Devil's Bargain

No ring on her finger. Not a lot of jewelry, period, although there was a diamond glint in her ear.

Lucia was studying the piece of paper.

“What?” Jazz asked.

“We’re supposed to go to this address, sit in a car and watch her load up her van,” Lucia said. “Take some pictures. That’s it.”

“That’s it?” Jazz examined the picture again. “Does she look like a criminal to you?”

“How do criminals look? I’ve busted seventy-year-old grandmothers ru

Which was an odd enough image to make Jazz laugh. She reached for the paper. Lucia passed it over. She hadn’t misstated; that was all it said. It gave an address, a time, no names or other information. Just directions on what to do and how long to do it.

Watch her load the van. Document with still and video photography. Forward all records and reports to James D. Borden at Gabriel, Pike & Laskins.

Okay. No problem. At least it would be easy work. The notation at the bottom—in Borden’s handwriting, Jazz felt sure—said that the fee would be two thousand dollars, but that both of them were required to be there, since Jazz was, quote, “impaired.” Get your leather-jacket ass back here, I’ll show you impaired, she thought, smoldering, and handed it back. Lucia folded it and stuck it back in the envelope, along with the photograph, which they’d both handled carefully, without getting their prints on it. Jazz felt warm and fuzzy over the fact that they hadn’t even had to talk about it.

“Ma

“Just the photo,” Jazz said. “Have him run the prints and do an image recognition search through his databases. See what turns up.”

It was a little amazing, really, that they were thinking along the same lines. Lucia seemed to think so, too. They exchanged a slow smile, broken by Jazz clapping a hand to her forehead and then wincing at the hot pull along her side at the movement.

“Shit, I forgot,” she said. “Ma

“Well, you’re not driving,” Lucia said, and picked up the keys as Jazz reached for them.

“They won’t let you open up the mailbox. I’m the only one with access, and even then, they card me for it.”

“I won’t go in. Taxi service only.”

Not much choice, really. Jazz nodded and levered herself out of her chair with only a small wince. She limped to her gun safe and got out her backup piece—a snubnosed.38—and attached the clip-on holster to her belt. The cops had confiscated her main gun, of course, along with Lucia’s. She hadn’t asked where Lucia’s backup piece had come from. Probably wouldn’t be wise to ask too many questions.

The cloak-and-dagger show proceeded slowly; Jazz retrieved the new phone number from the dead drop and spent thirty minutes convincing Ma

Which did nothing to calm him down, of course. But she got him to agree to send a courier for the photo. He could dead-drop it all over town if he wanted. She had a job to do.

That was a nice change, she decided. And if she hadn’t been, well, shot, she’d have probably proposed a drink in celebration.

Just as well, all things considered, that the bars weren’t open, and painkillers didn’t go down well with alcohol.

And that having Lucia along lessened the desire to screw up her life any further.

An hour later, they were parked on a suburban street, eating food from a paper bag marked with a logo, and sipping diet drinks. Jazz hurt all over but didn’t complain about it. Lucia kept the radio on, tuned to a classic rock station, and they sat in comfortable silence watching the nondescript tract home with its pale brick and black shutters and closed garage door.

“What if she loads it in the garage?” Jazz asked. Lucia shrugged. “Do we still get paid?”

“I think we’d better take pictures anyway,” Lucia said, and proceeded to click the shutter. The camera was sleek, digital, and right out of the box. The battery was charging off a car adapter. Lucia checked the time code on the photo and said, “We’re right on time, according to the letter.”

Jazz nodded and took a bite of her hamburger. “Hey, if I fall asleep from the adrenaline, scream if there’s anything interesting.”

The day was still bright, although sunset would be coming on within the next hour; Jazz chewed mostly tasteless food and wondered if the silver plane threading the clear blue sky was carrying Borden back to New York. Lucia snapped pictures at some military interval known only to her own internal stopwatch. Cars drove by, some slow, some faster. None of them seemed interested in the house they were focusing on.

“We look suspicious,” Jazz said.

“Stakeouts do,” Lucia agreed. “And I’d suggest we get out and jog around, but neither of us is dressed for it and I don’t think that was what the doctor had in mind for you when he said light exercise. If you think sitting in a car looks suspicious, keeling over and bleeding profusely attracts even more attention.”

Jazz grunted around a mouthful of French fries. “Probably,” she agreed.

“I know it’s not necessary to say this, but if something goes wrong, you’re going to let me handle it, right? You’re not going to decide to kickbox a dozen ninjas and die on me?”

“Ninjas? Let me see the file.”

“Fu

“Listen, at this rate, I’m more likely to die of cholesterol overload than a bullet.”

“Let’s keep it that way…heads up.”

A black van—cargo, not mini—turned the corner behind them and proceeded slowly up the block. Jazz felt a sudden flicker of something. Instinct, maybe. She dropped the rest of the fries into the bag, tossed it into the backseat, and made sure she could get to her gun.

Lucia snapped some pictures and watched the van glide up the street. Most of the houses were vacant of cars or people—it was a working-class neighborhood, largely deserted during the day—but there were kids out playing three yards down.

No sign of life from the house they’d been assigned to watch.

The van slowed, turned and bumped up into the driveway.

“I think we’re officially on duty,” Lucia said u

The front door of the house swung open, and Pink Cardigan came out. It probably wasn’t fair to call her that, as the pink cardigan wasn’t in evidence today—there was a brown pullover sweater and khaki slacks, instead. Lucia snapped off a photo as the woman walked toward the driver’s side of the van. From their perspective, the driver was hidden.

“We should have parked up there for a decent shot of the driver,” Jazz noted, nodding about twenty feet ahead. Lucia didn’t respond. She was focused on the van, the woman. Snapping multiple photos of the license plate. Jazz left her to it and checked the side mirrors again. The kids were still galumping around in the yard a few doors down, spraying each other with water hoses. Nothing seemed to have changed.

Pink Cardigan went back into the house, and after a few minutes, the garage door rattled up.

“Uh-oh,” Jazz said. “That’s it. They’re going to pull it inside.”

But there wasn’t any room. The garage was packed full of boxes, and a small silver Nissan was squeezed into the remaining space.

Lucia took a picture.

Pink Cardigan grabbed a box—it appeared to be fairly heavy—and went around to the back of the black van. She opened the rear doors and slid the box inside.