Devil's Due (4 page)

“Is Jazz with you?” she asked.

There was a short pause and then the tenor of the call
changed; she heard the rustle of sheets, a sleepy murmur, the quiet closing of a door. He’d stepped into the bathroom, or the hall. “She’s asleep,” he said. “I don’t want to wake her up if I don’t have to. Do I? Have to wake her up?”

“Soon,” Lucia said. “A courier just delivered a note to me in a red envelope. Did she get one?”

“No deliveries—shit. Hang on.” The phone rattled, set down on a counter, she guessed. He was back in less than ten seconds. “Yeah. Somebody slid it under the door. Is it a job?”

“Don’t you usually compose the messages?”

“Sometimes,” he said cautiously. Borden was Cross Society, in it up to his neck; Lucia liked him a great deal, but at times like these, she was bitterly aware that trust might be a separate issue. “Look, I can’t go into the way it works, not on the phone.”

“Yes, I get your point. Open it.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

There was a rattle, a pause…. “It says, ‘One of you has made a mistake.’ On Eidolon Corporation letterhead. Holy shit.” She heard his breathing go faster. “They know where we are. I have to get Jazz up, right now.”

“Wait. Have you ever seen one from Eidolon before?” Lucia realized that she was pacing, a habit when she was nervous. The store clerk was watching her. Not, she was relieved to see, in any way that implied he was a conspirator; no, this was the plain, unvarnished interest she was used to attracting. She gave him a small smile and he found something to be busy with that took him out of her line of sight.

“Lucia,
they know where we are
. She’s not safe here. Hell, I’m not safe—”

“Have they ever sent you a message before?” she asked again, with strained patience.

His composure broke completely. “Look,
I
don’t get messages from anybody. I’m not a goddamn Lead!”

She felt a hot flare of irritation.
Leads
. According to the Cross Society, she and Jazz were Leads, carrying major roles in the chaotic, enormous play of life and death on Planet Earth. “Actors” influenced certain events at crucial moments, but—again, according to the Cross Society’s rather esoteric theory—Leads operated at a kind of nexus point. Jazz had told her, in a quiet voice that meant she had come to believe it, that the Cross Society psychic, Max Simms, had summed it up: Everything you do matters.

It was a frightening thought. It didn’t get any less frightening the longer it stuck around.

She kept doggedly on the subject. “Have you ever heard of Eidolon contacting anyone in the Cross Society directly?”

He sucked in an angry breath. “No. If you’re done—”

“Almost. Who knew where you were taking her?”

“Nobody.”

“You didn’t make the call from—”

“I booked the reservations at an Internet kiosk using a one-time-only card. Fake name. Believe me, nobody knew we were coming here.”

There were ways, nevertheless, if the opposition was strong enough. And if Eidolon Corporation was what Max Simms had claimed, a major technological entity with ties to the federal government, then retasking a satellite and painting Borden’s car with a laser tag wouldn’t have been very difficult.

If, if, if.

Borden suddenly said, “It’s us. Me and Jazz—maybe it has to do with us.”

“You think being in love with her is the mistake they’re referring to?”

“I never said—” He gave up on the reflexive male denial, to his credit. “No, I don’t.”

“Then it’s entirely possible it might be referring to the events of this morning. To my helping McCarthy get released.”

“Then why not just send it to you? Why send it to you
and
Jazz?”

“McCarthy’s connected to both of us now. I think the better question is, why would Eidolon warn us? Wouldn’t they
want
us to be making mistakes?”

“I have no idea what Eidolon wants,” Borden growled. “Look, I barely know what my boss wants half the time. So as far as figuring out motives, good luck. Screw this, I’m waking her up and getting her out of here. Now.”

“Yes, you’d better get her back to Manny’s.” If there was any such thing as a safe place, given what they’d learned about the world and the Cross Society and Eidolon, it would be in Manny’s Fortress of Solitude. Wherever it currently resided, since he moved house as often as banks took holidays.

