Morning came ugly and early, with the soundtrack of a ringing phone. Lucia clawed her way out of twisted sheets and found the receiver as she swung her legs out of bed. "Yes?" she said. It came out more abrupt than she intended, but she wasn't a morning person, and nearly everyone who worked with her knew it. What few friends she had knew it extremely well.
"Jazz."
Lucia collapsed back against the pillows and threw her arm over her eyes. "Manny has a result."
"No, not yet, but I figured I'd better ask you what you wanted to do about today's appointments. We have clients coming in at ten, remember? Santos Engineering? The industrial espionage thing?" Jazz was making notes; Lucia could hear the scratch of pen on paper. She felt as if she had a hangover. Her head felt stuffy. Don't be stupid. It could be anything. You could just be imagining things. "Lucia?"
"I'm thinking," she said. "Any way we can postpone?"
"Considering the state of our accounts receivable? I'm thinking no. Look, why don't I take it? Let you rest?"
"I'm fine." She wasn't. Didn't feel fine, and that worried her, but she'd had a crappy night's sleep. She didn't have a fever, at least, and that was supposed to be the first sign. "I don't want you out of Manny's place for now. Eidolon - "
"In case you missed the memo, Eidolon came after you, unless that FedEx was addressed to 'Whichever Bimbo Opens It First.'"
"Who're you calling a bimbo, chica?"
"Who're you calling chica? Ah, hell, get up, would you? Have some coffee. Call me back."
Click. Jazz and her smooth social skills. Lucia groaned and considered rolling over in the cocoon of pillows, but she knew it wouldn't do any good.
Shower. She needed a hot, cleansing shower.
On her third cup of coffee, Lucia called Jazz back and rescheduled the Santos meeting for the client's offices, on the condition that Jazz stay strictly at home.
"You're joking," Jazz retorted. "You think I'm letting you roam around by yourself? Somebody tried to poison you. Don't you get it?"
"I get it," she said, and checked the headlines on the papers that had been left at her door. "But mail poisoning isn't exactly the world's most intimate crime. It's a leap to go from that to - "
"Excuse me, but these same people - "
"How do we know it's the same people?"
"These some people put a high-powered-rifle bullet through my office window and nearly killed me! That's pretty intimate, not to mention direct! Unless you're wearing Dolce & Gabbana's spring bulletproof line - "
"Oh, Jazz, I'm so proud. A year ago you would have thought Dolce & Gabbana made chocolate bars."
"Would you let me finish?"
"No. And I'll tell you why. I'm going to the meeting, and I'm taking Omar with me. You've met him. Is he enough of a bodyguard for you?"
Jazz made some halfhearted protests, but it was mainly from being left out, which she hated. But Lucia meant what she said: until Max Simms or the Cross Society sent word that Eidolon's attention had moved on, and Jazz was no longer a target, Jazz would stay safe in Manny's home. Bunker. Whatever it was.
"Jazz," Lucia said, just when she sensed her partner was about to put down the phone. "Listen - when Manny gets the results - "
"You're the first call," Jazz said. "FBI second. Pansy's still here, by the way, and feeling fine. You?"
Lucia swallowed another mouthful of coffee and willed the aches in her muscles to go away. "Fine," she said. "I feel fine."
Omar showed up downstairs at promptly 9:00 a.m., looking big and mysterious and sexy as hell in his black slacks, black shirt and designer sunglasses, his glossy black hair carelessly curling almost to his shoulders. "Boss," he said in greeting, and uncoiled from his lounging position at the guard station, where he'd been shooting the breeze with Messrs. Tarrant and Valencia, the day shift guards. He slid the glasses up to take a good look at her. "I leave you alone for a few hours, and you go and get yourself infected."
"Yes, Omar, you could have bravely thrown yourself on the FedEx package and prevented all of this." She moved past him to the parking garage elevators. "Cheer up. Maybe you can take a bullet for me today instead."
"Don't get my hopes up," he said.
Downstairs, his gleaming black SUV was parked next to her Lexus. Illegally. "I suppose we're taking your car," she said.
"You hired me for my vast array of skills," Omar said. "Of which guarding parking garages is only one."
"Shut up and get me there."
"Testy! Not enough coffee?"
