Читать книгу: «Devil's Due»

Welcome to the shadowy psychic underworld of Jazz and Lucia from New York Times bestselling author Rachel Caine

‘Rachel Caine gives us a major kick-butt, savvy, swift

and smart heroine in a tense, fast-paced story that

demands to be read in one sitting!’

—P.N. Elrod, author of The Vampire Files

‘The Cross Society wants us dead?

‘But the Society put Jazz and me together in the first place! We never would have met if—’

‘My beloved, you’re not that stupid. They put you together for a reason. Now they want to take you apart for a reason. You’re just tools to them. And given our similar histories, I’m surprised that you didn’t consider that from the beginning.’

She was silent, staring at him. Aware of a lot of things, suddenly—of the fever still burning inside of her, a heavy feeling in her lungs, the carefully hidden trail behind the FedEx that had delivered something deadly to her offices.

It could have been Eidolon, trying to throw suspicion on the Cross Society. It could just as easily have been the Cross Society using a double-blind. They hadn’t sent it through Borden. Maybe Borden was still too valuable to them. Maybe James Borden, with his heart lost to Jazz Callender, wasn’t going to play their game any more, especially if it turned deadly for his friends.

Any of it could be true.

Or none of it.

About the Author

RACHEL CAINE was born at the ultra-secure White Sands Missile Range—site of the first atomic bomb tests—and has kept that non-traditional attitude ever since. She’s been a professional musician, accountant, accident investigator, web designer and graphic artist … all at the same time.

She is the international bestselling author of the Morganville Vampires series. Visit her website at www.rachelcaine.com.

Available from Rachel Caine

DEVIL’S BARGAIN

DEVIL’S DUE

Devil’s Due
Rachel Caine

www.mirabooks.co.uk

It’s an unusual thing to do, dedicating a

book to a couple of bestselling authors, but here goes:

Thank you to Charlaine Harris and

Carole Nelson Douglas for being such amazing people

and writing such amazing work.

I’m privileged to know you. Not deserving, but

extraordinarily, overwhelmingly privileged.

Prologue

CASE NOTES

LUCIA GARZA

FILE #20050228-1

PRIVILEGED AND CONFIDENTIAL

INVESTIGATION SUBJECT: BENJAMIN McCARTHY, 44-year-old white male

BACKGROUND: Exemplary Kansas City police detective. Decorated multiple times and given awards for meritorious service. Served with the KCPD his entire career, from 1985 until his suspension and subsequent conviction for murder in 2003. Incarcerated in the Ellsworth correctional facility. Appeals continue. PERSONAL: McCarthy was born and raised in Kansas City to a middle-class family. Background prior to joining the police department is relatively unexceptional. Scholastic history indicates high aptitude for problem solving. Parents reside in a retirement community in Arkansas. One brother, a commercial fisherman living in Florida. No evidence of close ties with other, more distant relatives. Never married, although he has been involved in two documented serious relationships, both prior to becoming a detective. (Neither with Jazz Callender, see separate file.)

FACTS OF THE CASE: At 2:34 a.m. on October 4, 2002, three bodies were discovered, bound hand and foot, shot in the back of the head execution-style. Victims were identified as Joseph Lozano, 23, a convicted drug dealer; Katherine “Kat” Vargas, 18, Lozano’s girlfriend; and Navio Veracruz, 19, also a known drug dealer. No drugs or money found on the bodies. Forensic investigation yielded several key pieces of circumstantial evidence, including tire tracks taken at the scene and footprints preserved in mud. However, the ballistics tests came back with a startling result: the bullets matched another case on file that had recently been entered in the computer system, an officer-involved shooting.

The bullets came from the service weapon of Detective Ben McCarthy.

McCarthy was unable or unwilling to provide a reliable alibi for the time in question, including any corroboration from his partner, Detective Jasmine “Jazz” Callender. Convicted on the basis of ballistic and forensic evidence, he was sent to Ellsworth for thirty years. Callender insisted on his innocence, but no supporting evidence was found. It does not appear, even on detailed examination of the facts, that Det. Callender was party to his criminal acts. Her dedication to clearing her partner’s name has been noteworthy during the period of his trial and incarceration, and likely resulted in the state in which she first came to my attention: broke and verging on a serious drinking problem.

ADDITIONAL NOTE: Files regarding Det. McCarthy’s case and Callender’s investigations were stolen from her apartment recently, during an apparently unrelated breaking and entering. We have turned up no information about the whereabouts of the files.

NEW EVIDENCE: Last month, Callender received a set of photographs, via former FBI agent Manny Glickman, that show McCarthy at a separate location during the time period of the murders. (Manny Glickman has been investigated. His background is clear and, in many ways, more convincingly above reproach than Callender’s. See separate file for details.) Photographs show McCarthy accepting envelopes from two known members of an organized crime family and are evidence of corruption. This explains why McCarthy chose not to use the alibi at trial, relying instead on the hope that he would be acquitted. Separate investigation has thoroughly authenticated the provenance of these photographs.

