Devil's Bargain

She thought, for a blinding instant, that he was going to kiss her—the thought was right there, in his eyes, naked—and then something happened, something out of the corner of her eye, and she snapped around to watch…but it was just a car squealing up, a frantic father yelling at kids, people ru

Normal life.

She turned back to Borden, but the thought was gone. He was behind a polite screen again.

“I should go,” she said, and nodded toward the door. He inclined his head, too. “Right. See you. Um…thanks for the ride.”

He didn’t say a word. When she looked back, he was still standing there, hands in his pockets, looking after her.

After negotiating security again, Jazz got on the phone to Lucia in the waiting area, exchanging information in short, vivid bursts.

“You’re sure you want to do this?” Lucia asked as Jazz watched a family of five meander its way into the gate area. Mom, dad, three kids who should have been poster children for their various age groups. Toddler in a stroller, burbling happily. Six-year-old with a neon-pink Barbie backpack, from which Barbie herself peered, battered and well loved. A disaffected preteen who sat with his face buried in his Game Boy screen, kicking the legs of his chair. “Jazz?”

“Remind me never to get married,” she said.

“What brought that on?”

“Kids.”

“Ah. I think you’d surprise yourself.”

“Me? Hardly. Not the motherly type, me.”

“Depends on your definition of motherly.” Lucia sounded amused. “I think of you as a mother wolf, defending her cubs to the death.”

“Yeah, well, I think of myself more as the single wolf, defending myself. Sorry. What were you saying?”

“I was saying this is a nice chat we’re having, but I’ve got work to do. So, you needed something…?”

Jazz hesitated, kicking a foot out rhythmically, watching the shadow move on the floor. “Lucia. Would you do me a big favor?”

“Big?”

“Major.”

“Of course.”

She sucked in a deep breath, let it out, and said, “Pansy sca

“Oh, yeah? Who?” Lucia sounded interested, not invested.

“Ben McCarthy.”

Silence. Jazz listened to the distant, constant hiss of dead air, and finally said, “You still there?”

“Yeah. What kind of pictures?”

“Potentially exculpatory pictures.”

“Ah.” Nothing in her partner’s voice now, which was something in itself. “After I put them on the wire—”

“No, you don’t need to do anything else,” Jazz hastened to say. “I’ll take care of it.”

“I could ask around.”

Jazz stared hard at her shoe. “I couldn’t—that’s a lot of favor.”

“If I can wrap up this case today, I have free time tomorrow,” Lucia pointed out. “And you’re not coming back for what, three days?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll go nuts.”

“Probably,” Jazz said, smiling. “But seriously, only if you have time, right? This isn’t work. This is—personal.”

“I know,” Lucia said.

“Be careful.”

“You’re the one flying off to L.A. without backup.”

Good point. Jazz looked around. Nobody seemed to be watching. They’d been free of surveillance for months now, after that initial bout of scariness. “I’m good,” she said. “No bullets whizzing as of yet.”

“Speaking of whizzing, I’d better get back to cleaning toilets.”

“Yeah, right. Listen, I’ll call you from L.A., all right? To check in.”

Lucia agreed. Jazz folded the phone just as the flight attendant made the first boarding call.

Chapter 8

S he’d seen the picture of Lowell Santoro, and it was a good thing she had, because otherwise she’d have completely missed him. By the term “film producer,” she’d have been expecting a flashily dressed, heavily bling-blinged guy, probably driving some overmuscled, over-priced convertible.

Lowell Santoro had on walking shorts, a staid-looking Hawaiian shirt and drove a Toyota. His sole concession to Hollywood seemed to be the sunglasses he wore, which were pretty fine, and made Jazz wish she’d thought to pack some, because the morning light was pretty fierce.

From the coffee shop across the street, she watched as Santoro parked in the lot of his office building. She sipped a pretty damn excellent coffee as he locked up his car and plodded up the walk to the front door of the lobby. She noted the time on her PDA, finished her coffee and got another to go. She went back to her rental car—an economy-class Ford, nice and clean, tons more comfortable than most copmobiles she’d ever used for stakeouts. Her small video camera and digital still camera lay on the seat beside her, along with her cell phone and her collapsible baton. Add some CDs, and we’ve got a party, she thought, and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel to the radio, which wasn’t half-bad, really.

She’d parked to be in the shade, with a kitty-corner view of Santoro’s car and a clear shot to pull out in a hurry if necessary. Not that she figured it would be necessary. This was her second day of surveillance, and she’d already gotten the clear sense that Lowell Santoro was a man of rigid habits.

She plugged in the last piece of equipment, using what was labeled as a “utility power outlet” instead of the time-honored cigarette lighter, and flicked on the tiny LCD screen on the palmtop.

It had taken some trial and error in the dead of night, and some real skills, to enter Santoro’s offices and set up the video feed, but she was patient and thorough, not to mention careful. Lucia had given her a solid two-month course in electronic bugging and breaking and entering…apparently, all useful skills taught by government agencies with three letters. Jazz had been a good student.

She watched as Santoro’s tiny little video figure crossed to his desk with a full coffee cup in his hand, exchanged some words with his assistant—indistinct in Jazz’s earpiece—and began to open up his mail. All very normal. This was going to be another of Borden’s “your presence prevents it” things, she already knew it. They’d had two before the debacle with Wendy Blankenship, besides the near-drive-by back in K.C. while she’d been recovering. One of them had been an all-night stakeout in a De

I shouldn’t be doing this. Then again, this would bring in cash, and Jazz was in favor of that. She’d never been a small-business owner before. Having people like Pansy depending on her for rent money made her nervous and greedy.

Santoro’s phone rang. He had a conversation about an upcoming film he was producing, and against her will, Jazz thought that was kind of cool, because they were talking about casting actors she actually recognized. The assistant came and went, bringing him stacks of correspondence once the incoming mail had been disposed of. Santoro had a pair of lungs on him, and from the language he used talking to an MGM executive, he had a pair of brass balls, too. Jazz found herself liking the guy. He called his wife and talked with her, and it sounded nice, too. Comfortable. The kind of conversation adults had who could bicker a little about what color the new refrigerator was going to be, and whether or not the kids needed summer camp or not, but still end with a love you that sounded heartfelt.

She never had conversations like that. Her arguments always felt so damn important…even when they weren’t.

Santoro seemed like a good guy. Someone you’d want for a friend. Which told her something about Borden, too—because, not only was he friends with somebody warm and generous like this, he cared. Borden had a decent heart.