There wasn't enough coffee in the world right now to banish the headache that was pounding in her temples. She dug two aspirins out of her purse and swallowed them with a mouthful of bottled water, taken from the built-in cooler between the seats. Omar's SUV had all the comforts of first class. She was reasonably sure that should she ask for a hot meal, he'd be able to provide it out of the contents of the secret compartments.
"Headache?" he asked.
"Not enough sleep. And yes, I have antibiotics, and they don't even know what it was in the envelope yet. I'm fine." Speaking of that, she dug the antibiotics out and swallowed the next dose. It tasted bitter. She followed it with plenty of water.
He kept silent, wisely. She closed her eyes as the truck weaved through morning traffic to Overland Park. The sun seemed too bright. She checked the air vents and turned the air conditioning up.
Omar refrained from comment.
The meeting was so dull and ordinary that she coasted through it on autopilot. She smiled at appropriate places and delivered the appropriate endorsements of the ability of the private investigative firm of Callender & Garza to find their security leak. Santos was a small company. The leak wouldn't turn out to be some hard-ass spy; more likely, he or she would be a disgruntled midlevel employee, dissatisfied with his or her prospects and pay.
"The truth is," she told Erin Santos, the firm's chief operating officer, "the target is probably so scared of being caught that he or she will confess immediately, if confronted. I'd suggest some blind interviews this week. Half an hour for each of your employees over the course of two or three days. We'll find your mole." An easy five thousand. Jazz would be pleased.
"Well..." The Santos team exchanged barely concealed eager looks. "Can you do it now? Get started, anyway?"
"Sure," she said. It wouldn't take much. Some guesses, some silence, Omar lounging purposefully in the corner. "Give me the most likely suspects first. We might as well work it as a triage."
In fact, it was faster than even Lucia had anticipated. She didn't get any signs on the first two, but the third person in the door had the body language of someone walking to the electric chair. She had a confession within minutes, and was soon giving her report and leaving the board to handle the guilty employee.
Erin Santos was true to her word, and there was indeed a check cut immediately. Lucia accepted it with grave courtesy and just the right touch of distaste. Money changing hands was never to be savored in public, with a client. No matter how happy one might be later at the bank.
In the SUV again, she called Jazz and gave her the report as Omar deposited the check at a drive-in teller.
Jazz was pleased. "What're you doing now?"
"Now," she replied, slipping on her sunglasses against the relentless morning glare, "I think I will go home and get some more sleep."
"Afraid not," Jazz said. Her tone was gruesomely cheerful. "How close are you to the office?"
'Twenty minutes."
"Then swing by, would you? Security has someone there who tried to get in to see us. He seems pretty upset at finding the office shut down. Name's Leonard Davis... Hey, is Ben with you?"
"With me? Why would he be with me?"
Jazz's tone turned opaque. "Just asking. I haven't heard from him yet."
"No idea," Lucia said.
Omar was already heading in that direction when she hung up the phone.
She put her head back against the cushions and tried to nap.
There was a gangly young man seated in the lobby of the office building. He was bundled in a big gray sweatshirt and blue jeans, with a baseball cap pulled low. Lucia nodded at the two guards, who were looking tense and unhappy. One of them came to meet her.
"This Leonard Davis guy showed up about thirty minutes ago," he said. "Wanted to see somebody from your firm. I told him the company was shut down for renovations, but he didn't want to leave. Acting weird, I gotta tell you. You want I should call the cops?"
"No, let me talk to him first," Lucia said, and exchanged a glance with Omar. He moved off to the side, apparently lounging, but he had a clear line of fire if necessary. Lucia walked toward the man.
He didn't budge. Didn't even look up until the last moment of her approach. He had a regular face, squarely middle of the dial between handsome and homely. Medium brown hair. Dark eyes, narrow, with no particular impact to them.
"Mr. Davis," she said, and sank down into one of the leather guest chairs on the opposite side of the glass table. "You wanted to see someone from Callender & Garza?"
"Yeah, I did. I didn't think you guys were here - "
"We're temporarily officing elsewhere. What's so urgent?"
He took off the ball cap in an awkward gesture of gentility, and offered his hand. She shook it. "I'm real sorry to be trouble, but I really needed - look, it's my wife. I need to find her, and I was told you might be able to help me."
"Do you mind if I ask who sent you?"
