Devil's Due (5 page)

“Not until I killed that guy,” McCarthy said. “And then it was too late. Simms already had me. The payments used to come through a bank, then they came through some friend of his, then they started making the drops at the Velvet. Then pretty soon it was handovers from Big Sal and his crew, and there was no point in fighting it anymore.”

“You could have walked away.”

He looked grim. “I tried.”

“Oh, so taking that last payoff on camera, that was, what—for the widows and orphans fund?” Jazz demanded. “Don’t bullshit me, Ben. Don’t you dare.”

He shook his head tiredly. “No point in doing that, either,” he said. “Look, you believe me or not. This is why I never even tried to explain any of it to you. How do you think this would have gone before you’d seen how it works for yourself?”

She wasn’t done yet, Lucia saw. “So what were they paying you to do, Ben? Compromise evidence? Get cases thrown out?”

“
Fuck!
Come on, Jazz! You can’t believe—”

“I
don’t
believe!”

“I wouldn’t do that. I was a cop!”

“Yeah? You thought about letting me die, didn’t you?”

He swallowed, and some of the anger drained out of his expression. “No. I just thought—look, I didn’t know they were talking about killing you.”

“So it was okay if they just messed me up a little? Crippled me? Where’s the line, Ben? It’s okay for them to put a scare into me, not to touch me? Or okay to throw me a beating, so long as it doesn’t scar?”

They settled into mutual glaring, jaws tight, teeth set. Lucia let a few seconds of silence go by, and then cleared her throat. “If I may continue,” she said carefully. “Evidently, the Cross Society decided you weren’t of use to them any longer. Was that because you moved to save Jazz when you did?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m out. I’m not taking orders from those creepy sons of bitches anymore, and neither should you. Either of you.” McCarthy turned a glare toward Borden, who was slumped against the wall by the broad win
dows. “And you should get rid of him. You’re sleeping with the enemy, Jazz. Watch what you say around him.”

“Hey!” Borden said sharply, and straightened up. “Watch your mouth.”

“Why? You’re not sleeping with my partner?” McCarthy showed teeth. “Or do you just not want to admit to it? Ashamed?”

Borden’s eyes turned dark and cold. “I mean it, man. Shut up.”

“Jazz wants me to shut up, she can say something about it.”

Jazz didn’t seem inclined to say much about it either way, Lucia noticed. Her mouth was closed, her jawline tight. Her hands were fisted on her thighs, knuckles white.

Borden towered over McCarthy when McCarthy walked toward him, but it seemed obvious to Lucia that it wouldn’t matter. McCarthy was the dangerous one here. Borden was tall and rangy and could probably hold his own in most situations, but McCarthy had done two years of hard time, and he’d gone in hard to start with.

And Lucia didn’t like the flat look in his eyes.

“Gentlemen,” she said, her voice pitched low and calm. Standing up with deliberate grace, she moved to form the third point of a triangle—not between them, but pulling their focus away from each other. Jazz, still seated behind her, would have done it differently; she would have waded in, shoving and shouting. That would work, but it would take time to sort out.

This worked instantly.

McCarthy stepped back. “Sorry,” he said. “You’re right. Your house. You want to have amoral bastards in it, that’s not my business.”

“Borden stays,” Lucia said. “He’s proved himself to us. You haven’t, Ben.”

“Hey, wait a second!” Jazz snapped.

“Jazz, shut up.” Lucia gave her voice an edge of steel.

Jazz pressed her lips together, eyes blazing.

“I’m talking to you, Ben,” Lucia continued. “The three of us, we’ve been through a lot together. You’re new to this agency. You don’t just walk in here and throw doubt on Borden, do you understand? And you don’t try to pull me and Jazz apart by playing on old loyalties. If you do, you can walk out the door and find your own way.”

Jazz badly wanted to speak, but somehow she controlled herself; Lucia watched the battle on her face. The outcome was a lowering of her blond head, deep breaths and silence.

Lucia transferred her attention back to Ben.

“I’m not working for the Cross Society again,” he said. “Get that straight right now.”

“Fine. If you want to work for us, you do straight-up work,” she agreed. “Straightforward investigation. You don’t deal with Cross at all.”

He thrust a thumb over his shoulder toward Borden. “Do I have to deal with
him?
”

“You have to deal with
me
if you disrespect him,” she said. “Are we clear?”

He nodded—one sharp movement, nothing more. After a few seconds, he said, “Thanks for the suit.”

He meant it to be embarrassing, as if he’d conned her out of something. She gave him a cool smile. “You’re representing us now. Can’t have you looking like a lowlife ex-con.”

