Devil's Due (14 page)

“Jazz,” she said. Her partner brushed shag-cut blond hair back from her eyes and bustled around the kitchen, bitching about overpriced, overcomplicated appliances. Her black T-shirt was tucked in and clung to her curves;
whether Jazz recognized it or not, she had a gorgeous, elegant line to her. Broad shoulders, curving hips, a not inconsiderable bustline. More than that, she just looked…strong. Strong and—now that she’d abandoned the ill-fitting men’s flannel shirts and baggy jeans—female, without being in the least feminine.

“This thing’s broken,” Jazz said mutinously, staring at the high-tech coffeemaker. Jazz preferred one-button models. Lucia was reasonably certain that hers could navigate a spacecraft to Mars, if adequately programmed.

“No, it isn’t,” she said. “It’s just temperamental. Jazz, I need you to listen to me for a minute.”

Her partner paused in the act of spooning grounds into the filter. “Yeah?”

“Something happened last night.”

“McCarthy brought you home.” Jazz snapped the filter basket shut and punched buttons. Nothing happened. She slapped the coffeemaker with an open palm, frowning. Lucia sighed, got up and pressed the right button. The machine began a soft chuffing. “Yeah, I know. You can skip the details.”

“No. No, Ben—didn’t stay. He just saw me home. Something else happened.”

“What?”

“I had an unexpected visitor.”

That drew Jazz’s total attention. “Here? I mean, I know it’s not Manny’s Fortress of Solitude, but it’s got ambassadorial security. Who?”

How could she explain it, exactly? “It was someone I once knew. His name is Gregory Valentin Ivanovich—”

“I remember the name. You saw it in the files about the Cross Society.”

Lucia blinked. “What?”

“The first day we were in Borden’s office, and you jimmied the lock on his file drawer. Ivanovich’s name was on a list of people employed by the Cross Society. You said he was somebody you recognized.”

She barely remembered it. Jazz, it seemed, had a rare gift for memory. “Gregory came to warn me that the Cross Society means to set us up. Set you up, I mean. This morning.”

Jazz took it with a shocking lack of surprise, and a shrug. “I don’t doubt it,” she muttered, and came to sit next to Lucia. “I’m not exactly a good little soldier. I mean, come on. Wouldn’t they rather have people who follow orders, in something this complicated? You start knowing too much—”

“You start questioning the right and wrong of things. Like we’ve already done.”

“Like Borden does, too.” Jazz frowned at the coffeemaker, which didn’t really deserve it, since it was doing its job. “That’s why you’re strapped? Because you think our buddies at the red envelope factory are out to get me?”

“Yes.”

“L., I’ve been assuming that from the very beginning,” she said. “Makes no difference if one of your oh-so-mysterious ex-boyfriends shows up to point a spotlight at it.”

Lucia smiled wearily. “The only difference is that he was very precise about it being this morning.”

“You trust this guy?”

She considered that very carefully. “In certain specifics, yes. And I think he was telling me the truth as he knew it.”

Jazz raised her eyebrows. “Huh. That sounds not very convincing.” She looked toward the coffeemaker, which had started filling the carafe. “That thing have a sensor so you can take the pot out and it won’t pee all over the burner?”

“Yes.”

“Figures.” Jazz filled two cups and put the carafe back in place. The machine continued its puffing, hissing work. She carried the cups over and handed Lucia one. “Listen to me, okay? I don’t care what kind of doomful signs of the apocalypse are on the horizon. You’re going into the hospital and you’re going to rest. End of story. Now go take off the gun and pack your bag. Consider me forewarned. You know for damn sure I’m always forearmed.”

Lucia eyed the time. It was going on 9:00 a.m. now, and Gregory had been quite specific. Morning. Assuming he had been truthful, and that came down to her instincts.

“I’ll stay with you until noon,” she said. “No negotiations,
chica
. I mean it. I’m not letting you run around un-chaperoned. Three hours won’t make any difference. They can strap me to the bed and give me whatever they want this afternoon.”

