by Rachel Caine
Experience
Former Special Agent, Office of Special Investigations, USAF. Accomplished over 800 criminal investigations with a primary focus on drug enforcement.
Former USAF Security Police Officer, Law Enforcement Supervisor. Duties involved military law enforcement, traffic investigation, crime-scene processing, and a member of several Special Weapons & Tactics Units.
Former Security Manager, Helios Aircraft—Special Projects Division. Security oversight of 300 scientists and engineers working on “Black” Top Secret Projects.
USAF OSI Academy, Washington, D.C.
FBI Special Weapons and Tactics (SWAT), Ft. Riley, KS
Federal Polygraph School, Ft. McClellan, AL
Texas State Police Certification, Ft. Worth, TX
Federal Undercover Agents Course, Washington, D.C.
Antiterrorism and Defensive-Driving Course, Summit Point, WV
“Damn,” Jazz murmured. “If you made this up, you’ve got some balls, James Borden. These are serious credentials. I think they stick you in prison for even thinking about making this stuff up.”
“She’s good,” Borden agreed, blowing on his pseudo-coffee. “You should talk to her.”
“Assuming she’s not made of—” Jazz waved the résumé “—paper.”
This time, he refused to take the bait, and just smiled. Slightly. “From everything I’ve read about you, you’re supposed to be one hell of a detective. Call her up. Judge for yourself.”
“I’d rather talk to her face-to-face.” Always a better read off of people, looking in their eyes, seeing their body language. She realized that by saying it, she’d admitted she was interested, felt a bolt of anger at herself, and watched Borden take a noncommittal sip. “Unless that’s a problem.” Her voice had taken on that mutinous edge again. She didn’t like being manipulated.
He didn’t seem to care. “You’d need to work that out with Lucia. Look, my flight back’s in about three hours, and you know what security’s like these days. I need to clean up, get my ribs checked, change out of this—” he gestured at the outfit, which really, now that she’d gotten used to it, wasn’t half-bad “—and get to the airport. So, Jazz, in or out, please. Laskins is going to want an answer when I hit the ground at JFK.”
“I’ll call you.”
“Seriously. The minute I touch down, my boss will be bugging me for an answer.”
She flicked the card with her fingernail. “Your cell phone’s on here?”
“Yeah. But…”
“I have to check it out and think about it.”
“Can I at least tell him—”
“You can tell Mr. Laskins that I think he’s probably full of crap, but I’ll check the information out,” she said. “And if anything—anything—doesn’t smell right about this, I’ll shred this check, send you the remains, and come to do the same to the both of you. How’s that?”
She saw a genuine spark of humor flare in his eyes and liked him a lot, in that second.
“It sounds like a threat,” Borden said. “And I take it seriously. I saw you put those guys down. That took, what, ten seconds? Maybe fifteen?”
She took a big gulp of coffee to sober up from the wattage in his smile. “The whiskey slowed me down.”
Chapter 2
B orden left, heading for the airport or the hospital or maybe going to shake down the homeless guy for his thousand-dollar leather jacket; she was actually sorry to see him go. Maybe. A little.
She caught herself taking deep breaths, soaking up the remaining few hints of his aftershave, and mentally kicked herself. You don’t need this, she told herself. Really. Your life is way too complicated as it is.
And it wasn’t like she didn’t have other things to think about, for God’s sake. A sister she hadn’t talked to in six months after their last fight. A father puttering around on the family farm, still vital but growing old. A brother in the Navy who deserved a few more letters at the very least. She had a life.
Come on, Jazz. Having a family doesn’t mean you have a life. Only relatives.
She eyed the letter again, fingered the check, reread the résumé. Folded everything together and stuck it back into the red envelope, then tucked it in her waistband, under the sweatshirt. She worked her knuckles experimentally and found that the bruising was pretty minimal—funny, she didn’t even remember throwing a punch, but that was how fights worked—and the abraded skin would be okay after a day or two. All in all, not the worst bar fight she’d ever had.