Borden glanced from one to the other. “Did I miss something? You
hired
him?”

“Over breakfast,” Lucia said. “Jazz? Will that be a problem?”

Jazz didn’t answer. She was watching McCarthy, waiting for something.

He walked over to her, took her fists in his hands and slowly smoothed her fingers out. He wasn’t looking at her face. Borden had stiffened at the touch, Lucia noticed in her peripheral vision.

“Jazz,” Ben said quietly. “I couldn’t tell you any of it. Don’t you think that was hell for me? I was almost glad they set me up. At least then I didn’t have to face you every morning and lie to you. Look, I know you can’t forgive me for it, but—”

“I forgave you a long time ago,” she said. “I forgave you when there wasn’t a reason to do it. That’s why I’m angry.”

“Ah,” he said, and nodded. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. If you work here, I’m your boss. You think I won’t make you pay?”

He smiled. It was one of those warm, sweet smiles that had such devastating effect, and Lucia saw it had the same impact on Jazz that it did on her. “I’m counting on it. I owe you.”

“Damn straight. And I’m going to get every nickel.” Jazz flicked her gaze over to Lucia and deliberately nodded. “Yeah. It’s okay with me.”

Borden let out a sigh. It wasn’t quite loud enough for Jazz or McCarthy to hear, but Lucia shot him an amused glance.

“Then if that’s all the thunderbolts we have to impart,” she said, “let’s get back to work.”

A
n hour later, Lucia was knee-deep in files at the conference table. Borden had gone back to change into his business suit for a client meeting across town, so just she, Jazz and McCarthy were seated there. Hot, bright sunlight streaming through the blinds striped the long table, making Lucia squint, but she could tell that McCarthy was enjoying it; she refrained from pulling the shades.

“Okay,” she said to him. “That stack is bread and butter—background checks for corporations, individuals worried about their daughter’s fiancé, et cetera. We charge an average of two hundred for a public records and Internet search, the basic package, for individuals. For corporations, we do the whole due diligence, and that costs them an average of two thousand, in time and fees. We have sixteen corporations as clients for that sort of thing, so we al
ways have backlogs to move through. You can start with that.”

McCarthy nodded and pulled over a half-dozen folders, flipping through them, reading with quick little flicks of his eyes.

Lucia nudged the next, smaller stack. “These are ongoing investigations. Mostly corporate, of course, because that seems to be what we gravitate toward.”

“And you don’t end up freezing your ass off in a parking lot at 2:00 a.m., videotaping a cheating husband with a hooker,” Jazz added, then considered what she’d said. “Not that it can’t be fun.”

Lucia rolled her eyes. “Jazz is currently restricted from anything that involves undercover or stakeout work—”

“Because of the death threats,” McCarthy said.

Jazz snorted. “And I keep telling you, that’s over. There hasn’t been a peep out of them since—”

“Since they tried to shoot you through your office window?” Lucia said dryly. “Yes, well. Forgive me for wanting to come down on the side of caution. Give it another month, and then we’ll see about stepping down protection.”

Except for an expressive roll of her eyes, Jazz remained businesslike. “Yeah. So, you see the problem—my investigations mostly consist of talking on the phone. So I could use your assistance on some of these when there’s legwork to be done.”

He nodded again. “I’ll read the files. What’s the third stack?”

The shortest of all, in red folders. She glanced at Jazz, who looked back. “Cross Society,” she said. “You’ll have nothing to do with those.”

He didn’t like that, she saw, but he wasn’t going to come out with it, not in his first few hours of gainful employment.

“Now, to details,” she said. “We need to get you a carry permit, which shouldn’t present a difficulty, as your conviction has been vacated. But the sheriff’s department may decide to drag their feet. By law, they have to make a decision within forty-five days of application, and issue within three days of approval, so we’ll hold them to it. Here’s the application.” She pulled one from a folder and slid it across the table to him. “You know how it works. I’ll give you cash, and you can drop it off yourself at the sheriff’s office. Until we go through the process, you won’t be able to legally carry a weapon in Missouri.”

“The key word,” Jazz said, “being
legally
.” She reached into a case she’d set by her chair, clicked it open and pulled out a weapon. She cleared and checked it with professional ease, then handed the gun to McCarthy. “Manny says hello, by the way.”

“For as long as you are illegally carrying, should you choose to do so, you won’t officially have any connection to this firm,” Lucia continued. “No employment paperwork to tie you back here. No paychecks. You’ll be paid in cash, from my own pocket. Got it? As far as the state of Missouri knows, you’re pending employment based on approval of your carry permit.”

