Devil’s Bargain Page 4

  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.

  They both stopped, regarded each other for a few seconds, and then Lucia extended her hand. No rings on her fingers. Short, well-maintained French-manicured fingernails with plain gloss polish. Jazz felt like a clumsy lump of dough next to her, but she held eye contact as she shook, feeling strength in the grip but no challenge.

  “Hey,” Lucia said simply.

  “Hey,” she replied. They both stepped back and considered each other for a moment, and then Lucia smiled. It was a cop’s smile—cynical, secretly amused, as familiar to Jazz as breathing.

  “Nice to meet you,” Lucia said. “Let’s find a place to talk.”

  They settled in some bright orange battered preformed chairs at the rear of baggage claim, out of the way of the loitering travelers. Lucia crossed her legs, rested an arm on the back of an empty seat and kept scanning the crowd. She looked casual and elegant, and very alert.

  “Good flight?” Jazz asked. Lucia made a so-so gesture. “Nice weather?”

  “Fair skies.”

  “Good. Now that we’ve got the small talk out of the way…” Jazz pulled the envelope from her pocket, handed over the letter and the check, and watched Lucia read them. Lucia, immediately absorbed, dug a similar red envelope from her bag and handed it absently on, as well. Jazz scanned it. Apart from the fact that this one had been mailed from New York, had a different home address, and didn’t include a check, it was pretty much the same song and dance.

  Lucia’s carefully manicured fingernail flicked the check.

  “It’s genuine,” Jazz said. “I called the bank this morning.”

  “Shit.”

  “No kidding.”

  Lucia shuffled the pages to her résumé. Her dark eyes widened, and she shot Jazz a look.

  “What?” Jazz asked.

  She held up the paper. “This isn’t the public résumé. This one’s what I give to enforcement agencies. It’s got confidential information on it.”

  “So how did these guys get hold of it?”

  Lucia shook her head. “Last place I sent this résumé to was the FBI.”

  Jazz raised her eyebrows. “They turned you down?”

  “Not yet.” She shrugged. “But I’m not so sure I want to go back into government service right now. I’d like to do something with a few less rules. So, you said this guy seemed credible to you? How so?”

  Jazz thought about Borden, his geeky leathers, his soft, sharply intelligent eyes. Maybe the getup hadn’t been clueless, after all. Maybe he’d been deliberately concealing just how smart he was.

  “Just a feeling,” she said. “But then, I’m not always the best judge of character.”

  She flung it out there to see if Lucia would react, and she did, looking up and locking eyes with her for a few deep seconds before turning her attention back to the paper.

  “I assume you’re referring to your partner,” Lucia said quietly. “Yes. I know he was convicted.”

  Sitting in that airless courtroom, watching the jury shuffle and fidget in their chairs, watching them avoiding McCarthy’s eyes, Jazz had known before the forewoman read out the verdict. She’d known, and Ben had known, too. Twenty-five years in prison. He’d be an old man when he got out. If he ever did. Cops were hunted in there, and Ben had always needed somebody to guard his back.

  “He’s not guilty,” Jazz said, mostly just to hear herself say it, to hear how it sounded out loud after all these months.

  Lucia didn’t look up. “You’re sure of that?”

  “Yes.”

  “The evidence looked pretty damning on paper.”

  “Lots of guys on death row with paper evidence,” Jazz shot back, feeling something tighten in her guts. “McCarthy didn’t kill anybody. I’d have—”

  Known. That was the mantra that rocked her to sleep at night. I’d have known. All those nights, sitting together, talking, pouring out our lives to each other, I’d have known if he was capable of cold-blooded murder.

  Lucia didn’t comment again. She finally looked up and said, “What do you think about all this?”

  Jazz shrugged. “I think it’s worth a conversation.”

  “Because?” Those elegantly shaped dark eyebrows rose just a little.