Kinda fun, actually. She wondered if that made her dangerous, or just masochistic.
She fished her cell phone out of its cradle on her belt, hesitated, and then dialed the number on the résumé.
Two rings on the other end. Three. And then a brisk, contralto voice said, “Diga-me.”
“Lucia Garza?”
“Yes. Who’s this?” The tone was courteous but not welcoming.
If I hang up now…hell, she’ll still have my number. Jazz took in a breath and said, as professionally as possible, “My name is Jazz Callender. I got a letter from—”
“Gabriel, Pike & Laskins?” Lucia finished. “Yeah, me, too. It said you’d be calling. Something about a partnership agreement.”
Jazz went still and felt her eyes half close as she thought it through. “You must have gotten my résumé, then. I got yours.”
“I did.” Nothing in the voice at all, and certainly no approval or offers of friendship. Lucia liked to keep her feelings to herself. “I apologize, but this is very strange for me. I’m uncomfortable with talking to a stranger on the phone about—”
“You’re uncomfortable? Join the club. I just had my evening interrupted by some lawyer with a cock-and-bull story and a nice-looking—” she edited her usually street-worthy vocabulary with a conscious switch “—presentation. How do you know these people? You owe them money, or what?”
She didn’t mean to lash out, exactly, but Lucia’s careful, measured voice had pissed her off.
“I don’t,” Lucia replied. The voice was still level and calm, but there was a floor of steel underneath. “And I don’t know them any more than I know you, Detective.”
“Former detective,” Jazz shot back. “Which you’d know, if you’d read the damn résumé.”
There was a brief, dark silence, and then Lucia’s cool voice. “A word of advice, Former Detective, there’s no need to take your anger out on me.”
“What?”
“You’re obviously angry at being manipulated, and—”
“Great. A fucking psychologist, you are.”
“Don’t interrupt me.”
“Excuse me?”
“Apparently no one’s ever explained that it’s rude,” Lucia said. “Like your general attitude.”
“Are you done? Because I don’t want to interrupt your apology, which I’m sure is coming any second now.”
“This isn’t going to work for me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t like you.”
“Well, I don’t find you a bowl of cherries, either, Lucy!”
She was talking to dead air. Lucia Garza had hung up on her.
Shit.
Jazz angrily slapped the cell phone back on her belt, tossed the coffee cups and headed home. It was a six-block walk, and night had well and truly fallen; overhead, stars struggled to outshine the blank glare of streetlights. Kansas City wasn’t much of a walking town in this part of the city; it was a mostly industrial area, and while there were plenty of cars, she was the only one on the sidewalk.
That was all right, she was probably better off on her own just now. She walked faster, burning off adrenaline and anger, feeling the red envelope hot against her stomach.
Just as well, she told herself. This was a total waste of time, anyway. Why the hell would a lawyer from New York fly all the way out to the sticks to hand-deliver something like this? And get the hell beat out of him in the process? What had he really been after? She
hadn’t given him anything, except a promise to think it over and call him.
A nonprofit organization? What the hell was she, some kind of charity case? What did they want?
He’d been told where to find her. How was that even remotely possible? He had to have followed her…but if she’d failed to notice a guy in that outfit following her on a deserted street, she was worse off than she’d thought. The jingle of chains alone should have given him away. He sounded like Santa Claus’s sleigh.
But if he hadn’t followed her, then how had they known where to find her? She’d never been to Sol’s. They—whoever they were—couldn’t have just sent him there, it was impossible. No, he must have followed her, she decided. Either he was a lot better than she thought, or she’d been preoccupied with her own distress and had just plain dropped the ball.
Mystery solved.
Well, not quite. What had all that drama achieved, exactly? Why would they have put on the whole dog-and-pony show in the first place?
To get me to call Lucia Garza.
