by Rachel Caine
"And when Eidolon wanted him gone…"
"The new CEO made sure that he was taken out of the picture. I figure Simms should have been killed, but he managed to work the decision tree enough that he only got convicted and sent to prison. You'd better believe that Eidolon's been working hard to keep him there, or better yet, make sure he dies behind bars."
"How do you know all this?"
"I was in early." McCarthy shrugged and turned his beer bottle in neat, precise circles. "Simms wanted people in the Cross Society who could carry out orders, not just sit around and talk theory. I was…" He fell silent for a few seconds, eyes hooded. "I was supposed to help them make things better. But I figured out pretty fast that wasn't how it worked. You start out fighting the good fight, but pretty soon you're just fighting for your life."
"And you didn't agree."
He took a drink, then another. "I didn't say that. I'm no saint, Lucia."
"If you agreed, then why did the Cross Society put you in prison?"
"I told you. I refused to carry out an order."
"To stand by and let Jazz get killed."
His shrug was so small it could have been interpreted as fidgeting. "Hey, even a total bastard's got limits."
"So what's changed? Why let the evidence come to light to get you out?"
"Why the hell do they do anything? Their spreadsheets or Simms or whatever told them I could do something for them."
She nodded. Silence fell, broken by the clink of their bottles on the black marble counter. It seemed eerily quiet, here above the city, in this hermetically sealed building.
The buzz of the intercom made both of them jump, though McCarthy tried to look nonchalant about it.
"Pizza," she said.
She kept the gun handy anyway.
The sound McCarthy made at the first bite of pizza was like a man in the throes of—well, ecstasy. "Oh, God," he murmured. "That's just…unbelievable. Sorry, but you've got no idea how many nights I thought about—"
"Pizza?" She kept her voice cool and amused. "I'd imagine there were other things to think about."
He chewed and swallowed. Gave a Cheshire cat smile. "Pizza's the one I'm willing to talk about."
"Careful, Mr. McCarthy. I'm not on the menu."
"No question about that. Shit, I can't even afford the pizza." He blinked, and before she could feel even the first impulse to take offense, said, "And I didn't mean that the way it sounded."
She had to laugh, because his expression was priceless. "Don't worry. My dignity is hardly that fragile."
"I meant—"
"I know what you meant. Enjoy the food."
He did, wordlessly, letting out involuntary sounds now and then that strongly reminded her of other things he might have missed, during his time in Ellsworth. Which made her skin prickle and made her pulse thud faster. No. This is strictly dinner. Nothing more.
She was good at self-deception. It was why she had always been so damn good at undercover work.
He kept on watching her, as he made his way through his second beer and last slice of pizza, stealing glances when he thought she wasn't looking. She felt them like feathery touches on her skin. Her glass was dry; she debated opening another soft drink, then decided to have a beer herself. She went to the refrigerator to pull one free.
"No," he said flatly, and reached past her to close his hand around hers. She resisted the urge to drive her elbow back into his gut, mainly because the warmth of him, leaning against her, undid all her reflexes. "You're on antibiotics. No beer."
"What are you, my doctor?"
"Depends," he said. He was still pressed against her, his hand hot around hers. "Do you need examining?" His voice had dropped to a low, dark-velvet whisper, warm against the back of her neck.
She needed a whole lot of things, and it shocked her, the depth of that need. How long had it been? Nearly a year, she realized, since that business with Dallas that had turned out such a mess. Not a good memory, though the sex…no, even the sex hadn't been worth that. McCarthy made her body come alive in ways she wasn't prepared to deal with—nerves hot and tingling, skin tight and sensitive to every touch, every breath he took.
She could say no to a lot of things, and a hell of a lot of men. It came to her as an inescapable fact that she simply couldn't say no to Ben McCarthy.
The beer bottle slipped back into its place in the door of the refrigerator, and his fingers moved over hers, warm where hers were cold and trembling. Then he traced the sensitive inner side of her arm, his fingertips drawing a line of heat to her elbow, then around. He brushed her hair back in one slow, feather-soft motion, and let out his breath in a sigh that moved, moist and possessive, over her skin, across her throat. She felt her knees going weak. Her pulse pounded torturously fast. I can have this. I deserve this. Just this once. I know it's not smart. I don't care.