“Lucia…”

Jazz, she saw, was close to exasperation. Lucia reached across and captured her hand. Jazz’s fingers were slack with surprise.

“You shot someone yesterday,” Lucia said. “The second man in a few weeks.”

Jazz’s eyes flew up to meet hers. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“Is that why you’re mother-henning me?”

“No, dammit, I’m mother-henning you because you need it! Because you—you did the same thing for me. Remember?”

She did. She remembered Jazz, white around the lips, barely able to move after surgery to remove a bullet, determined to try to go about the business of her life.

She stared at Jazz for long seconds, and then said, “My
life is my own, Jazz. As is yours. But please, let me do this one thing before I give up control. All right?”

Jazz swallowed, looked away and nodded. “We keep it to a minimum, then. Far as I’m concerned, we don’t do anything that puts either one of us in danger. We can hang out here and watch TV until noon—”

The telephone rang. Jazz’s eyes went dark and shadowed, and she grabbed it before Lucia could reach for it. “Yeah,” she snapped. Her body language shifted, from resistant to cautiously open. “For me? You’re sure? Okay. I’ll be right down.”

She hung up and looked at Lucia, who frowned. “Down for what?”

“Delivery. FedEx, for me.”

“Let’s consider the last FedEx I opened, shall we?
Carefully
.”

“It’s like the lotto. Can’t win if you don’t play.” Jazz grabbed her jacket and swung it on to hide her shoulder holster. “You stay here. I’ll be right back. No fair having ninja fights while I’m gone or anything.”

Jazz was gone before she could protest. Lucia, resigned, went to the intercom and buzzed the security desk. “Mr. Tarrant? My friend is on the way down. I want extra attention while she’s coming and going, all right? There could be trouble.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “We’ll keep a close eye.”

That was all she could do to protect Jazz at the moment. She pulled out a small carry bag and stuffed in sweatpants, underwear, tank tops, comfortable soft things that wouldn’t bother her if—as she anticipated—the doctors did indeed tie her down for the duration. The bathroom necessities went into the side pockets, and after a second she put in the collapsible combat baton that Jazz had given her as a
partnership gift, and professional-strength pepper spray. She’d have to surrender the offensive weaponry, but…

She heard the front door open and close, and made her way back that direction. Jazz was standing there, frowning.

“You’re not gonna like it.” Jazz held up the FedEx envelope and removed a red envelope with the air of an actress about to announce an award.

“You’ve
got
to be kidding me.”

“Yeah, I wish I was. But I checked it out with your little light thingie.” Jazz handed it over. “It’s to both of us.”

It read, IMPERATIVE YOU GO IMMEDIATELY TO THE RAPHAEL WHEN YOU RECEIVE THIS MESSAGE. TAKE MS. GARZA.

“So much for our plan to stay put,” Jazz said. “Didn’t you stash Susannah Davis there?”

“Yes. But there’s no need for us to go. Omar’s with her.”

They exchanged silent stares, and Jazz nodded. “Call him.”

She dialed Omar’s cell number. It rang to voice mail. She hung up and dialed the hotel’s main desk and was put through to the room.

No answer.

She didn’t have to say anything. Jazz’s face was grim with understanding.

“You think—” Lucia began.

“I’m trying not to.” Jazz looked down at the paper Lucia was still holding. “I can get Ben to go with me.”

“No. If anybody goes with you, it’s me. I told you, Ivanovich said there was an explicit threat.” Lucia got up, retrieved the UV light and ran it over the message. It was signed, again, by Max Simms. “Simms sent this, not Laskins. You tell me, does he want you alive or dead?”

“Who the hell knows what that creepy guy wants? Look,
you’re
not going. And if you’re not going and I’m not
going, what are we going to do? Hide here like a couple of rabbits?” Jazz looked fierce, in fighting mode. Razor-edged and glittering with menace. “I don’t hide.”