  “Because even though you shop at Ann Taylor for your suits, I can’t afford to. I need the money. And I need to set up shop with decent resources so I can find out what happened to McCarthy, and maybe keep it from happening to me.” Jazz glared at her, daring her to find fault. “I need the money. That’s it.”

  Lucia’s lips curved into a smile. “That’s it? You’re not curious?”

  “About?”

  “How someone came to learn so much about us. About how they had my home address, which is not something just anyone can learn, believe me. I guard my privacy closely. About how they knew you needed the money, and I needed the challenge.”

  Unwillingly, Jazz thought about the tinkle of the bell at Sol’s, and James Borden arriving in his un-apropos leather with a message addressed to her. “And how they knew where I’d be,” she said. “They know a hell of a lot.”

  “More than I think either of us is comfortable with,” Lucia finished. “At least until we know just how they got their information, and why.”

  It was like talking to a mirror, Jazz thought. A mirror in which she was better-looking, taller, had better clothes, and knew how to apply lipstick.

  Lucia was smiling at her, eyes shining with something that might have been similar feeling, but then her eyes wandered past Jazz, focused on something behind her. Jazz resisted the urge to turn as the woman’s smile shut down and left her face blank and watchful.

  “Did you bring backup?”

  “What? Hell, no. Who would I bring?” She wasn’t exactly rolling in allies at the moment.

  “Two men have been watching us since we met,” Lucia said. “Were you followed?”

  “What is this, I Spy? I don’t know. I don’t usually look for tails when I go on perfectly innocent meetings.”

  “If it was perfectly innocent,” Lucia said patiently, “your lawyer friend wouldn’t have gone through this cloak-and-dagger routine to put us together, now, would he? Disgraced former detective and a national security risk?”

  “Excuse me?” Her hackles came up at the disgraced part. She thought about the second part of Lucia’s question a second later, with a blink of surprise. “National security what?”

  “Let’s just say that there are things I know that the government would rather I didn’t. Being watched is nothing new for me.”

  “Then maybe these guys are your problem, not mine.”

  “Except they followed you into baggage claim.” Lucia’s body language hadn’t altered at all—still languid and relaxed. “Let’s try something. You get up and walk away. Go to the bathroom. Don’t look back. I’m going to head outside to the taxi stand. Let’s see who they tag.”

  Jazz frowned. “I thought we were going to talk about this deal.”

  “And we will. Later.” Lucia uncoiled herself from the chair and held out her hand. Jazz, rising, automatically took it. “Watch your back.”

  “But—”

  Too late. The woman was walking away, parting the crowd with the sheer force of her personality. Jazz shoved her hands in her pockets, rocked back and forth on her heels for a second, and then took off at right angles, heading for the bathroom. Her peripheral vision found the two men—identical buzz cuts, one blond, one brown. Both had the fit look of guys who could run down a suspect
without any trouble.

  She walked right past them, but they didn’t follow. In fact, they didn’t follow Lucia, either. They stayed where they were.

  She risked a glance back as she pushed open the restroom door. One of them was talking into his sleeve. Hidden microphone, very government-issue.

  She fished her cell phone out of the cradle, hit Recall and found the number, then dialed.

  “Yes?” Lucia’s cool voice.

  “They’ve got radios. There are probably spotters on you out there. Watch yourself.”

  “Did they follow you?”

  “Not into the ladies’ room. Hang on.” Jazz uncoiled the earpiece and plugged it in, hooked the cell back in its cradle. “I want my hands free.”

  “Good idea.” Lucia sounded amused. “I’m staying in plain sight. At least it’s difficult to start trouble in an airport these days.”

  “Yeah, let’s hope. So. What’s the plan?”

  “I don’t know that I have one, actually.”

  “We can’t hang out here all day. When you think it’s safe, hail a cab and take it to my apartment.” She gave her the address. As she was telling her cross streets, the door to the restroom banged open; Jazz stopped talking and began washing her hands, staring into the mirror.

  “Jazz?” Lucia’s voice buzzed in her ear. “Someone with you?”