Without any warning, he stepped back. Far back. Cold air crept along her skin, an arctic chill, and she felt the goose-flesh he'd given her for entirely different reasons tighten in response. She shut the fridge door and turned to look.
He was walking away, his back to her, beer in his hand. Walking to the windows, where he stood staring out at the city lights and swigging beer as if his life depended on it.
"Ben…"
He tipped the bottle up and sucked down the last of the foam, then set the empty down on a table. He picked up the plastic bag that held his personal items.
When his voice sounded, it was rough and abrupt. Hard-edged. "Do they call cabs, your guys downstairs?"
"I can drive you—"
"No."
She pressed her hands to the hard marble of the countertop and willed herself—commanded herself—back to some kind of professional demeanor. There was nothing she could do about the rate of her breathing, or the flush in her cheeks, or the dilation of her pupils. But she could ignore it. "Yes," she said. "Yes, they can call a cab for you."
"Set it up, would you? I need—" He swallowed convulsively and drew the back of his hand across his mouth. "I need to pick up my car. It's getting late. And even though this motel promises to keep the light on, I'd better…" He was at a loss for words. She could sense the turmoil in him. He made an effort to put some nonchalance back in his voice. "Besides, I probably have some television viewing to catch up on. Any suggestions?"
She briefly entertained a few suggestions, but they were anatomically impossible. "You seem to enjoy baseball."
"Yeah, love it. Baseball, Mom, apple pie, though come to think of it, I always preferred peach…" He was rattled, terribly off balance, and she imagined this was something of a new experience for him. She watched him visibly take control. "You've been really kind to a down-and-out ex-con. Thanks."
It hadn't been kindness. He knew that, and she wasn't willing to humiliate herself by pointing it out. "Any time," she said. Her lips felt numb and cold. "You'll watch your back?"
"Sure. Watch yours. And—" His eyes met hers, blue and limitless and blind with the same yearning she felt. "You take care of yourself. You heard the doc. Any fever…"
"Go," she said. She didn't know why, except that she knew he desperately needed her to order him out.
He nodded and left, shutting the door behind him. She walked to the intercom and pressed the button and told Marsh her friend was coming down, and would he please call a cab.
And then she went to the couch, turned on the television and sat numbly watching baseball—which she didn't even like—well into the night, thinking.
Chapter Seven
Morning came ugly and early, with the soundtrack of a ringing phone. Lucia clawed her way out of twisted sheets and found the receiver as she swung her legs out of bed. "Yes?" she said. It came out more abrupt than she intended, but she wasn't a morning person, and nearly everyone who worked with her knew it. What few friends she had knew it extremely well.
"Jazz."
Lucia collapsed back against the pillows and threw her arm over her eyes. "Ma
nny has a result."
"No, not yet, but I figured I'd better ask you what you wanted to do about today's appointments. We have clients coming in at ten, remember? Santos Engineering? The industrial espionage thing?" Jazz was making notes; Lucia could hear the scratch of pen on paper. She felt as if she had a hangover. Her head felt stuffy. Don't be stupid. It could be anything. You could just be imagining things. "Lucia?"
"I'm thinking," she said. "Any way we can postpone?"
"Considering the state of our accounts receivable? I'm thinking no. Look, why don't I take it? Let you rest?"
"I'm fine." She wasn't. Didn't feel fine, and that worried her, but she'd had a crappy night's sleep. She didn't have a fever, at least, and that was supposed to be the first sign. "I don't want you out of Manny's place for now. Eidolon—"
"In case you missed the memo, Eidolon came after you, unless that FedEx was addressed to 'Whichever Bimbo Opens It First.'"
"Who're you calling a bimbo, chica?"
"Who're you calling chica? Ah, hell, get up, would you? Have some coffee. Call me back."