There was a strange joy in it. And it was catching, driving back the sickness and leaving purpose in its place. “You’re right.” Lucia checked her purse for its usual load of lethal supplies. “Both of us go. You can put me in intensive care at noon.”

Jazz looked wary. “You’re not going to let me stop you, are you?”

“Laughable. Would you let me stop you?”

Jazz’s jaw worked, chewing words, and then she spat them out, rapid-fire. “Fine. You so much as flutter an eyelid, I’m calling an ambulance, and you get carted out like a little old lady who slipped in the shower.” That was Jazz’s way of expressing affection.

“I’m fine. Quit staring like you expect me to fall over and froth at the mouth. I’m not contagious, and I feel all right. I’m not impaired.” The gnawing headache hardly counted. The heavy tickle in her lungs could be nothing more than suggestion, she told herself. “As I recall, I let you go along on our first case together when you still had a bullet wound. So please, let’s not discuss fitness.”

“Lucia!” Jazz grabbed her by the shoulders. Lucia instinctively brought her forearms straight up and knocked the grip loose, which startled them both. “Damn. I’m not trying to beat you down, you know.”

“I know. It’s been—an odd couple of days. I’m sorry.”

“You’re entitled.” Jazz stepped back, but she hadn’t lost the frown. Her hands were fisted at her sides now. “Look, this is serious. We could be walking into anything. I need you sharp. You could walk into a bullet the second you open the door. You really ready for that?”

“Yes.” Lucia met and held the stare. “I’m ready, Jazz. I’ve got your back.”

Whatever Jazz saw, it seemed to satisfy her. She reached into her black leather jacket, took out her gun and checked the clip—an autonomic reaction for her, like breathing.

Lucia bent over to put on her shoes.

Jazz raised an eyebrow. “That’s what you’re wearing? You know, I always think practical when I’m planning for some kind of fight.”

Lucia nodded and reached down to zip the sides of the low boots. “These are practical. Flat heels, ankle support and steel toes. And yet stylish.”

“Huh. I need to take you shoe shopping.” Jazz glanced down at her Doc Martens, which looked exactly like the work boots they were. Lucia gave her a full smile and checked the position of her .38 in the holster at the small of her back, then took out the nine millimeter resting in the shoulder holster. Jazz mimed a desire to see it. Lucia handed it over.

“Wow,” she said, and turned it right, then left. “Ruger P95? This new?”

“Absolutely.” Lucia reached out and took it from Jazz’s hand, then slotted it securely in her holster. “You know, you’re amazingly easy to distract with things that can hurt people.” She donned her leather jacket—brown, not black; she hated to match her partner—and picked up her purse. “After you, Jazz.”

“You’re sure you—”

“We’ve been through this.” Lucia met her eyes levelly. “I put Omar there, and I didn’t think to warn him. Consider how that feels.”

Jazz didn’t blink, and for seconds, Lucia thought she’d
failed. She knew she wasn’t likely to be able to take Jazz in a straight fight—Jazz had a gift—but she’d been hoping that she wouldn’t have to try.

“Fine,” Jazz abruptly said. “But one cough out of you, and you’re at the hospital. In restraints. And I tell them you need a colonoscopy, too.”

“Deal.”

It was inevitable, Lucia realized, that after a pronouncement like that, she’d fight the urge to cough the entire way down in the elevator.

J
azz—through some sort of divine intervention, Lucia assumed—had persuaded Manny to loan her his enormous black vehicle. The Hummer wasn’t just a gigantic SUV, of course, it was customized to Manny’s particular paranoid standards. Lucia knew it had bullet-resistant glass, and no doubt Kevlar in the frame; she wouldn’t be surprised if it featured a rocket launcher somewhere in the accessory package.

It also had a staggering arsenal in the back. For a totally nonviolent individual, Manny believed in preparation more than many Boy Scouts.

Jazz drove, of course. Lucia was just as happy to let her; she couldn’t imagine piloting the thing around without scraping off a few bumpers from the tiny-looking cars around them. It was a little like steering a cruise ship through a sailboat regatta.

