“Yes,” Laskins said sourly. “I know you mean it, Garza. But use your common sense. The Cross Society is giving you information, and you’re acting upon it. Do you really think you can just walk away?”
“Oh, yes, I think I can. And should.”
“From the moment our psychic—”
“Max Simms?” Jazz asked. Laskins cut his steely Paul Newman stare her way.
“Yes, fine, Max Simms. From the moment you appeared in his visions, you became important. We got to you first. That made you targets—low-priority, at present—for the opposition. You will be targets for as long as you continue to be Actors.”
“How do we quit?”
It was a perfectly good question, but Laskins’s smile got wider. “You can’t, Ms. Callender. Not of your own accord. For as long as the greater forces of the universe—God, the devil, or chance—deem you an Actor, you will remain one. But don’t worry. Eventually, it will be over.”
“Yeah,” Jazz snapped. “Eventually we all die.”
Laskins didn’t bother to deny it.
Laskins said, “We’ve reached a hard stop, Ms. Garza. You can either shoot me, which would have a less than pleasant outcome for both you and your partner, or you can exit the limousine and refuse to take any further support or information from us. But if you do that, you cut yourselves off. You’ve been marked as Leads, both of you. What you do matters. Everything you do matters, one way or another. You’re targets, as surely as Wendy Blankenship, and you’ll end up just the same if we don’t help you.”
“I don’t like threats.” Lucia almost purred it.
“That isn’t a threat,” he said. “It doesn’t need to be. You’ve become part of what we are. Our enemies know that.”
Lucia smiled and looked at Jazz. It was crazy, weird, exhilarating, the way the two of them communicated. The way things hummed at moments like this.
“Well,” Jazz said, “I suck at chess, but I love contact sports.”
On some unseen signal, Charles pulled the limo in at the curb again. Lucia reached over and opened her door. “The thing about hiring what you call Leads? We aren’t going to always do what you tell us.”
“If you don’t, people will die,” Laskins said.
“I did what you asked. Blankenship’s still dead,” Jazz said. Lucia slid smoothly out of the limousine. She scooted over to follow. “Don’t call us. Oh, and those red letters? Stuff them.”
She looked back, one last time, at James Borden. He was staring at her as if he was trying to memorize everything about her in the last second.
“See you, Counselor,” she said, and shut the door.
The limo pulled away, accelerating fast.
She and Lucia stood on the empty street in front of the apartment building, staring after it. Lucia absently holstered her gun.
“Well,” she said. “That was…unusual.”
“Which is so unusual for us, these days,” Jazz agreed blandly. She didn’t feel bland. She felt wired, juiced, jittery, more alive than she had in months. As if she’d finally found…
What?
Something.
Lucia turned toward her. “Do you want to stop?”
“Stop?”
“Quit. Dissolve the partnership. Go separate ways.” Lucia nodded after the limo’s taillights. “Clearly, these people are insane. It’s probably far better that we get out now, before the damage is permanent.”
“Yeah,” Jazz agreed softly. “They’re crazy.”
“Then you want to quit?”
Silence. There were cars coming. Jazz glanced at the distant oncoming headlights, then met Lucia’s eyes and held them. “No,” she said. “I don’t want to quit. Not the partnership, anyway.”
Lucia’s smile was warm, wicked and utterly crazy. “Neither do I. This is just about to get…interesting.”
Chapter 7
Four months later
“P ansy, where the hell is the DeMontis file?”
“Under D.”
“It’s not under—oh. There it is.” Jazz grabbed it and slammed the lateral filing cabinet shut, then used a corner of her assistant’s desk to support the folder as she flipped the massive thing open. “Dammit. Has Lucia not filed her latest surveillance report yet?”
Pansy, for answer, clicked keys on her computer and a sheet of paper was spit out of her printer. She chunked a couple of holes in the top and handed it to Jazz. “E-mailed ten minutes ago.”
Jazz read the text, frowning, pacing, and reached across Pansy for the desk phone. Pansy glided her chair out of the way and sorted mail. No suits for Pansy these days; she had on a flower-patterned top, black pants, cat-eye glasses, and red streaks through her dark hair. The real Pansy, Jazz was sure. She’d told her to wear whatever she liked, but it had taken a good two weeks, in the beginning, for Pansy to slowly give up the formal wear.
Jazz continued to set a bad example by modeling the latest in fleece pullovers, blue jeans, and—on special occasions—loose-fitting shirts over colored T-shirts. And by failing to practice political correctness in the workplace.
The past few months had been tense at first. They’d kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the attack, for…something. But the Cross Society had been mysteriously quiet. And despite Laskins’s scare tactics, the world hadn’t come to an end. Evil psychic ninjas hadn’t shown up to kill them, and the Cross Society hadn’t even demanded their hundred thousand dollars back. And so, they’d settled into business as usual.
Jazz read as Pansy sorted mail, flipping junk into the trash, catalogs into a to-be-reviewed pile, personal mail for Jazz and Lucia into a third. Pansy hesitated over one envelope and ripped it open with a sharp little steel opener and pulled out a check. The printing was familiar. Their favorite client, DeMontis, had come through with another payment. Pansy waved it at Jazz, who nodded as she dialed the phone.
Lucia picked it up on the second ring. “Holá,” she said.
“Can you talk?”
“For now. I’m busy cleaning toilets.”
“I hope you’re using hands-free on the cell, because, you know, ugh.”
“Very funny. What?”
“The report,” Jazz said. “You still haven’t seen them make the drop?”
“I think that’s what it says in my last report, why, yes. And let me ask again why I’m the one wearing a sloppy green apron and emptying trash cans and scrubbing toilets? Is this a commentary on my national heritage?”
“It’s a commentary on the fact that you agreed to take this crappy industrial espionage case, not me,” Jazz replied. “I like the background checks.”
“You like the divorce cases,” Lucia said gloomily.
“I like easy work where I don’t get shot. So, are these guys just smarter than you, or what?”
“You know, if you’re trying to piss me off, that’s not very difficult when my eyes are burning from cleaning products, and I’m contemplating how men always miss the urinals.”
“I like you better pissed off.”
“Love you, too,” Lucia said. “Two more days and I’m out of here, and then you can come and show them how to scrub a bathroom while I call you and make taunting remarks about your detective skills.”
Jazz hung up without a response.
“We’re losing money on that one, boss,” Pansy said. “Two weeks of her time? Unless she brings in the whole pig, not just the bacon—”
“I know.” Jazz nodded at the check in Pansy’s hand. “Covers expenses, right?”
“Yeah, but I’ve got a bonus coming. Oh, and boss?” Pansy hesitated, then blurted out, “He called again.”
“He?” Like Jazz didn’t know.
“Ex-boss.”
Ex-boss meant James Borden, of course. “Did you hang up on him? Insult him using lots of short Anglo-Saxon words?”