“You’re talking like a cop,” Borden said. “If Eidolon wants us, they can find us. Well, they can find me, anyway. You and Jazz, it’s tougher, since you’re Leads. They can only predict you through the effects you have, not your exact location.”

“Then how did they just deliver me a note? How did the Cross Society deliver one to Jazz that first night?”

He gave a rattling sigh. “It’s too freaking early for philosophy and physics, Lucia. But Leads blip on and off the radar. You’re a blur most of the time, but sometimes they can see you clearly. It’s like somebody who usually drives
really fast having car trouble. But on the more mundane level, have you considered that somebody could have been following you?”

Stewart, again. And if she accepted the idea that the note was legitimately from Eidolon, the Cross Society’s adversary in this war of premonitions, then…it changed things. Not for the better. “All right. We’ll need to have a strategy meeting later at the office—one o’clock? Bring Jazz in through the garage entrance—it’s the most defensible. I’ll have someone meet you.”

“Someone who? You’re not giving Manny a gun, are you?”

She laughed. “Not that Manny would need one of mine. But no. I’ve hired a friend to help us out. His name is Omar. He’ll meet you in the garage.”

“We’ll be there.”

There was hope for Borden yet, Lucia thought as she folded the phone and slipped it back in her purse; he had said
we
without a trace of self-consciousness.

If only they could get Jazz to do the same, a relationship might truly be on the horizon.

“Madam?” The clerk was watching her again, this time with a trace of a frown. “Is everything all right?”

“Fine,” she said, and retrieved the blue suit she’d been studying. Much as she hated off-the-rack on men, no doubt McCarthy would resist the idea of tailoring even more than day-spa grooming. She added the ivory shirt and handed the items to the clerk, who blinked at the price tags, then smiled.

By the time she’d added the glossy, sleek Magnanni shoes, he was very happy.

She asked him to help her carry her packages to the car, tipped him and slid behind the wheel. As she slammed the door and clicked the lock shut, Ken Stewart rounded the
far corner, his hands in his pants pockets, doing his best to look jaunty.

She cruised slowly past him, watching.

He pulled an empty hand from his pocket, pointed it at her windshield and cocked back a thumb.
Bang
, he mouthed, as he let the imaginary hammer fall.
You’re dead
.

She braked the car, rolled down the driver’s side window and leaned over. Her smile must have been disingenuous enough to lure in even a bitter, cynical specimen like Stewart, because he shuffled a few feet toward her.

“One of us would be,” she said softly, and let him see that her hand was on the gun in the passenger seat beside her. “And before you ask, yes, I do have a permit to carry it, Detective.”

He bared his teeth at her in a crazy grin.
A rottweiler raised by wolves
. She felt a cold touch at the back of her neck, but allowed only an ironic tilt of her eyebrows as he leveled both hands at her—two imaginary guns, like a kid playing cowboys and Indians—and peppered her with imaginary rounds.

Then he mimed blowing smoke from his fingertips, and those fiercely cold, slightly insane eyes bored into hers. He said, “You be careful, Ms. Garza. It’s a dangerous town if you make the wrong enemies.”

“Are there ever any right enemies?” she asked, and drove away at a calm and leisurely pace, showing no signs of temper or nerves.

Four blocks later, she stopped at a red light and wiped her damp, shaking hands on her pants.

A
t five minutes to one, Lucia’s desk phone rang in her office. She picked it up and said, “Omar?”

“Yo, girl,” he said. Omar had a sly, amused tone, as usual. He found everything a source of humor, from
The Simpsons
to the evening news. He claimed it had something to do with Buddhism, and seeing the world for the illusion it was. That might have been true. Omar was famous—infamous, really—for having done a seven-year stretch in Folsom as part of one of the most grueling covers in the history of law enforcement. After the takedown of one of the most vicious criminal enterprises on the East Coast, he’d declared himself out of the cop business.

But he did favors from time to time, and Lucia was on his list. Omar was about the most reliable, calm and effective man she’d ever worked with.