Lucia kept busy watching the street around them, alert for any sign that Eidolon, the Cross Society or anyone else might be intent on following or intercepting, but she didn’t spot anything that tripped an alarm. Of course, if it was Gregory, or someone as skilled, then she probably wouldn’t know until the bullets began flying.

Jazz slowed as they passed the Raphael’s main entrance, and took the next turn. Service entrance and non valet parking. She parked the Hummer carefully and finally asked, “Ready?”

“Of course.”

“Watch your ass.”

Before Lucia could reply, Jazz was already out the door, climbing down to the parking lot. Lucia hurried to catch up, and scanned the lot as they moved to the back dock. The door was propped open, and a chef was smoking a cigarette outside; he was a big fellow in his white uniform, made taller by the trademark hat. Jazz nodded pleasantly to him, and he nodded back. He didn’t try to stop them.

The service elevators—like service elevators everywhere—were a great deal more lived-in than the fancy ones used by the guests, and were big enough to move grand pianos without feeling cramped. Jazz pushed the button for five, then six.

“You take the fifth floor,” she said. “Come in through the stairwell. I’ll go straight in.”

“No,” Lucia said instantly, and had to think fast to come up with a reason. “Susannah knows me, she’s never seen you. It’ll be less confusing if I make the direct approach. Right?”

“Fine.” They watched numbers crawl. “How do you feel?”

“Do you want me to manufacture a cough?”

“Heh. No.”

“Then let’s just get this done so I can go to the hospital.”

At the fifth floor, Jazz stepped off, heading for the stairs. Lucia pulled her P95 and held it at her side, and edged back into the far corner of the elevator as it dinged arrival.

She risked a quick glimpse down the hallway. Clear. It was a long way to the room, exposed all the way. No help for it.

She left the elevator and started walking, constantly scanning the closed hotel room doors. Nothing stirred. She heard televisions from one, a hair dryer from another. Voices, muffled and indistinct.

The room they’d been given was in the discreetly secured section, beyond a manned concierge desk and behind a key-carded door.

The concierge’s desk was empty.

The door clicked open. Beyond, the hallway was wider, and more opulently appointed, with antique hall tables and original artwork on the walls. And the lights were lower.

No sign of the concierge here, either.

She paused at the stairwell and opened the door. Jazz stepped out. “Any trouble?” she asked.

“None. You?”

“There’s a few blood drops on the stairs. Could be anything—a kid having a nosebleed. Or could be something. No way to tell.” Jazz, Lucia noticed, also had her gun out and ready. “Which one?”

Lucia mutely nodded at the right door. They moved into position on either side, communicating silently, and Lucia knocked twice and said, “Omar? Open up.”

No response. She held up the key card. Jazz nodded, all business, and shifted her weight to be ready to move.

The card clicked in the lock, and the door opened at a touch, swinging back with silent ease. Lucia beat Jazz to
entry by a split second, taking the low line, unable to see much for the shadows. The curtains were drawn.

“Lights,” Jazz said, and hit the switch with her shoulder.

In the blaze, the blood looked very, very bright.

Omar lay on the floor, sprawled and lifeless, next to an overturned armchair.

His throat had been cut. Lucia gasped in a breath, felt her body constrict with the shock. A wave of unreality swept over her.

“Focus,” Jazz said softly. “Stay with me, L.”

Omar was dead. The cut was deep, one slice, right to left. The standard for a right-handed killer facing him. She wanted to reach over, press her fingers to his neck, even though she knew it was illogical to feel for a pulse. This had been done at least a couple of hours ago. Omar’s lovely dark eyes were open, and dry. Gregory? It could have been, but even Gregory might find it in bad taste to come visiting a few minutes before killing her friend. No, she didn’t think so. Gregory wouldn’t have made this much of a mess.

“Lucia!”

She blinked and focused on Jazz’s stark, pale, set face. “I’m here,” she said. “Take the next room.” Her voice sounded far away, but normal.

