’t think so. We’ve made a deal. Believe me, this works better if you just let it happen.”

“Great,” McCarthy said grimly. “Just like prison, with product.”

His reaction to being marched into Lenora Ellen’s Day Spa was, she thought, gratifyingly furious, but she’d left them with strict instructions, and him with enough promises and threats to ensure his cooperation. Besides, she could see that he secretly craved a little relaxation and pampering. So long as he never had to admit it to, say, Jazz.

Ben’s fate sealed, Lucia turned to practicalities. Her overreaction with the valet was out of character for her, to say the least, but it told her something of what her subconscious was doing: worrying excessively.

It was time to set up some insurance. As she pulled her car into a parking spot outside one of the most exclusive men’s stores in the city, she hit a speed-dial number on her cell phone that she’d once promised never to dial again.

She’d never been good at keeping promises when it came to Omar.

He picked up on the second ring. “Tell me you’re not in trouble,” he said, and she laughed, because it was just like Omar. “Okay, then tell me you hit the wrong number in your speed dial.”

“No,
querido
, I’m calling you. And maybe I’m not in trouble—have you ever thought of that?”

“No,” he said. “I heard you’d moved. Kansas City, right?”

“Right.”

“Would it surprise you to know that I’m in the neighborhood?”

“Tremendously.” It didn’t. Stranger things had happened, every day before breakfast.

“Just finished up a job in Saint Louis. So. I’m sure you didn’t call just to hear my voice, lovely as it may be…” And it was lovely, low and full of warmth. Just now, he was
using his native accent, which was cultured and British, but he was equally at home with French, Spanish, American, German and a wide variety of Arab inflections. She’d even once—hilariously—heard him do a fabulously broad Scots.

“I adore your voice, which you very well know,” she said, “but no. I was checking to see if you were available.”

“Well, I’m not currently seeing anyone—”

“Professionally.”

He became quickly serious. “Long term or short?”

“I don’t know. We’d best say at minimum a month.”

“Huh. Usual rates?”

“Have they gone up?”

“Cost of living, my love, cost of living. Or, at least, the cost of not getting killed.”

She sighed. Omar did not, of course, come cheap. “Fine. Your usual rates, plus expenses.”

“Starting when?”

“How soon can you get here?”

He was silent for a few seconds. “Lucia, this sounds a bit more serious than your usual tangle. It’s not—”

“Our mutual uncle?” Meaning Uncle Sam, of course. “No. Strictly private. And it’s not serious…exactly. Just—uncertain.”

“I’m peace of mind, then.”

“I can think of no one better.”

“But of course!” She could imagine his wide, charming grin. “I am reliably informed by the wonder of the Internet that there is a morning commuter flight leaving in forty minutes. Where do I go?”

She gave him the office address. “There’s a parking garage, we’re on the second level. I need you positioned there today.”

“Hmm. Watching for what, exactly?”

“I don’t know. Call me when you’re in position.”

“Two hours,” he said. After a beat, he said, “Lucia? It’s nice to hear from you.”

“Likewise,” she said. “Don’t get arrested in the airport.”

He laughed. It was something of a standing joke, but not a very funny one, all things considered. Before she could say anything else, he was gone.

She sighed, ordered her thoughts and got on with her part of the bargain with Ben McCarthy: shopping.

One of the first things she’d taken the trouble to do, when she’d moved her operations to Kansas City, was to find the premier clothiers in town, for both men and women. She had a personal interest, of course, but there were always professional considerations. Clients to dress. Undercover agents to outfit for special assignments…

And she always did like to buy quality.

She was choosing the right suit to flatter McCarthy’s coloring and body type when she realized that she was being followed, and had been for some time.

She kept her movements slow and natural as she placed the suit back on the rack and turned to a display of French-cuffed shirts. White would make his prison-pale skin look even more translucent. She held up one the color of cream, studying it, and readjusted the focus of her eyes to the mirror a few feet away.

There was someone outside the store, looking in. He was in shadow, backlit by the morning sun, but she recognized the ill-cut suit. Detective Ken Stewart was dogging her.
Why me? Why not McCarthy?
Although the thought of Stewart infiltrating a day spa made her smile.