Click. Jazz and her smooth social skills. Lucia groaned and considered rolling over in the cocoon of pillows, but she knew it wouldn't do any good.
Shower. She needed a hot, cleansing shower.
On her third cup of coffee, Lucia called Jazz back and rescheduled the Santos meeting for the client's offices, on the condition that Jazz stay strictly at home.
"You're joking," Jazz retorted. "You think I'm letting you roam around by yourself? Somebody tried to poison you. Don't you get it?"
"I get it," she said, and checked the headlines on the papers that had been left at her door. "But mail poisoning isn't exactly the world's most intimate crime. It's a leap to go from that to—"
"Excuse me, but these same people—"
"How do we know it's the same people?"
"These some people put a high-powered-rifle bullet through my office window and nearly killed me! That's pretty intimate, not to mention direct! Unless you're wearing Dolce & Gabbana's spring bulletproof line—"
"Oh, Jazz, I'm so proud. A year ago you would have thought Dolce & Gabbana made chocolate bars."
"Would you let me finish?"
"No. And I'll tell you why. I'm going to the meeting, and I'm taking Omar with me. You've met him. Is he enough of a bodyguard for you?"
Jazz made some halfhearted protests, but it was mainly from being left out, which she hated. But Lucia meant what she said: until Max Simms or the Cross Society sent word that Eidolon's attention had moved on, and Jazz was no longer a target, Jazz would stay safe in Manny's home. Bunker. Whatever it was.
"Jazz," Lucia said, just when she sensed her partner was about to put down the phone. "Listen—when Manny gets the results—"
"You're the first call," Jazz said. "FBI second. Pansy's still here, by the way, and feeling fine. You?"
Lucia swallowed another mouthful of coffee and willed the aches in her muscles to go away. "Fine," she said. "I feel fine."
Omar showed up downstairs at promptly 9:00 a.m., looking big and mysterious and sexy as hell in his black slacks, black shirt and designer sunglasses, his glossy black hair carelessly curling almost to his shoulders. "Boss," he said in greeting, and uncoiled from his lounging position at the guard station, where he'd been shooting the breeze with Messrs. Tarrant and Valencia, the day shift guards. He slid the glasses up to take a good look at her. "I leave you alone for a few hours, and you go and get yourself infected."
"Yes, Omar, you could have bravely thrown yourself on the FedEx package and prevented all of this." She moved past him to the parking garage elevators. "Cheer up. Maybe you can take a bullet for me today instead."
"Don't get my hopes up," he said.
Downstairs, his gleaming black SUV was parked next to her Lexus. Illegally. "I suppose we're taking your car," she said.
"You hired me for my vast array of skills," Omar said. "Of which guarding parking garages is only one."
"Shut up and get me there."
"Testy! Not enough coffee?"
There wasn't enough coffee in the world right now to banish the headache that was pounding in her temples. She dug two aspirins out of her purse and swallowed them with a mouthful of bottled water, taken from the built-in cooler between the seats. Omar's SUV had all the comforts of first class. She was reasonably sure that should she ask for a hot meal, he'd be able to provide it out of the contents of the secret compartments.
"Headache?" he asked.
"Not enough sleep. And yes, I have antibiotics, and they don't even know what it was in the envelope yet. I’m fine." Speaking of that, she dug the antibiotics out and swallowed the next dose. It tasted bitter. She followed it with plenty of water.
He kept silent, wisely. She closed her eyes as the truck weaved through morning traffic to Overland Park. The sun seemed too bright. She checked the air vents and turned the air conditioning up.
Omar refrained from comment.
The meeting was so dull and ordinary that she coasted through it on autopilot. She smiled at appropriate places and delivered the appropriate endorsements of the ability of the private investigative firm of Callender & Garza to find their security leak. Santos was a small company. The leak wouldn't turn out to be some hard-ass spy; more likely, he or she would be a disgruntled midlevel employee, dissatisfied with his or her prospects and pay.