Jazz nodded and went into the bedroom. Lucia averted her eyes from Omar’s body and scanned the closets, the bathroom, under the furniture. She was almost convinced Susannah was gone, dead in a ditch, when she heard a stealthy hiss of breathing, quickly muffled.

“Susannah?” She turned and looked at the far end of the room again. Nothing there. An elegant Queen Anne desk and chair, a big-screen plasma TV, the sweep of long maroon velvet curtains…

It couldn’t be that easy. She couldn’t be hiding behind the curtains. Not even kids did that anymore, did they?

And then she spotted it. It was tough to see, and designed to be that way, no doubt. A privacy screen of the same material as the wallpaper, blending seamlessly into the fabric of the wall.

Lucia moved around, giving it a wide berth, and came face-to-face with Susannah Davis, huddled against the wall, trembling. Bruised face averted.

“Got her!” she called, and reached out to touch Susannah on the shoulder.

She had just enough reflexes to jump back out of range as the knife slashed wildly at her.
Don’t shoot her
, some part of Lucia’s mind screamed, in time to stop her finger from tightening on the trigger. She danced backward, holstered the gun as she went, and executed a perfect roundhouse kick that sent the knife flying out of Susannah’s hand to thud against the velvet drapes.

The knife was bloody. Omar’s blood.

Lucia lunged forward, batted aside Susannah’s flailing hands, and wrenched one arm up behind her back. Susannah cried out. She felt hot and damp with sweat against Lucia’s chest, and Lucia was overcome with a wave of disgust and anger that made her want to pull that arm up until it snapped.

Instead, she kicked the backs of Susannah’s knees and got her down flat on her stomach on the carpet.

“Jazz!” she yelled, and snapped handcuffs around one of Susannah’s wrists, then the other. “I’ve got her!”

Jazz reappeared at the door, gazed down at Susannah coolly, and said, “I think you’d better take a look in here.”

“Now?”

“Now. Bring her.”

Lucia removed her knee from the center of Susannah’s back and hauled her upright; the woman’s battered face was spattered with blood, pale where it wasn’t stained or abraded. Her eyes looked dim and shocked.

The lights were on in the bedroom, and there was more blood. Not Susannah’s, obviously; not Omar’s, who’d unquestionably died in the next room. No, this was…

Leonard Davis, Susannah’s abusive husband. He was facedown next to the bed. Hard to tell how he’d died, but Lucia bet it had been from the blade of some knife. Whatever wounds he had must be in the front; his back looked untouched, except for the fact that his pants were halfway down his pale butt.

“What happened?” she asked, and looked at Susannah, who was staring at Leonard as if he might rise from the dead at any moment.

“I don’t know how he got into the room,” Jazz said, “but I can walk you through forensics. He got the drop on Omar, probably by threatening to kill Susannah. I’m betting he had a knife at her throat.”

She looked at Susannah, who didn’t even seem to know Jazz was talking.

“Omar misjudged him, got too close—maybe he was trying to get her out of the way. One fast slash, straight through both carotid arteries. From the arterial spray in there, I’d guess Omar was standing when he was cut. He must have gone down immediately, and was dead in about thirty seconds. Meanwhile, Leonard dragged Susannah into the bedroom.” She indicated the scuffs on the carpet, clear drag marks from the doorway to the bed. “Then I guess he figured he’d get some last fun in before he killed her, too.”

Susannah shuddered in a deep breath. “I let him in,” she
said. “Omar was in the bathroom. I let him in by accident. It wasn’t Omar’s fault.”

They both stared at her in silence for a few seconds, and then Jazz cast a pointed look down at Leonard’s body. “He took Omar out, but not you? How’s that work?”

“He put the knife down when he was unzipping his pants,” she said. “He didn’t think I had the guts. I never have before.”

Lucia raised her eyebrows in silent question to Jazz.

“Yeah,” Jazz answered quietly. “That’s more or less the way I read it. Omar died first. There’s a trail of blood drops from the other room into here. Hubby died with his pants unzipped. There’s a void in the blood spray on the bed. That’s where she was, on the bed. Which confirms the story, pretty much.”

