Читать книгу Devil's Due - Рэйчел Кейн - Страница 11

An 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 always 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?”

“You’ve already had a meal with me today. This should be Jazz’s evening with you. Besides, I’m boring dinner company.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.” He looked at her over the top of those glasses, and the blue eyes came as a shock. Again. “Come. I hear that Manny likes you well enough to allow you into the Inner Sanctum.”

She didn’t need much persuading, and that was a traitorous thing, a thing that disappointed her. “Fine,” she said. “Jazz is on her way there. I’ll stop off at home to change clothes.”

Which drew his eyes involuntarily down her body, and she felt it like a physical touch. He caught himself, and focused back on the files.

“Do you want a drink?”

“Sorry?”

“A drink?” She had no idea where that blurted offer had come from, but once it was out, she couldn’t back away from it.

His hands paused. He leaned on the desk, looking down. “Yes,” he said. “Got any Scotch?”

“Blended or single malt?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Single malt.”

“There is no other kind.”

“Follow me.”

She was acutely aware of him in the hallway, his warmth at her back as they passed the empty spaces. Jazz’s door was closed. Pansy Taylor, their assistant, was still there, sorting mail, her glossy dark head bent toward her desk. She glanced up, and Lucia caught a fast smile before she turned her attention back to her work.

Lucia shut the office door behind McCarthy and motioned him to the couch in the corner, near the window. He settled. She opened the cabinet in the back and took out chunky crystal tumblers and a sealed bottle of Glenmorangie, then walked back over to sit in the chair next to the couch. She filled glasses, set the bottle aside and contemplated the russet-amber liquor for a few seconds before sipping. The taste was as warm as the color—a harsh bite that faded to a mellow, smoky glow in her mouth, then woke an answering fire in her stomach.

Neither of them had said a word, she realized, and it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. More as if they were in perfect agreement about what a lovely moment it was, sipping single malt.

When his glass was dry, McCarthy said, “I can’t get used to the quiet. It’s never quiet in prison. Always some sound—footsteps, talking, things moving. Crying, sometimes. You can’t sleep deeply. Always waiting.” He held out his glass, and she mutely refilled it. “They thought they’d kill me, putting me in general population.”

“You survived.”

“Yeah.” His smile was weary and bitter and just a touch sad. “You do that, if you can. No matter what it takes.”

“Do you want me to ask what it took?”

“Just saying.” He rested his head against the leather back of the couch, watching her through contemplative, half-closed eyes. “You understand how I feel about the Cross Society, right?”

“I understand that you think they betrayed you.”

“No, it wasn’t that personal. They just stopped having a use for me, that was all. Look, you and Jazz, you got caught up with them. I understand that. So did I. I think you need to get out now, while you can. You get embedded too deeply …” He shrugged. “Consequences can be harsh.”

“I appreciate the warning, Ben.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet. So, you and Jazz. Good friends?”

“I like to think so.”

“This Borden guy, he good enough for her? Apart from being a Cross Society asshole?”

Lucia fought back a smile. “Oh, I think he’s very good for her. Good enough? That would depend on your point of view. What’s yours?”

“Older brother. I’d say father, but that’s just depressing.”

“And untrue. You’re only, what? Forty-four?”

“Just like the gun. And I get to say that two years in a row. Ain’t I lucky?”

She laughed and tossed back the rest of her drink. “I like you, Ben.” She meant it lightly, but his eyes flashed, and she felt something bloom hot inside. Insanely hot. Ridiculously so. One glass of whiskey wasn’t enough to make her feel like this. Not even one glass of Glenmorangie.

“Careful,” Ben murmured, and drank the last of his as well. “Men like me, fresh out of prison … only got three things on our minds.”

“Such as?”

“Food.”

“We had breakfast.”

He leaned forward and put the glass on the side table, next to the bottle of whiskey. “Finding a place to stay.”

“Lucky you, you have four of them.”

“You really want me to go on?” he asked. “Because the third one on the list wouldn’t be gentlemanly.”

“Can’t have that,” she agreed. “You’ve been a perfect gentleman so far.”

“You have no idea how hard that is.”

