"She's not there," Jaime said, tossing down her amulet beside Dana's still form. "Goddamn orientation training."
"Orientation?" I said.
"That's what I call it. Other necros have fancier terms. Gotta make it sound all mystical, you know." Jaime rubbed the back of her neck. "After a spirit crosses over, you have a day or two, sometimes three, to contact them, then the ghost Welcome Wagon snatches them up and shows them the ropes. During that period, the spirit is on hiatus. Some kind of psychic door slams and you can scream your lungs out, but they can't hear you."
"I've heard of that," I said. "Then, afterward, you can contact them, but it's harder than it would be in the first couple of days."
"Because they've learned how to just say no' to pesky necros. After that, we're as welcome as encyclopedia salesmen. You have to pester them until they listen just to get rid of you. Unless they want something, and then they'll drive us nuts until we listen." Jaime raked her hands through her hair. "This makes no sense. If she's in training, then why-" She twisted her hair into a ponytail. "You wouldn't have a clip, would you?"
"Always," I said, digging in my purse. "With this hair, it pays to be prepared. A drizzle of rain or shot of humidity and it's ponytail time."
"So the curl's natural?"
"God, yes. I wouldn't pay for this."
She laughed and fixed the clip in her hair. "See, now, I would. That's the irony, isn't it? Girls with curly hair want straight and girls with straight hair want curly. No one's ever happy." She glanced in her compact. "Decent enough. Ready for lunch?"
I returned my chair to its place across the room. "What were you saying earlier? About something not making sense?"
"Hmm? Oh, don't mind me. I never make sense. Don't forget, you wanted to check in with the nurse before we leave."
According to the nurse, Randy MacArthur was expected in two days. That made me feel better. Dana might not be coming back, but it would help her to know that her father had been there for her. We hadn't told anyone that Dana was gone. If keeping quiet meant she'd be on the respirator long enough for her father to see her "alive" one last time, then she deserved that much.
As we walked from the clinic, I noticed a balding man across the road on a bench, reading the newspaper. As we headed down the road, he watched us over his paper. Nothing unusual about that-I'm sure Jaime got more than her share of lingering looks. When we'd gone half a block, though, I happened to glance over my shoulder and saw the man strolling on the other side of the road, keeping pace with us thirty feet or so behind. When we turned the corner, he did the same. I mentioned it to Jaime.
She glanced back at the guy. "Yeah, I get that sometimes, usually from guys who look like that. They recognize me, hang around a bit, work up the courage to say something. There was a time, I'd have killed for the attention. Now, some days, it's just-" She shrugged off the sentence.
"More than you bargained for."
She nodded. "That's the bitch of celebrity. You spend years chasing it, dreaming of it, starving for it. Then it happens and the next thing you know, you hear yourself whining about the lack of privacy and you think, 'You ungrateful bitch. You got what you wanted, and you're still not happy.' That's where the therapists come in. Either that or you self-medicate your way into Betty Ford."
"I can imagine."
Her gaze flicked toward me and she nodded. We walked in silence for a minute, then she checked over her shoulder.
"Let's, uh, skip the Cuban place, if you don't mind," she said. "We'll drive someplace else, lose the admirer."
"Sure. Does this happen a lot?"
"Is three or four times a week a lot?"
"Are you serious?"
She nodded. "Now, I have to admit, most aren't middle-aged admirers, just folks who want me to contact someone for them. I don't do private consultations, but people don't believe me. They think they just aren't offering enough money. There was this woman once, a friend of Nancy Reagan's. You remember Nancy… or are you too young for that?"
"She had a thing for psychics." I'd read this somewhere, having been in preschool during the Reagan administration, but I doubted Jaime would appreciate a reminder of our age difference.
"Well, Nancy had this friend-Is this where we're parked?"
"Next lot."
"Jesus, my memory lately… I swear, the holes are getting bigger."
We walked into the parking lot. Though it was midday, tall buildings surrounded the tiny strip of land, wrapping it in shadow.
"What? Buggers too cheap for hydro?" Jaime said, squinting into the half-filled lot. "Hey, our city has only the second-highest crime rate in the nation. When we hit number one, we'll celebrate by springing for security lights."
"I'd cast a light spell," I murmured. "But I hear footsteps."
As Jaime shoulder-checked, a car door slammed. We both jumped.
"I didn't see a car turn in here, did you?" I said.
She shook her head. I glanced around, but saw no one.
"Let's just-" Jaime began.
The slam of a second door cut her off. She followed the noise and swore under her breath.
"Walk fast and don't look," she whispered. "Two very big guys bearing down fast."
"How big?"
"Huge."
I stopped and turned around. "Hey, Troy."
Troy lifted his sunglasses onto his head. "Hey, Paige. Morris, this is Paige."
The temp bodyguard was the same one who'd been at the courthouse yesterday. He was several inches shorter than Troy, broader in the shoulders, and black, which ruined the whole bookend-bodyguard effect. Morris did, however, share Griffin's stone-faced demeanor, responding to the introduction with a nod so abrupt I thought it might be a hiccup.
Across the lot, our middle-aged stalker headed for a Mercedes. Troy lifted a hand in greeting. The man waved back, confirming what I'd only just suspected, that he was a Cabal employee sent to follow not Jaime, but me.
I completed the introductions by identifying Jaime. Troy smiled and shook her hand.
"The celebrity necro," he said. "Pleased to meet you."
"Uh, thanks," Jaime said, surreptitiously tucking in the back of her T-shirt. "So I'm guessing you guys are Cabal security?"
"Benicio's bodyguards," I said. "And I'm guessing the boss is in the SUV waiting for me."
"Yeah, different city, same plan. I told you, he likes routine."
"Benicio Cortez? Here?" Jaime glanced at the Cadillac SUV. "Oh, shit."
"It's more like 'aww, shit,'" I said. "Now comes the boring part. I have to send Troy back to say I want Benicio to come here, then he'll insist I come there, and poor Troy will get his daily dose of jogging running between us."
Troy grinned. "True, but the good part is that it's definitely not routine. Most times, when I say Mr. Cortez wants to speak to someone, they trip over me running to get to him."
"It's getting late, so let me make this easy on you. Wait here and I'll see what he wants."
I walked to the SUV, tapped the rear window, and motioned for the driver to lower it. Instead, Benicio opened the door.
"Come around the other side and get in please, Paige."
"No, thanks." I held the door open and stepped into the gap. "Let me guess: The clinic called you when I showed up, then you had one of your security guys hang around outside and follow me when I left."
"I wanted to speak-"
"I'm not done. My point was that you knew the moment you got that call that Lucas wasn't with me, and he'd already told you he wasn't happy about your approaching me in Portland. So now, when he's probably never been more pissed off with you, you decide this is a good time to follow me into an empty parking lot, corner me, and strong-arm me into talking to you."