Stewart backed up and moved along, an easy stroll, as if he’d just been idly browsing. He was good at this. That was disturbing. She much preferred dealing with amateurs,
and professionals who had inflated ideas of their skill levels. If she hadn’t spotted him before…
You weren’t looking for a tail
, she reminded herself.
You had no reason to suspect anyone would follow you on something as mundane as this
. Maybe not, but she’d been hyperaware with the valet. It bothered her that she’d missed Stewart.

After a few more seconds another man passed the glass, this one short, fat and dressed in a dirty blue jean jacket. Shaved head. He hesitated at the door, then opened it and came in. He looked nervous, but that might have been the natural tentativeness of a man ill-used to high-end suits coming in to browse.

No. It wasn’t.

In the mirror, his eyes focused on her. Not in the way that a man normally examined her either—this was a pattern-recognition way, as if he’d been given her description. Or a photo.

She carefully put the shirt back on the table and positioned her hand close to her hip, a split second from going for the gun concealed by the tailored jacket she was wearing. She automatically swept the store for collateral victims. The clerk was positioned safely behind a counter; he’d surely duck if gunplay started. Odds were good he’d survive, unless her newcomer was carrying an Uzi, or was an incredibly poor shot. No other customers, unless they were in the dressing rooms. Nothing she could do to minimize the risks.

She balanced her weight lightly around her center, ready to shift at a moment’s notice, ready for anything, as the man made his way closer. One hand in his jacket pocket…

She’d humiliated herself with the valet. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. That meant waiting until a weapon was actually visible and identified, which would put her at a disadvantage, but…

She turned, and time slowed to a crawl.
Tick
, and his eyes were rounding in surprise.
Tick
, and her hand moved the small distance inside her own coat, her fingers touching the cool grip of her gun.

Tick
, and his right hand emerged with nightmare slowness from his pocket…

…carrying a red envelope.

Time fell back into a normal rush of color and noise, and Lucia felt her heart hammering, knew there was heat flooding her cheeks. Adrenaline was an earthquake in her veins for the second time in an hour.

The courier held out the red envelope to her. “Here you go, lady. No signature required.” He sounded spooked. She wondered how she had looked to him, in that instant when she was making the decision whether to kill him.

“Thank you,” she said, and took it. Automatic courtesy; she certainly wasn’t feeling grateful. He backed up and hurried out of the store fast enough to make the bell hung over the door clatter like a fire alarm.

She turned the envelope over in her hands, frowning down at it. The size and shape of a greeting card envelope. It felt like one sheet of paper inside. Her name was block printed on the outside; the courier had, no doubt, been told exactly when and where to find her, even though her choice of this store had been an impulse.

No point in delaying the inevitable. She reached in her purse and took out a slender little pocketknife, flipped it open and slit the side of the envelope, very carefully. Preserving what evidence there might be. She slid the paper out with a pair of tweezers from her purse and moved shirts to lay it flat on the table.

It didn’t require much scrutiny. It read, ONE OF YOU HAS MADE A MISTAKE, and the letterhead said Eido
lon Corporation—easy enough to fake, if someone went to the trouble of doing it. No signature. She held it up to the light. No watermark. No secret messages. No hints as to its meaning. “One of you”? Meaning her? Jazz? McCarthy? A member of the Cross Society? Impossible to tell. It was a meaningless taunt, a message designed to unnerve; showy, like the delivery by courier. Designed to prove that they could literally find her anywhere.

Just like the Cross Society. Presuming that someone in the Cross Society hadn’t sent it in the first place.

Stewart had been following her. Was it possible he was Eidolon? Eminently, she decided. Cross Society? She hadn’t exactly been provided with a full and forthright disclosure of their membership, but somehow she couldn’t see Ken Stewart believing in the things that the Cross Society took for granted: things like premonitions, and psychics, and the ability to alter the future.

Then again, maybe that explained the erosion she sensed in him, the jittery nervousness. The world was fraying around him, and he was unraveling with it.

She could completely sympathize.

Jazz would probably have ditched the note and pelted down the street, collared Stewart and pummeled him until she got what she wanted to know….

Jazz.

Lucia’s smile faded as she flipped open her cell phone and speed-dialed Borden’s number. He picked up on the second ring, sounding lazy and sleep-soaked. He sobered up fast when she identified herself.

“Hey. Um, good morning. What time—crap. It’s late. I overslept.”