Lucia had a sudden, vivid image. No, not an image, really—a full sensory mirage. McCarthy moving her back to her desk, sweeping the top of it clean. Her legs wrapping around him, their lips meeting and devouring. His hands …

She cleared her throat and stood up, aware that she was flushed, and not sure whether it was a product of the whiskey or her imagination. She reached for the glasses, and he was there ahead of her, handing them over.

Their fingers brushed, and it was like an electric current. The slow drag of his skin on hers made her pull in an involuntary breath, and she saw the answering response in the pupils of those blue eyes.

No, she told herself sternly. This is not you. You are not reckless and foolish. You hardly know a thing about this man, and for God’s sake, he just came out of prison….

Which wasn’t necessarily a downside; ungovernable passions were terrifying and compelling at the same time. She wished she hadn’t thought of that. Gasoline on a brush fire, that thought.

She transferred the glasses to her other hand and reached past him for the bottle. Close enough that their chests touched, brushed. It would be easy to kiss, from that intimate distance. Easy to do a lot of things.

He didn’t move.

He didn’t move away, either.

“Excuse me,” she murmured, and looked into his eyes. Just for a second, and then her nerve failed and she turned and walked to the cabinet, where she put the Glenmorangie away and placed the crystal tumblers in the small bar sink. Her hands were shaking, ridiculous as that was; she’d been through firefights with less emotional reaction.

Lucia stayed with her back to him, facing the cabinet, head down, fighting against an unexpected tidal wave of longing that was threatening to drag her under.

“You okay?” His voice came from close behind her. She felt herself flinch.

“Fine,” she said. Her voice was, as always, calm and controlled. “I need to make a couple of calls. Would you mind …?”

“No. I’ll be in my office, going over my important work,” he said, with dry amusement in his voice. He knew. He damn well knew what kind of effect he was having on her, and he knew how much it was angering her to lose control.

She didn’t turn around. McCarthy walked away—she was acutely aware of the sound of his shoes on the carpet—and opened and closed the door. The deep breath she took in smelled faintly of him—the hair products they’d used on him at Lenora Ellen’s, an elegant cologne, an underlying crisp male scent that she was starting to understand was uniquely his own.

She went back to her desk and sat down, hands flat on the surface. The couch at the far end of the room was a nice tan leather, a match for the one in Jazz’s office. The walls were a cool, clean cream. Black-and-white, oversize photographs hung there, plus a selection of color photos that showed her in air force dress uniform, and receiving a civilian commendation from a former president. As much of her history as she wanted to officially remember these days.

She was contemplating the couch, and possibilities, when a knock came at the door and Pansy opened it wide enough to look in. She was a cute, efficient woman whom Jazz had hired—partly out of spite—away from James Borden’s law firm of Gabriel, Pike & Laskins. Her sleek dark pageboy framed a heart-shaped face that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a silent movie.

Even, just now, to the wide eyes.

“What?” Lucia asked. Pansy was hardly the wide-eyed type. She’d been cool under fire, literally, when a sniper had taken out Jazz’s office window, and nearly Jazz herself. It took a lot to get a reaction from her.

For answer, Pansy held out a FedEx envelope—the stiff cardboard kind—and opened it to take out a red envelope. She held it in two fingers, carefully, as if it were a dead roach. “For you,” she said. “Do you want it, or do we make the shredder people happy?”

In Lucia’s experience, it was always better to make an informed choice. “I’ll take a look,” she said, and Pansy crossed the room with it and handed the crimson paper over. Lucia examined the outside of the envelope, but as usual there were no clues to the naked eye. A plain red envelope, like a greeting card. Her name block printed on the outside. “Who sent the FedEx?”

Pansy checked the label. “GP&L.”

“Not specifically from Borden or Laskins.”

“Nope. Mailroom. Could have been anybody.”

Lucia nodded and turned the envelope over. It was sealed.

She took a sharp letter opener from her drawer and slit it carefully across the top.

She had just put the letter opener down when Pansy yelled, “Stop!”

She looked up. Pansy was staring down into the open FedEx envelope, and her face had taken on a death-white pallor.

“Don’t open it,” she said.