Jazz's eyes flew up to meet hers. "What the hell does that have to do with anything?"
"Is that why you're mother-henning me?"
"No, dammit, I'm mother-henning you because you need it! Because you—you did the same thing for me. Remember?"
She did. She remembered Jazz, white around the lips, barely able to move after surgery to remove a bullet, determined to try to go about the business of her life.
She stared at Jazz for long seconds, and then said, "My life is my own, Jazz. As is yours. But please, let me do this one thing before I give up control. All right?"
Jazz swallowed, looked away and nodded. "We keep it to a minimum, then. Far as I'm concerned, we don't do anything that puts either one of us in danger. We can hang out here and watch TV until noon—"
The telephone rang. Jazz's eyes went dark and shadowed, and she grabbed it before Lucia could reach for it. "Yeah," she snapped. Her body language shifted, from resistant to cautiously open. "For me? You're sure? Okay. I'll be right down."
She hung up and looked at Lucia, who frowned. "Down for what?"
"Delivery. FedEx, for me."
"Let's consider the last FedEx I opened, shall we? Carefully."
"It's like the lotto. Can't win if you don't play." Jazz grabbed her jacket and swung it on to hide her shoulder holster. "You stay here. I'll be right back. No fair having ninja fights while I'm gone or anything."
Jazz was gone before she could protest. Lucia, resigned, went to the intercom and buzzed the security desk. "Mr. Tarrant? My friend is on the way down. I want extra attention while she's coming and going, all right? There could be trouble."
"Yes, ma'am," he said. "We'll keep a close eye."
That was all she could do to protect Jazz at the moment. She pulled out a small carry bag and stuffed in sweatpants, underwear, tank tops, comfortable soft things that wouldn't bother her if—as she anticipated—the doctors did indeed tie her down for the duration. The bathroom necessities went into the side pockets, and after a second she put in the collapsible combat baton that Jazz had given her as a partnership gift, and professional-strength pepper spray. She'd have to surrender the offensive weaponry, but…
She heard the front door open and close, and made her way back that direction. Jazz was standing there, frowning.
"You're not gonna like it." Jazz held up the FedEx envelope and removed a red envelope with the air of an actress about to announce an award.
"You've got to be kidding me."
"Yeah, I wish I was. But I checked it out with your little light thingie." Jazz handed it over. "It's to both of us."
It read, IMPERATIVE YOU GO IMMEDIATELY TO THE RAPHAEL WHEN YOU RECEIVE THIS MESSAGE. TAKE MS. GARZA.
"So much for our plan to stay put," Jazz said. "Didn't you stash Susannah Davis there?"
"Yes. But there's no need for us to go. Omar's with her."
They exchanged silent stares, and Jazz nodded. "Call him."
She dialed Omar's cell number. It rang to voice mail. She hung up and dialed the hotel's main desk and was put through to the room.
No answer.
She didn't have to say anything. Jazz's face was grim with understanding.
"You think—" Lucia began.
“I’ in trying not to." Jazz looked down at the paper Lucia was still holding. "I can get Ben to go with me."
"No. If anybody goes with you, it's me. I told you, Ivanovich said there was an explicit threat." Lucia got up, retrieved the UV light and ran it over the message. It was signed, again, by Max Simms. "Simms sent this, not Laskins. You tell me, does he want you alive or dead?"
"Who the hell knows what that creepy guy wants? Look, you're not going. And if you're not going and I'm not going, what are we going to do? Hide here like a couple of rabbits?" Jazz looked fierce, in fighting mode. Razor-edged and glittering with menace. "I don't hide."
There was a strange joy in it. And it was catching, driving back the sickness and leaving purpose in its place. "You're right." Lucia checked her purse for its usual load of lethal supplies. "Both of us go. You can put me in intensive care at noon."
Jazz looked wary. "You're not going to let me stop you, are you?"
"Laughable. Would you let me stop you?"
Jazz's jaw worked, chewing words, and then she spat them out, rapid-fire. "Fine. You so much as flutter an eyelid, I'm calling an ambulance, and you get carted out like a little old lady who slipped in the shower." That was Jazz's way of expressing affection.
"I'm fine. Quit staring like you expect me to fall over and froth at the mouth. I'm not contagious, and I feel all right. I'm not impaired." The gnawing headache hardly counted. The heavy tickle in her lungs could be nothing more than suggestion, she told herself. "As I recall, I let you go along on our first case together when you still had a bullet wound. So please, let's not discuss fitness."
"Lucia!" Jazz grabbed her by the shoulders. Lucia instinctively brought her forearms straight up and knocked the grip loose, which startled them both. "Damn. I'm not trying to beat you down, you know."
"I know. It's been—an odd couple of days. I'm sorry."
"You're entitled." Jazz stepped back, but she hadn't lost the frown. Her hands were fisted at her sides now. "Look, this is serious. We could be walking into anything. I need you sharp. You could walk into a bullet the second you open the door. You really ready for that?"
"Yes." Lucia met and held the stare. "I'm ready, Jazz. I've got your back."
Whatever Jazz saw, it seemed to satisfy her. She reached into her black leather jacket, took out her gun and checked the clip—an automatic reaction for her, like breathing.
Lucia bent over to put on her shoe; Jazz raised an eyebrow. "That's what you're wearing? You know, I always think practical when I'm planning for some kind of fight."
Lucia nodded and reached down to zip the sides of the low boots. "These are practical. Flat heels, ankle support and steel toes. And yet stylish."
"Huh. I need to take you shoe shopping." Jazz glanced down at her Doc Martens, which looked exactly like the work boots they were. Lucia gave her a full smile and checked the position of her.38 in the holster at the small of her back, then took out the nine millimeter resting in the shoulder holster. Jazz mimed a desire to see it. Lucia handed it over.
"Wow," she said, and turned it right, then left. "Ruger P95? This new?"
"Absolutely." Lucia reached out and took it from Jazz's hand, then slotted it securely in her holster. "You know, you're amazingly easy to distract with things that can hurt people." She donned her leather jacket—brown, not black; she hated to match her partner—and picked up her purse. "After you, Jazz."
"You're sure you—"
"We've been through this." Lucia met her eyes levelly. "I put Omar there, and I didn't think to warn him. Consider how that feels."
Jazz didn't blink, and for seconds, Lucia thought she'd failed. She knew she wasn't likely to be able to take Jazz in a straight fight—Jazz had a gift—but she'd been hoping that she wouldn't have to try.
"Fine," Jazz abruptly said. "But one cough out of you, and you're at the hospital. In restraints. And I tell them you need a colonoscopy, too."
"Deal."
It was inevitable, Lucia realized, that after a pronouncement like that, she'd fight the urge to cough the entire way down in the elevator.
Chapter Eleven
Jazz—through some sort of divine intervention, Lucia assumed—had persuaded Manny to loan her his enormous black vehicle. The Hummer wasn't just a gigantic SUV, of course, it was customized to Manny's particular paranoid standards. Lucia knew it had bullet-resistant glass, and no doubt Kevlar in the frame; she wouldn't be surprised if it featured a rocket launcher somewhere in the accessory package.