He was also one hell of a friend, and once upon a time,
he’d been more. Not much more, though. Omar’s Zen outlook precluded more serious entanglements.

“Good morning,” she said. “Having a fabulous time down there?”

“Unbelievable. Your friends are here. I’m sending them up. Don’t shoot ’em.”

“Thanks. Keep sharp.” Not that she needed to remind him. Omar, for all of his built-in serenity, was rarely caught off guard.

As she hung up, she focused on McCarthy, who was sitting on the sofa at the far end of the room, looking out the tinted windows. The view warped a little; the glass was bullet-resistant, replaced after Jazz’s office had been targeted by a sniper. All of their security procedures were considerably upgraded these days. But the offices themselves remained elegantly appointed—not that she and Jazz had put much effort into it. In some ways, the region’s economic downturns had favored start-up businesses. They’d inherited this space fully equipped, including desks, lamps, chairs and decor. She’d added touches of her own, but it hadn’t taken much.

“What are you thinking?” she asked him.

McCarthy looked up and smiled. “I’m thinking it feels like I’ve been here before.” He shrugged. “That’s weird, right? Maybe I was here when the building was under construction.”

“Maybe it’s just nerves.”

“Why would I be nervous?”

She smiled and looked down at the paperwork on her desk. Always plenty of that to keep up with. McCarthy got off the couch and paced the office, hands behind his back; she tried not to watch him, but for some reason she couldn’t seem to concentrate on the report she was reading. Her eyes kept straying.

He came to a stop as the office door swung open, and Jazz and Borden entered the room.

The look on Jazz’s face when she spotted McCarthy was, quite literally, priceless.

“Ben?” she asked, as if she really couldn’t believe it. Lucia glanced over at him and felt a pleasant aftershock as well, even though she’d gotten over the initial impact. Lenora Ellen’s had done an astonishing job. His gray-salted hair was trimmed just enough to give him style. Whatever skin treatments they’d done, he looked healthier than he had three hours before. Freshly shaved, too. The suit seemed thoughtlessly elegant, and she’d chosen the colors well—the midnight-blue set off his eyes like foil to a diamond. He looked…gorgeous, she admitted, and promptly dismissed the thought, because it was inappropriate.

McCarthy was giving Jazz a wide smile, stepping forward, arms open. And she was rushing into them like a delighted child.

Jazz looked good, too. Fresh-faced, glowing, ever so slightly tousled. She never failed to look as if she’d forgotten to brush her short-cut blond hair, but on her, it worked. She’d made an effort with wardrobe today, too—a well-fitted black pantsuit and blue shirt, medium-heeled shoes. She was taller than McCarthy, but somehow she managed to make it look as if he towered over her, even in the hug.

Lucia met James Borden’s eyes as he took a seat on the leather couch in the corner of the office. He was casual today—blue jeans and a gray T-shirt. His brown hair was gel-free, and it made him look unexpectedly vulnerable. As did the glance he darted at McCarthy and Jazz, locked in their hug.

“Counselor,” Lucia said in greeting, and went to sit next to him. “So, I presume you had a good evening?”

That woke an entirely satisfied, private smile. “We did all right.”

“So I see. She looks very happy.”

“Happy to see McCarthy.”

Ah, already the jealousy. Men. They were, if possible, even worse at relationships than women. “She’s been waiting years for this. You might let her enjoy it.”

He had the grace to look ashamed of himself. “I am. I will.” He passed over a red envelope. “Same as you got?”

Lucia unfolded it, studied it and nodded. “Mine was hand-delivered.”

“Get anything out of the courier?”

She had to grin at the thought of interrogating the round little man in one of the dressing rooms, while the clerk sweated in terror and phoned the police. “Not a good time. But it doesn’t matter. He was simply doing a job.”

McCarthy and Jazz had finally pulled apart. He was holding her by the upper arms, giving her the once-over. Lucia glanced over at Borden, whose face had gone very bland, and wondered what he was thinking. No, she knew. She’d been there before, sitting as the spectator.