McCarthy examined the gun, even though Jazz had already done so; he removed the clip, checked the chamber, then snapped it all back together. Smooth, artistic motions. “I understand,” he said. “Good plan. How is Manny?”

“Better,” Jazz said. “He’s working with us now.”

“What, in the
office?
”

“No, he’s got his own lab. You know how he is. He doesn’t get out that much, but he does get out.” Jazz grinned. “He’s dating Pansy. Our assistant.”

“You’re kidding me. Manny dates?” McCarthy took the
holster that Jazz handed over, slid the gun inside and removed his jacket to don the harness. He took his time adjusting it, making sure it was comfortable. When he put the jacket on again, he left it open.

“I didn’t know the guy ever had a girl in his life,” Ben added. “What do they do? Compare forensic swabs?”

Lucia couldn’t resist a smile; Jazz outright laughed. “I try not to think about it,” Lucia said. “So look those folders over. Let me know what you want to tackle first and we’ll figure out the next step.”

McCarthy looked from one of them to the other. “And you two? What are you doing?”

Lucia silently picked up the top red folder. Jazz sighed and took another half-dozen folders from the largest stack, the background checks. “I frickin’ hate this,” she said, and ran a hand through her hair. “I’m going to die of paper cut poisoning. See if I don’t. Maybe Simms will see
that
coming!”

Lucia smiled and met McCarthy’s eyes.

McCarthy was, Lucia found, a good investment: thorough, efficient and effective. He knew his way around a computer, which was a relief, and his reports were composed, like Jazz’s, in a brisk, no-nonsense style that laid out facts and conclusions in a logical fashion.

The only problem was that he was actually
too
good at background checks, Lucia discovered when reviewing his first six assignments. They were seated in what was unofficially his office—bare except for a desk, computer, chair and stack of folders. Oh, and the ever-present coffee cup. He couldn’t seem to function without one in sight.

“This one?” Lucia held up a folder. “This one should have been passed.”

“Why? The guy has a criminal background.”

“It was an arrest twenty years ago for drunk and disorderly, and he was in college. Not really relevant to whether he’s a risk for a major corporation now.”

McCarthy leaned back in his chair with a creak of metal, aiming a stare directly at her eyes. “You want me to pass him even though he fails the standards.”

“I want to give our client a viable candidate. We can write a note putting his prior history into context. As someone who might fail the test yourself just now, you might consider being a little less…harsh.”

That put a spark in his eyes, but nothing else. “You’re the boss, boss. Say, this one, the one with the cocaine habit—you want me to pass him, too? Call it a treatable medical condition?”

“Just keep it in mind. Our clients want us to be cautious, but let’s face it, there’s something in everyone’s background that could disqualify them, if you dig deep enough.”

She knew as soon as she said it that it begged a question, which he obligingly provided. “Yeah? What’s in your background?”

She was silent for a few long seconds. He’d probably intended it to be a softball, but it was something of a grenade, really. “Mine?” She smiled. “Deep, dark secrets. The kind that get you killed.”

Why in the world had she said that? She hadn’t meant to. Her past wasn’t a seduction. The last thing she wanted was for him to learn more about Lucia Garza, and what she’d done in the name of causes and country.

“Intriguing.” He pushed back his chair and tilted his head, returning the smile. “Come on, I gave you mine earlier. Just tell me one.”

She had no business even thinking about it. The silence stretched, and she knew it seemed odd; she was taking it beyond simple idle conversation into a much more serious realm.

“I worked overseas,” she said. “For the government.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Spy stuff?”

“I’d tell you, but—”

“—you’d have to kill me, yeah, I know the drill.” He held out his hand. She gave the file back. “I’ll amend the report. Mr. Student Protester gets a free pass.”

She nodded. “Do you have a place to stay yet?”

“Figured I’d find a cheap motel. Just temporarily, until I can close on that penthouse with a city view. And please, don’t tell me you’ve got recommendations for a cheap motel. I like to keep my illusions.”

“I’ll find you a place,” she said, refusing to be baited. She was familiar with the process; she’d been through it with cocky, aggressive men in every job she’d ever had. They all felt they had something to prove.

“I didn’t think you wanted a paper trail back to the company,” he said.

“I don’t. It won’t trace back to us.”

“Aren’t you the clever one.”

“Allegedly.” She paused in the doorway, looking back at him. He’d pulled his tie askew, and his collar was unbuttoned. Sexy. Very sexy. “Are you having dinner with Jazz?”

“Yeah. Indoors, since you don’t let her out without body armor and the Popemobile. Want to join us?”