  The woman who walked around the corner looked sleek and businesslike, wearing a tailored black jacket and black jeans, but there was something in her eyes, something…

  “Is something wrong?” Lucia asked.

  Jazz reached for a towel. As she bent over, the woman angled toward her, moving fast.

  “Might be,” Jazz said, and ducked.

  The punch—intended for the back of her neck—sailed past to crash into glass. Jazz spun, still crouching, and drove the heel of her hand into the woman’s solar plexus, sending her flying and gasping for air. She moved for the door—

  And it opened to admit the two crew cuts from baggage claim.

  “Hey!” Jazz said loudly. “This is the ladies’ room, guys—”

  One of them grabbed for her arm. She danced backward, almost tripped over the woman, who was coming to her feet with a brutal look on her face, and retreated to the empty narrow area between the stalls and the wall. Not a lot to work with, but at least it was defensible, they could only come at her one at a time, and, Jesus, how had she gotten into this mess, anyway? She’d been minding her own business, dammit, drinking her whiskey and drowning her sorrows, and now she was about to get the crap beaten out of her in a bathroom for a woman she’d barely met and a check she hadn’t even cashed.

  Lucia Garza said in her ear, “I’m coming. Don’t do anything brave.”

  “Don’t worry,” Jazz said out loud, and ducked a punch. “Brave is definitely not my style.”

  The bathroom was just too narrow for a decent fight, but at least it meant they couldn’t use their numbers effectively, either. She backed up into the narrow aisle in front of the stalls until her back was against cold tile and snap-kicked toward the face of the man coming at her. It was a feint. When he flinched, she hooked her foot behind the bend of his left knee and pulled. His head hit the wall with a thick sound, and he went to one knee.

  She put him down with a fist to the temple.

  She looked up to see a blur coming at her and instinctively put up a parrying arm. The kick caught her on the forearm, and damn, it hurt; she gritted her teeth against the urge to yelp, wrapped her arm around the foot that had just come at her and yanked. Hard.

  Girlfriend in the pantsuit slipped and nearly went down, caught herself and shifted her weight forward, slamming Jazz back against the wall, then breaking free with a twist of her hip.

  Nobody had a gun, knife, or even a taser. That was good, Jazz thought. Any kind of weapon would have ended this quick and ugly. At least this way, she’d have a much slower defeat. Time for lots of things to happen, including miracles.

  The second man shoved the woman out of the way and lunged to fasten his hands around Jazz’s throat. He ran into her fist with his Adam’s apple instead and fell back, gagging.

  As if they’d gotten some secret signal, all three of her attackers suddenly stopped, backed off—even the one still shaking off her whack to his temple—and just looked at her.

  It was weird.

  No, it was creepy.

  “Later,” the woman said, and moved to the door. The two men followed her. Single file, straight out into the airport.

  Thirty seconds later, the door banged open, and Lucia Garza entered, looking ready for anything—hands up, weight balanced on the balls of her feet, which in those shoes was something of an accomplishment. She looked around in a lightning-fast analysis, then focused on Jazz and raised her eyebrows in an eloquent what the hell? motion.

  “Party’s over,” Jazz said breathlessly. She was shaking, buzzing all over. Strangely ecstatic. She swiped the back of her hand across her mouth, looking for blood, and remembered that they hadn’t actually laid a hand on her. Well, girlfriend in the pantsuit had kicked like a mule…Jazz skinned up her shirtsleeve and looked at the impact mark. Yep, that was going to bruise like a son of a bitch.

  “What the hell happened?” Lucia asked.

  “You tell me, you’re the superspy. When people attack me, it’s usually during the commission of a felony, not just because I took the wrong sink in the ladies’ room.” Jazz pushed away from the support of the tile wall and walked to the mirror.

  Her face was vivid and flushed, her eyes fever-bright. Even her hair looked better.

  Damn, she enjoyed this stuff. That was probably sick.