“Hate to break up the happy moment,” she said, raising her voice, “but we should talk. All of us.”

“About what?” Ah, McCarthy still hadn’t forgiven her for the day spa; the wall went up the second he turned toward her.

“Lucia’s right,” Jazz said, and pulled up a chair—a straight-backed one that she could straddle, resting her crossed arms on the top. “They’re on to us again. I sure as hell don’t want to go back to hiding out and worrying who’s gunning for me for the rest of my life. We need to figure this thing out, guys. And now that Ben’s on board, we have a lot more of a chance to do that.”

“Don’t,” Borden warned, and shot Jazz one of those serious looks. “Don’t do this.”

“Don’t do what?” McCarthy asked.

“Jazz, I mean it. He’s not—”

Jazz, of course, ignored him. She had the look. Lucia was frankly surprised that Borden hadn’t learned to recognize it yet. “He has to know. If he’s here, he has to know everything. See, the people who funded us, the ones who gave us the money—”

McCarthy held up a hand. The spa had done a good job on his manicure, Lucia noted. “You work for the Cross Society, and they can predict the future,” he said. “They’re asking you to do things. Weird things. Telling you it’s all to prevent more people from dying, right? Am I close?”

Silence. Even Borden looked stunned. Lucia deliberately got to her feet, drew all of their stares and said, “I’ll get coffee. We clearly have a lot to talk about.”

Jazz wasn’t taking it well. For that matter, neither was Borden, but for entirely different reasons.

“Seriously,” Jazz said. She was pacing the room, hands behind her back. From time to time, she gnawed on the cuticle of her thumbnail, a habit that Lucia had hoped she’d lost. “You worked for Simms.”

“Yes,” Ben stated, for about the fourth time. Lucia kept her silence, watching the two of them; tension was growing like a storm in the room. “I worked for Max Simms. Freelance, at first. One or two jobs, no big deal. Didn’t seem like a big deal, anyway, at least at first—”

Jazz interrupted him. Her face had gone from white to flushed, and her eyes glittered. Lucia inwardly winced, watching her; she knew that look. It normally was followed by a hard right cross, or a well-placed kick.

“Didn’t seem like a big deal?”
Jazz snapped. “Are you telling me that you knew about all of this crap
while we were still partners?
And what, you just kept that to yourself? Oh, but then, I guess you would, wouldn’t you? Secrets were your thing!”

Well, it hadn’t been a physical blow, but the words connected; Lucia saw him flinch. “Jazz—”

“You know what, Ben? Fuck you and your damn
secrets!
”

“Jazz!” It came out as a deep-throated roar, full of pent-up fury. “Dammit, will you shut up and listen to me?” He strode over to her and stood there, right in her space.

Lucia tensed, ready to lunge in as referee, but painfully aware that these two would get in plenty of damaging shots before she could put an end to things.
If
she could put an end to things.

“I was just like you, Jazz!” he continued. “Idealistic! Thinking these guys knew the score, were doing good work. But it’s not like that, and you need to clearly understand, doing good is a sideline for them. It’s all about winning, and let’s face it, to win, sometimes you have to play dirty. And they did.” He laughed wildly, bitterly. “Oh, they did.”

Lucia had a sudden flash of insight. “Don’t tell me they were the reason—”

“The reason I landed in jail?” McCarthy swung away from Jazz and locked gazes with Lucia instead. His hot blue eyes were full of pain and anger. “If I’d known either one of you was into this thing, don’t you think I’d have spoken up? But no, you had to play it cagey, keep it all to yourselves—”

“Wait a minute.” Jazz interrupted again, still with that hot-metal edge. “How did the Cross Society land you in jail?”

“You don’t think they’ve got ways? Listen, I—” He checked himself, a hesitation so brief Lucia wasn’t sure she’d actually seen it. “If I could prove it, I’d tell you, but
the way everything clicked together and lined up like little tin soldiers?
Cross Society
. They’re chess players. They don’t get their own hands dirty. Their sacrifice pawns are the ones who bleed and suffer and die. And pay.”

