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.
Chapter 3
At 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 wellfitted 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