She stopped walking, frozen in her tracks as her mind raced. Maybe that was all they’d wanted. If Garza was dirty, she’d just had a minutes-long conversation that was on her cell phone records, and dammit, this could have been a setup, couldn’t it? The cops who’d put away McCarthy were still on her ass, looking for any reason to pull her in for questioning. She’d had the fight in the bar. Borden—if his name was really Borden—would be tough to find, if all this was just an elaborate scheme. Maybe the paper and the check weren’t genuine. Shit, for all she knew, they’d had them printed up under her own name.
Paranoia, she told herself, and forced herself to start breathing again. You just saw McCarthy today. That makes you paranoid, and you know it.
Ben McCarthy had told her to watch her back. She should’ve listened to him. Yeah, listen to the convicted murderer. Good plan.
She wished the sarcastic monitor in her head would shut the hell up. McCarthy was no murderer. The case had been a crock of shit, and in time, they’d figure it out, have him exonerated and released from that hellhole. McCarthy had been a good partner and a hell of a cop, and he wasn’t guilty. Couldn’t be guilty, because if he was, that meant she was a poor enough judge of character not to have realized that her own partner, her friend, had calmly pulled the trigger on three people and then walked away, covered it up, and lied for nearly a year. And used her to do it.
Stop thinking about Ben. That was why she’d gone to Sol’s. It was a kind of punishment she meted out to herself for making the trip to Ellsworth. She always felt safer and stronger there, talking to him; he could always make her believe that the world was wrong and the two of them were right.
It was only after she got out into that wrong world again that she began to doubt, and the darkness started to creep in, and she felt the guilt and shame and horror again.
And went in search of something to drown it in.
Even if McCarthy was right, that didn’t improve things for her, because if they could get to him, they could get to anyone. She wished she could call him. If his enemies had set this up, then she needed McCarthy’s clarity of mind to tell her what it meant.
Right now, it was just a heap of fragmented facts looking for context. McCarthy had always been the logical one, the one to meticulously pick through the pile and fit pieces together until the picture started forming….
Her cell phone rang. She grabbed for it, startled, and checked the number before thumbing it on.
Lucia Garza was calling her back.
“Yeah?” she asked cautiously.
“Look, I’m sorry. It’s Jazz, right?”
“Yeah,” Jazz said, and started walking again.
“I got out of line, and I apologize. It is strange, though, don’t you agree?”
“I do.” She struggled with it for a few seconds, and admitted, “I was out of line, too.”
Another brief silence. “You think you’re being played?”
“Probably.”
“Yeah, me, too.” The sound of papers rustling. “I don’t like this phone thing. It’s a paper trail. They can interpret it however they want.”
“They, who?” Jazz asked.
“They anybody.”
“You’re not paranoid—”
“If they’re really out to get you,” Lucia finished. “Sorry for interrupting.”
“Hey, that’s your freak, not mine. Me, I hate being lied to.”
This time, she did hear an emotion in the voice. “We have something in common after all.”
“So.” Sol’s was ahead. Jazz quickened her pace to get past it faster. “You want to do this thing? Talk face-to-face?”
There was a long, silent pause, and then, “I don’t know. Yes. I think so. Otherwise—”
“There’s a check,” Jazz said. “I have it, it’s made out to us both. For a hundred grand.”
“For a what?”
“One…hundred…thousand…dollars.”
“I didn’t think you meant cents,” Lucia said. “Is it good?”
“I’ll check it tomorrow, but yeah, I’m kind of leaning toward the idea it is.”
“Why?”
She couldn’t really say, until she tried to put it into words. “The guy they sent. He was…credible.”
“Really,” Lucia said doubtfully. “If we’re thinking about any of this, I will insist on seeing the law firm. In New York. And talking to this lawyer you met, face-to-face.”
Something lightened in Jazz’s guts, because those were the exact same steps she would have taken, in Lucia’s position. “Yeah,” she agreed. “Sounds good.”
“But first, we need to meet. In person.”
“When?”