"A Detective, ah, Brown? I have his card somewhere..." He patted his pockets and came up with a KCPD business card. Welton Brown. Lucia recognized the name - one of Jazz's contacts in the department. A detective with a solid reputation. "Anyway, I don't know where else to go. I mean, I've been looking, but nobody seems to have seen her."
"Slow down," Lucia said, and kept her body language friendly and open. "Tell me what happened, from the beginning."
He took a deep breath and put his baseball hat back on. His sweatshirt proclaimed him a fan of the Kansas City Chiefs. Nike cross-trainers on his feet. He looked athletic, and the watch on his wrist was a sturdy, waterproof sports model. No reason at all for her alarm bells to be clanging. He was nothing but vanilla, through and through.
He said, "It's my wife, Susannah. She, ah, she's missing. I mean, she didn't come home from work on Thursday. I went crazy looking for her."
"And you went to the police." Lucia held up Welton Brown's card.
Leonard Davis nodded. "Sure. The next morning, when I couldn't find her at any of the usual spots."
"And Detective Brown recommended you come to us?"
He didn't answer.
"Leonard," she said, and drew his eyes. "Tell me exactly why the police don't think she was abducted. You know I can find out with one phone call if I have to."
He looked down at his cross-trainers. "She might have taken some clothes."
"Money? Did she take cash?"
His hands washed each other, slowly. "She used her ATM card twice that night. But these carjacking guys, they do that, right? They make you get money out of the ATM. That's what happened. They made her do it."
"Does she have a cell phone?"
"Yes. It's off."
"And her car? Has it been spotted at all?"
"No. What about a chop shop? Maybe they cut it up for parts." Lucia wondered if he was thinking about the same thing happening to his missing wife.
"It's possible," she said. "The police have this information on file, if you gave it to them. They'll keep it in the database, and if anything turns up, they'll reactivate the case. It isn't that they don't necessarily believe you, Mr. Davis, it's that there isn't much to go on in this particular instance. You understand, don't you? The police have to focus on crimes that have definitely occurred, not ones that might have happened. The facts you've laid out for me could involve a woman who's gone missing, or a woman who doesn't want to be found."
Davis fidgeted, fingers pulling at the seams of his blue jeans. There were fading bruises on his knuckles, and she focused on them for a second before flicking her attention back to his shadowed face.
"I believe she's missing," he said. "I believe somebody took her and made her get that money. I want you to help me find her."
She sat back, considering him, Welton Brown's card cool between her fingers. Omar was still lounging in the corner, looking as if he was paying no attention, but intent on every movement.
Something was bothering her, but she couldn't put her finger on it. As she thought it over, trying to run it down, her cell phone rang.
"Excuse me," she said, and stood up to walk to a far corner, her back to Davis. Omar would be watching. Not much risk involved.
"Yo." Jazz. "Leonard Davis has two complaints against him for spousal abuse. KCPD has been to his house plenty of times. Sounds like a lively place."
"Have you talked to your friend Detective Brown recently?"
"Welton? No. Why?"
"This guy's carrying his card."
"Probably filed a missing persons on his wife. Ten to one, he's buried her in the backyard. Thinks he's clever. Brown may be using us to keep him busy while he does a murder investigation. That would be his style."
"I don't appreciate having my time wasted."
"Think of it as becoming a cog in the great wheel of justice."
Lucia said something pithy in Spanish, which was a waste, since Jazz hardly spoke a word. "So why would this guy engage with us, especially for money?"
"Makes him look honest when they dig his wife up from the melon patch."
Lucia turned slightly and glanced over her shoulder. Davis was leaning back now, straightening his baseball cap with his right hand.
And something clicked. Something she was sure Welton Brown must have noticed, as well.
"Keep digging," she told Jazz. "I don't mean in the melon patch."
"Funny."
She ended the call and walked back, slid into the seat and gave him a cool, professional smile.
"How'd you get the bruise on your hand, Mr. Davis?" she asked. He looked down and instinctively turned it palm upward, hiding the damage. "It looks like you got it about the time your wife dropped out of sight."
He didn't glance up at her. She saw the tension in him and felt a sudden shift in the room, as if gravity had subtly altered.
"I got into a fight," he answered.
"Let me put this to you as strongly as I can, Mr. Davis," Lucia said. She deliberately dropped her voice, slowed it, held his eyes with her own. "If you hurt your wife and she is in hiding, I will not track her down for you. Do you understand me?"