“Pay for what?”

Lucia was surprised to hear Borden ask the question, because he’d said nothing at all for a long while. He was studying McCarthy with half-closed eyes, looking bland. A damn fine poker face. She felt a prickle along her spine, and thought about reminding Jazz that Borden, regardless of how true his love, was also a card-carrying member of the Cross Society. But Jazz knew that. She never forgot it.

“Disappointments,” McCarthy said. “They wanted me to stand by and let somebody get killed. I couldn’t do it.”

Shades of Jazz; she’d been asked to do the same thing, Lucia remembered. Asked to stand by and see an innocent man die. As had Borden. It had been a crisis of faith for him, knowing that his friend was marked for death by Eidolon, and the Cross Society had elected to do nothing about it. He’d turned to Jazz for help and almost gotten her killed for it, but together they’d managed to prevent the murder.

And what’s to stop Eidolon from trying again?
Lucia had wondered that for a while. Maybe things had changed. She didn’t understand how it worked. She suspected nobody outside of the inner circles really did.

She hated the idea that all of this happened somewhere in secret, behind a curtain.
Playing God
. It reminded her why she’d left the government.

“Yeah?” Jazz challenged. She was still looking wounded and furious and betrayed, and in no mood to believe McCarthy. “Who did they want to kill?” She was demanding proof. Names and dates. Facts and figures she could check. Jazz was nothing if not thorough.

McCarthy hesitated for so long that Lucia thought he wouldn’t answer. He was studiously examining the carpeting, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. His hesitation seemed odd, considering the passion he’d already displayed. And then he said, slowly and in a much quieter tone, “Remember that hallway, three years ago? When the guy came out from under the stairs?”

Jazz went pale. Lucia watched her knuckles tighten on the back of the chair, her blue eyes narrow. Her mouth attempted two tries before she was able to ask the question. “Me?”

“Yeah. You.” He risked a look at his ex-partner, a startling flash of eyes. Lucia shivered at the expression in them. Pain and resignation.

If Jazz saw it, it didn’t make any impression. She was staring past him, stunned, seeing something miles away. “You knew? You knew that guy was there?”

“No. I knew something was going to happen, because they wanted me to wait in the car.”

“You
did
wait in the car.”

“For a while,” McCarthy said, his voice low and furious. “And then I came in and I shot the son of a bitch who was trying to kill you. Shot him in the back. Twice, if you remember.”

Silence. Lucia didn’t think even Borden was breathing. Jazz and McCarthy were staring each other down.

Links and circles. That officer-involved shooting had been McCarthy’s first and only. That put his service revolver’s ballistics information into the database, which had later linked him to murder.

Lucia turned on Borden. “Did you know this?” He mutely shook his head. “
Borden
. Did you know McCarthy worked for the Cross Society?”

“No!” he snarled, and got up off the couch to stalk to the far corner of the room. “Don’t you think I’d have told you if I’d known? Look, it’s not—it’s not like it’s an open book. I don’t think even Laskins knows everything. Some of it—maybe a lot of it—happens between Simms and his agents, and we’re just—”

“Just what?” Lucia asked. “Protective coloration? What is it the rest of you do for him that he can’t do for himself?”

“Maintain the network,” Borden said. “Deliver his messages when he needs it. Attend to the money and the business.”

Jazz had turned away from McCarthy, and now she was staring at Borden. “Did you know they’d put him in jail?” she asked. Whatever logical path Jazz had followed inside her head, there seemed to be no doubt in her now that McCarthy was telling the truth.

“No,” Borden said. He sounded suddenly weary. “I’d have told you.”

“We can talk about that later,” Lucia said, after a few seconds of painful silence. “McCarthy. The money you were taking, the payoffs. Were they payments from the Cross Society to you?”

He didn’t answer. Maybe that was answer enough.

“What were you,
stupid?
” Jazz yelled. “Didn’t you see how easily they could turn you? How deep they had their claws in you?”