"The truth is," she told Erin Santos, the firm's chief operating officer, "the target is probably so scared of being caught that he or she will confess immediately, if confronted. I'd suggest some blind interviews this week. Half an hour for each of your employees over the course of two or three days. We'll find your mole." An easy five thousand. Jazz would be pleased.
"Well…" The Santos team exchanged barely concealed eager looks. "Can you do it now? Get started, anyway?"
"Sure," she said. It wouldn't take much. Some guesses, some silence, Omar lounging purposefully in the corner. "Give me the most likely suspects first. We might as well work it as a triage."
In fact, it was faster than even Lucia had anticipated. She didn't get any signs on the first two, but the third person in the door had the body language of someone walking to the electric chair. She had a confession within minutes, and was soon giving her report and leaving the board to handle the guilty employee.
Erin Santos was true to her word, and there was indeed a check cut immediately. Lucia accepted it with grave courtesy and just the right touch of distaste. Money changing hands was never to be savored in public, with a client. No matter how happy one might be later at the bank.
In the SUV again, she called Jazz and gave her the report as Omar deposited the check at a drive-in teller.
Jazz was pleased. "What're you doing now?"
"Now," she replied, slipping on her sunglasses against the relentless morning glare, "I think I will go home and get some more sleep."
"Afraid not," Jazz said. Her tone was gruesomely cheerful. "How close are you to the office?"
'Twenty minutes."
"Then swing by, would you? Security has someone there who tried to get in to see us. He seems pretty upset at finding the office shut down. Name's Leonard Davis… Hey, is Ben with you?"
"With me? Why would he be with me?"
Jazz's tone turned opaque. "Just asking. I haven't heard from him yet."
"No idea," Lucia said.
Omar was already heading in that direction when she hung up the phone.
She put her head back against the cushions and tried to nap.
There was a gangly young man seated in the lobby of the office building. He was bundled in a big gray sweatshirt and blue jeans, with a baseball cap pulled low. Lucia nodded at the two guards, who were looking tense and unhappy. One of them came to meet her.
"This Leonard Davis guy showed up about thirty minutes ago," he said. "Wanted to see somebody from your firm. I told him the company was shut down for renovations, but he didn't want to leave. Acting weird, I gotta
tell you. You want I should call the cops?"
"No, let me talk to him first," Lucia said, and exchanged a glance with Omar. He moved off to the side, apparently lounging, but he had a clear line of fire if necessary. Lucia walked toward the man.
He didn't budge. Didn't even look up until the last moment of her approach. He had a regular face, squarely middle of the dial between handsome and homely. Medium brown hair. Dark eyes, narrow, with no particular impact to them.
"Mr. Davis," she said, and sank down into one of the leather guest chairs on the opposite side of the glass table. "You wanted to see someone from Callender & Garza?"
"Yeah, I did. I didn't think you guys were here—"
"We're temporarily officing elsewhere. What's so urgent?"
He took off the ball cap in an awkward gesture of gentility, and offered his hand. She shook it. "I'm real sorry to be trouble, but I really needed—look, it's my wife. I need to find her, and I was told you might be able to help me."
"Do you mind if I ask who sent you?"
"A Detective, ah, Brown? I have his card somewhere…" He patted his pockets and came up with a KCPD business card. Welton Brown. Lucia recognized the name—one of Jazz's contacts in the department. A detective with a solid reputation. "Anyway, I don't know where else to go. I mean, I've been looking, but nobody seems to have seen her."
"Slow down," Lucia said, and kept her body language friendly and open. "Tell me what happened, from the beginning."
He took a deep breath and put his baseball hat back on. His sweatshirt proclaimed him a fan of the Kansas City Chiefs. Nike cross-trainers on his feet. He looked athletic, and the watch on his wrist was a sturdy, waterproof sports model. No reason at all for her alarm bells to be clanging. He was nothing but vanilla, through and through.
He said, "It's my wife, Susannah. She, ah, she's missing. I mean, she didn't come home from work on Thursday. I went crazy looking for her."
"And you went to the police." Lucia held up Welton Brown's card.
Leonard Davis nodded. "Sure. The next morning, when I couldn't find her at any of the usual spots."