"I got into a fight at work. Look, it didn't have anything to do with Susannah, I'd never do anything to hurt her."
She could feel something weighing her down now, a conviction that was drawn from a thousand hints. The way his eyes cut away at the last second. The bruises. The too-direct stare during a denial. Tiny facial tics as he tried to fake sincerity.
She cut him off. "Our rates are a thousand dollars a day."
Davis sat back, mouth open, and then did that lightning-quick shift of his eyes again. "I see. So it's all about the money, right?"
"We work for a living, yes."
"If I give you the money, you'll find Susannah?"
Not, she noticed, save her. Not find out what happened to her. Just, simply, find.
She smiled thinly and stood up, settling her purse over her shoulder. "Not for any amount, Mr. Davis," she said. "Because I don't believe you. Either you've killed your wife or you'd badly like to finish what you started. Either way, we're not interested in helping you."
She expected him to grab, because - if she was right - that would be his automatic response. And he did. His hand shot out and closed on her arm. Squeezed - not with crushing force, because he was aware of Omar, who was straightening up behind her, and the security guards behind the desk. But with enough strength to send a hot jolt of agony up through her shoulder.
She didn't let it affect her cool, professional mask. "You'll want to take your hand off of me now, Mr. Davis," she said. "Before something unfortunate happens."
"I said I need your help!" He didn't sound helpless; he sounded angry. She understood that anger could be a correct response, especially when a loved one was missing. But his anger was off-key. Narcissistic.
"Yes," she agreed, and pulled her arm free. "You did. Now I'd advise you to go look for an attorney."
Seen up close, those eyes were probably his greatest asset. The kind of little-boy eyes that lulled women into trusting, into believing his apologies, into letting down their guard.
His eyes lied better than the rest of him.
He stepped back. "You've got the wrong idea about me."
"Maybe so. And if that's the case, then I will be sincerely sorry. But I can't take the chance."
She nodded to Omar, and walked away to the security desk. The two guards looked attentive.
"Escort him out," she said. "He doesn't come back inside."
"Yes, ma'am."
In the elevator, Omar didn't say a word, but he was watching her with interest. She felt tired. Achy. Wanted to collapse back into her warm, soft bed and sleep for days.
"What?" she asked.
He shrugged as he pushed the button for the parking garage. "Kinda hard on the guy."
"He's had numerous abuse complaints."
"Doesn't mean she's not missing."
"It might mean that she's missing on purpose, and the last thing she needs is us bringing this guy to her doorstep."
"Sometimes I think you don't like people very much," he said.
"People, meaning men?"
Another shrug.
"I like men just fine," she said. "I just like them better when they're not lying their asses off to me."
Omar's dimples flashed as he smiled. "You don't get a lot of dates, huh?"
"Not second ones."
The door creaked open at the well-lit parking level, and Omar went out first, presenting an unmissable target should anyone be taking aim. He didn't even think about doing it. It was his job. She admired that, even while she couldn't quite understand the mentality behind it.
"Clear," he said, after scanning the area. She stepped out from behind him, and they walked quickly toward the SUV.
She had no warning, but suddenly she felt a powerful shove to the left, felt the world tilt, and landed hard on her side. She rolled instinctively, holding her head up to keep from hitting the concrete floor, and landed next to a fat gray pillar. She hadn't thought about drawing her gun, but it was out, both hands bracing it in textbook firing position.
"Easy," Omar was saying. He was still standing out in the open, having executed his first priority - moving her out of the line of fire. He was holding up both empty hands and trying to look as inoffensive as possible, which was odd behavior for any bodyguard, but Omar in particular. Lucia edged forward and peered around the barrier, hunting a target.
A woman was standing in front of him. Thin, fragile, with short dark hair and ivory-pale skin that showed off a lurid array of bruises. Half her face was swollen almost beyond recognition.
She had a gun trained on Omar.
"Easy," he said again, and held his hands higher when she flinched. "Nobody's here to hurt you."
"I need your help," she blurted. There were tears running from her eyes, streaking silver down her face. She slurred her words, thanks to a badly swollen lip. "Please."
It came to Lucia in a lightning flash of comprehension, and she slowly stood up, holstered her gun and stepped out from behind the pillar, hands raised.
"Susannah?" she asked. "Susannah Davis? You don't have to be afraid now. You're safe. We're not working for your husband. My name is Lucia Garza."