Lucia swallowed hard and resisted an urge to kick Leonard Davis’s unresisting corpse.

“Better call Welton Brown,” she said to Jazz. “We’re going to be here for a while.”

“So much for our low profile.” Jazz sighed. “Susannah stays in cuffs until the cops say otherwise,” she said. “I mean, I told you how I read it, but Brown may see it differently. Better keep him happy. We’re already in deep shit.”

Lucia nodded, led Susannah to a chair and sat her down, facing away from her husband’s body. Jazz got on her cell phone.

It was going to be another long day, no doubt about it, and the hospital was—once again—going to have to wait.

The police took Susannah into custody for questioning, and kept Jazz and Lucia in interrogation for the better part of four hours. The only good thing about it, from Lucia’s point of view, was that the clock safely ticked over well
past noon, and the deadline, so far as Gregory had described it, had passed.

And if it had been Ben and Jazz going into that room? Jazz would have been the one to find Susannah. And that knife would have gone across her throat just as easily as Omar’s.

Lucia’s eyes felt grainy and sore, and her whole body ached. Hard to tell whether it was due to the infection, the antibiotics fighting it, or plain, garden-variety exhaustion.

Welton Brown had not been happy to find two murders in his lap after having pointed Susannah Davis in their direction. That really wasn’t good, since Brown was one of the few detectives with whom Jazz had stayed on good terms. A private investigation firm needed the cooperation of local police.

But Lucia was too sick and too tired to do any fence-mending, and when Brown dismissed them, Lucia was only too glad to go.

“You’re going straight to the hospital,” Jazz said, once the police car had dropped them off in the parking lot of the Raphael. This, Lucia thought mournfully, was one hotel that she wouldn’t get any cooperation from in the future. A pity. She really liked the ambience, and the sense of history.

The hospital visit was exactly what Lucia had anticipated. She had a fever—no surprise—and an elevated white count. They gave her a course of IV antibiotics, which took the better part of two hours.

“I’d like to keep you here for the next few days. We really need to keep an eye on that fever,” Dr. Kirkland informed her earnestly, as they unhooked her from the IV.

“I’ll do it myself.”

“If I send you home, I want you to
rest
this time, all
right? Your partner told me you’ve been working. This is
not
optional, Ms. Garza. Rest, sleep and take your medications. Are we clear?”

“Crystal.” She swallowed and forced a smile. “How bad is it?”

He stared at her for a long few seconds before he said, “It could be very bad. But with rest and medications, you can beat it in about a week. You didn’t have a massive exposure, and your immune system is strong.”

Jazz looked as if she was holding back an “I told you so” with all her strength.

“I’ll drive you home,” she said, and walked Lucia out to the parking lot. The Hummer looked gigantic, like the
Queen Mary
in a pool full of paddleboats, and Lucia couldn’t imagine how she was going to summon the energy to climb up into the cab.

She paused, one hand on the door, because she felt someone watching her.

There was a boxy blue sedan sitting a few parking spaces down the row, and someone was standing next to it. For a tired, disorienting second she thought it was Omar, and then her mind and her eyes cleared.

Ben McCarthy.

He didn’t move, and he didn’t approach them. He’d either done some shopping or located some of his clothes in storage; he was wearing a knee-length coat against the night’s chilly breeze, something in a warm amber that glowed in a passing car’s headlights.

Lucia nodded toward him. Jazz turned to look, and walked over to join him. Lucia checked the parking lot. You could never be sure anything was completely safe.

McCarthy was listening to Jazz recount the scene inside the hotel room when she joined them, and the look he
threw toward Lucia was unreadable. When Jazz stopped—she had a cop’s terse delivery, nothing but the bare facts—he said, “Omar didn’t strike me as the kind of guy to go down without a fight.”

Lucia felt something clench hard inside. She’d been avoiding thinking about Omar. “It had to have been fast. Very fast.”