“No, thank you. Somebody’s got to catch up on the work.”

On her way back to her office, she felt a flash of guilt. That had been a passive-aggressive thing to do, a cheap shot; she’d implied that Jazz wasn’t pulling her weight. And it wasn’t true. Jazz was more than fulfilling her half
of the agreement, even handicapped by the death sentence that they had to assume was still in effect for her. It was hell for Jazz, no question; she was the active one, the one more suited to running over rooftops and wrestling suspects to the ground than having polite conversations over the phone.

Lucia sat down at her desk and picked up the phone. “Omar? Hey, man. Need a favor. Can you book a room for McCarthy? Nothing too cheap, nothing too expensive. Very bland. Safe house quality. You know what to look for.”

“For how long?”

She considered that carefully. The spy in her hated to leave him in one place for long; she was unconsciously considering him a compromised source, she realized. If anyone—say, Detective Ken Stewart—had a grudge against him, leaving him booked at just one location under his own name would be asking for trouble.

“Listen, could you book him at four places, a week each? Four names, none of them his? I’ll give you cash.”

“Some things never change,” Omar said, amused. “Yeah. I’ll come up.”

She counted out bills from a lockbox and wrote out a receipt, put them in a plain white envelope and had it on the corner of her desk when Omar knocked on the open door and strolled in. He was a big man, well-muscled but not bulky. He was also of Arabian descent, and had found himself out of his chosen work in fairly short order after 9–11. Nobody wanted to hire Arabs as freelance security, and Omar stubbornly had refused to give up. He was proud. It was his principal characteristic, and it was something Lucia loved about him. That, and his liquid dark eyes and wicked smile.

He came in and pocketed the envelope. “You know I’m
going to get the looks when I do this. The I’m-calling-the-FBI looks. Hell, I’ll be lucky if they don’t shoot me.”

“Try to, you mean,” she said. “But I can’t hand McCarthy a pile of money. He’d take it personally.”

“Yeah, you’d never do that yourself—take anything personally,” he said. “Apart from acting like the new guy’s travel agent, is there anything I can do other than hang around in your dungeon, guarding cars?”

“It’s important work, guarding cars,” she said. “You’re all that stands between me and an oil leak.”

He kissed his fingers at her and left. She shook her head, smiling. Omar was a good friend, and he’d once been a good lover, but that was long past. It wouldn’t happen again. She’d seen him at his very lowest point, and a man like Omar didn’t forget.

Better to keep it light and loose, these days.

She picked up the phone and began the first of the day’s phone calls. By the time she was done with the second conference call, Omar was back at her office door, holding out a series of small key folders marked with the stamp of four popular, ubiquitous, utterly anonymous motel chains.

“He does anything, I’m going to be very unhappy,” Omar said. “I had to use my own cherished fake ID. And I have no doubt that the clerks are probably alerting the FBI right now. When you hear about a Waco-style raid on a cheap motel, they’re shooting it out with your ex-con.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Damn right I am. At last I get to act furtive and guilty, as befits my race. The dream comes true.” His words were clever and light, the bitter twist of his mouth was not.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and meant it. Perhaps she hadn’t been wise to use him, but the truth was, she hadn’t had a surfeit of choices. “Back to work, Omar.”

“Harsh mistress.”

“You haven’t
seen
me harsh.”

It was the wrong thing to say, because he had, actually, and it was one subject they didn’t talk about. Omar looked at her for a few seconds, and then nodded and walked away.

It always surprised her how quickly the hours could pass when there was a full slate of things to do. Jazz stuck her head in at some point and announced that she was heading home, with Omar as an unwanted passenger, riding shotgun. Lucia checked the clock and found it already after office hours. She gathered up the motel cards that Omar had secured, and went down to McCarthy’s office.

“Here,” she said. He was standing up, putting files in a cabinet, and he looked at the keys over the top of some little half-glasses he’d put on for reading. They made him look leonine and oddly daft.

“Home sweet home,” he said, and reached for them. “Which one’s first?”

“Motel 6, on top. They’re in order. Omar booked you for a different place every week.”

He nodded, as if that was the most reasonable thing in the world. “Omar?”

“You’ll meet him later. He’s a friend of mine.”

Her eyes touched his, then moved on.
Not that close a friend
, she wanted to say, but there didn’t seem to be any way to do so that wouldn’t sound…ridiculous. “Sorry for the cloak-and-dagger, but Detective Stewart seemed quite—intent. I thought it was better to give you some breathing space for a while.”

“Thanks. Sure you won’t join us for dinner?”