  “You,” Lucia said, as if she’d read her mind, “need a hobby. Something nonviolent. Maybe macramé.” She sounded amused, though. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Yeah,” Jazz agreed. “Probably a good idea.”

  Walking with Lucia wasn’t like walking alone. For one thing, Jazz was used to blending in, slumping, avoiding people’s eyes. McCarthy had always laughed about it, called her a chameleon; he’d had the traditional cop presence and radiated an implicit threat even when sitting and reading the newspaper. But then, McCarthy hadn’t worked undercover. She had.

  Lucia Garza’s aura was more like a runway model’s. She drew stares as she stalked through the baggage-claim area, lean and elegant in her designer clothes. Jazz still felt invisible, but not in a good way. Next to Lucia Garza, most women would fade into wallpaper.

  “Which way?” Lucia asked, sliding on sunglasses as they exited the building. Jazz nodded toward the distant parking lot. She wished she’d thought to pack some shades, but then, hers would have been clunky blue-blockers from a flea market. Lucia’s had the sleek, finished look of sculpture and probably cost more than a car. Not that she was comparing or anything.

  Lucia’s bag went into the trunk, and Jazz scanned the area for signs of her restroom visitors. Nobody in sight. She had a prickling on the back of her neck, though, and wasn’t surprised when Lucia, opening the passenger side, said, “They’re watching us.”

  “Where?” Jazz ducked inside. They slammed doors at the same moment. Lucia jerked her chin a bare quarter inch in the direction of a white panel van sitting on the garage roof about five hundred yards away. As Jazz looked at it, it silently backed out of sight. “Son of a bitch. Okay, I give up. What the hell is going on?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, you know more than I do!”

  Lucia brushed long, dark hair back with a distracted air, and frowned. “I picked up a tail at the hotel in Dallas,” she said. “Nothing obvious, but it was there. Professionals, like the guys in the airport just now. I don’t know who they’re working for. Although I have no idea why professionals would try to take you out in such a risky public setting.”

  “Maybe it isn’t about me at all. Maybe it was related to your case. Whatever it is you’re working.” She didn’t ask, but she left the door open in case Lucia wanted to
share.

  She should have known better. “No. It’s not germane,” Lucia said. “That was all done when these people showed up. And they arrived within an hour of the letter arriving at my hotel. Those things have to be connected, especially if they’re here, following you, as well.”

  Jazz started the car and backed out of the parking space.

  “Where are we going?” Lucia asked.

  “I don’t know about you,” Jazz replied, “but I’m already tired of being the one who doesn’t know anything. I intend to change that.”

  She drove downtown, to the business district, then off into a less Fortune 500, more industrial neighborhood. Office buildings went from sky-piercing steel and glass to squat, square, converted warehouses. She pulled in at the grimy curb next to one and picked up her cell phone. As Lucia watched silently, she paged through numbers until she found the one she wanted and connected.

  “Yeah?” A cautious voice on the other end.

  “Manny, open up,” she said. “It’s Jazz. I need an opinion.”

  “Drive-through’s closed.”

  “Give me a break.”

  “You didn’t pay me for the last opinion.”

  “I thought that was a freebie!”

  “Jazz, Jazz…I don’t give freebies and you know it.”

  “Fine, I’ll pay you this time. Double.”

  Silence. He hung up. Jazz waited for a few seconds, and smiled as the grimy garage door a few yards down the street began rattling slowly up.

  As soon as her car passed under it, the door reversed course and began jerking and clattering back down again. Manny didn’t like open doors. “Who’s Manny?” Lucia asked. She didn’t sound bothered, for which Jazz had to give her points. If the situation had been reversed, Jazz was pretty sure she’d have been firing off questions every ten seconds and jumping at every noise.

  “Old friend,” Jazz said, which didn’t really answer anything, and killed the engine. She kept the headlights running, bathing the big concrete room in white light. The few spotlights were feeble and far between. Manny also wasn’t big on paying electric bills.