There was a pause, and then Lucia said, with a hint of a laugh in that smooth, professional voice, “What’re you doing tomorrow?”
“Wait…you’re in Washington, right?”
“I travel,” she said. “Happens that I’m in transit right now after a case in Dallas. I can reroute through K.C. Can you meet me at the airport?”
“Sure.” This was moving a little fast, but hell, Jazz’s schedule for tomorrow had mostly been devoted to sobering up from tonight. “Call me with the flight number.”
“Jazz,” Lucia said. “You hate Jasmine, right?”
“Wouldn’t you? Fucking Disney movies.”
Lucia laughed and hung up without saying goodbye.
Jazz clipped the cell phone back on her belt and walked the rest of the way to her apartment in silence, thinking.
Then she wrote her brother a letter.
Just in case.
The call came at seven-thirty the next morning. Jazz was already up, showered and dressed, making her shaggy hair look a little less like a mop and more like an actual style. In honor of Lawyer Borden, she’d used hair gel. She’d chosen a plain brown shirt, blue jeans, and her ubiquitous cop shoes, deliberately unimpressive but clean and neat. ID and the red envelope in her purse, along with paperwork that showed she’d been a decorated Kansas City police detective, until six months ago.
She’d included the paperwork about the retirement, too, but she figured that if Garza was anything like she sounded, she’d already have the full story from three credible sources.
At the first chirp of the cell phone, Jazz picked it up and said, “Garza?”
“Holá,” the other woman responded. She didn’t sound awake. “It’s early.”
“And here I figured you for a morning person.”
“Not even close. Look, my plane’s landing at ten-thirty. Meet you at baggage claim, right?”
“Flight number?” Jazz wrote it down, clicked the on-off switch on the pen nervously, and then said, “How will I recognize you?”
“I’ll be the one standing on one leg, singing ‘The Star Spangled Banner,’” Lucia said grumpily. “We’re cops, right? We’ve got to have a sign?”
True enough.
Jazz put out food for Mooch the Cat, petted her on t
he way out the door, and went to bail the car out of the parking prison where she stored it.
The drive out to Kansas City International was about fifteen miles, but it took longer, of course; traffic on Broadway, then on I-29. Jazz hated driving. Other drivers made her crazy. McCarthy had always gotten behind the wheel when they’d gone on calls, picked her up at her apartment, navigated the streets with casual ease and no sign at all of irritation. When she’d been forced to do it, she’d been a snarling bundle of nerves, arrived at crime scenes angry and wired. It had been a job for McCarthy to calm her down….
She flicked the thought of Ben out of her head, hit the turn signal, and exited for MCI. Parking was a nightmare, of course. She hated that, too. And parking garages. She ended up taking a distant spot, because she damn sure wasn’t cruising the lot for anything closer. The walk would help her calm down, anyway; she didn’t want to meet Lucia Garza looking sweaty and wild-eyed.
She checked her watch. Ten-thirty on the dot. A couple of jets were coming in for landings; unless there had been a miracle and the plane was early, she should be right on time.
Jazz followed the signs to baggage claim. She arrived at ten-forty, just as the flight number flashed on the screen and one of the carousels began to clunk out luggage to a growing crowd of travelers.
She scanned the group without focusing on anyone in particular. Nobody stood out.
No. Someone did. Jazz fixed on a woman who was standing very still, watching luggage bump its way around the segmented track. Her arms were crossed, and she was leaning against a pillar. There was a single black laptop bag over her shoulder and a black ripstop nylon backpack between her feet.
Jazz’s cop brain relentlessly photographed her, chronicling long dark hair, glossy and straight; a model’s golden, flawless skin. She was tall, long-legged, and dressed in what looked like a designer black pantsuit with a close-fitting white shirt under the coat.
As Jazz watched her, the woman’s head turned, and her dark eyes fastened on Jazz. The same merciless evaluation, fast and accurate. Jazz wondered what the final catalog entry had been, but then Lucia pushed off and walked confidently through the crowd.