I accordingly submitted the photographs and supporting materials to the district attorney and McCarthy’s defense team as exculpatory evidence. The district attorney, moving a great deal more quickly than is typically the case in these matters, has moved to vacate McCarthy’s conviction.

On a personal note, I wonder at the speed with which this has been accomplished. In my professional experience, the right thing rarely happens quickly in the judicial system.

Lucia Garza

Partner

Callender & Garza Investigations

Chapter 1

The gavel fell, and Ben McCarthy was free. Mira, that was fast, Lucia thought, stunned. She’d been expecting … something else. A bit more theater, perhaps; at the very least a token few questions or some fussiness from one attorney or the other.

The prosecutor looked pale and drawn in the early morning hour, squinting against the harsh overhead lights. She was a hard-looking woman, with dark hair and a fashion sense that tended toward square-cut shoulders and block skirts with sensible shoes. No doubt she won a lot of cases, but it wasn’t on style points.

Lucia didn’t begrudge her the lemon-sucking expression, considering how humiliating it was to have to publicly acknowledge a prosecutorial mistake of this magnitude. This had been a gigantic miss for the cops and the district attorney’s office. A murderer had gone free, and a cop—not a good cop, granted—had been wrongly accused and convicted. McCarthy’s life was over, professionally speaking; he was damn lucky that it wasn’t over in every sense. The time he’d spent behind bars had been hazardous. He had the mended bones to prove it.

As soon as the gavel hit wood, McCarthy turned to look over the sparse crowd in the courtroom. Looking for Jazz Callender, Lucia knew, because he and Jazz had always been close, and it was reasonable to expect her to be present for his exoneration.

As Jazz would have been, if not for a conspiracy between Lucia and Jazz’s beau, James Borden, to keep her safe at home.

The judge rose in a flutter of black robes and escaped back to his chambers. Apart from the usual complement of guards and court stenographers, there was the sour-faced prosecutor, the cheery defense attorney, Ben McCarthy—somehow still neat and striking even in a prison-issue jacket—three bleary-eyed reporters … and a man sitting two rows ahead of Lucia, hunched forward.

McCarthy’s eyes gave up the search for Jazz and fastened on her, and Lucia felt an undeniable surge of … something. Not a handsome man, McCarthy, not in any sense she could name, but there was something about him that was compelling. Clear blue eyes in an expressive face, a force of personality that could freeze you solid or melt you to syrup, depending on his mood—she’d learned that quickly, during their prison interviews. He wasn’t tall—in fact, in heels she probably topped him by an inch—but he was strong, and there was something graceful about him. The way he moved. The deft, neat hands.

She saw the flash of disappointment. But the flash was only that, and then he smiled at her—a warm smile—and nodded his head. This wasn’t unusual; men smiled at Lucia Garza a lot. She was beautiful, and she was a careful steward of the gift; she took pains with her hair, her makeup and her clothing, and she stayed in shape. She was used to male attention.

And still that smile made her go entirely too warm in secret places. They’d gotten to know each other well these last few weeks, while Jazz was recovering from being shot, and Lucia assumed the primary investigator spot for McCarthy’s case. It had started cautiously, but Lucia, much to her surprise, hadn’t found McCarthy the typical closed-off cop nor the equally typical closed-off prison burnout. He’d been … interesting. Literate and smart and cool.

She had, in fact, interviewed him more than was strictly necessary, professionally speaking. Fifteen visits in all, two with Jazz, the rest without. He had remarked, the last time, that it had been the best interrogation of his life.

She’d subsequently spent more than a few hours wondering why Jazz had never succumbed to temptation with McCarthy. But Jazz had assured her—the third time loudly and profanely—that she’d never slept with him, and never really been tempted. They just hadn’t clicked.

Whereas Lucia seemed to be clicking with him like a castanet.

She stood up and willed herself to keep it cool and professional. She edged down the row to the central aisle. McCarthy stopped to exchange some words and a back-slap and handshake with his attorney, then a not-very-cordial look with the prosecutor as she snapped her briefcase closed. No handshakes necessary on that one.

He turned toward Lucia, and took two steps in her direction.

Someone came between them. A man, tan suit, rounded shoulders, wire-tight body language. Lucia scanned him instantly with the unerring instincts of someone who’d spent sweaty months in counterterrorism training; the man spelled trouble, even from the back. He wore a cheap summer-weight suit coat with a grubby look, as if he’d worn it for months at a time. Even from ten steps back, Lucia had the unmistakable impression that he needed a shower. He wasn’t much taller than McCarthy, and a great deal more nervous; from behind him, Lucia could see the jangles and twitches in his arms and legs. Emotion, possibly, or drugs.

“McCarthy,” she heard him rasp, in a voice like silk ripping on wire. “You son of a bitch.”

Ben McCarthy’s face went still, the blue eyes opaque. He shot one fast glance at her over the man’s shoulder and then focused on his opponent’s face. McCarthy stayed still, a total contrast to the man facing him, who had tension vibrating through every muscle. Lucia could feel it like an electrical field as she moved steadily forward. She had her weight poised, in case she needed to move fast, and she focused in on the balance points that were her targets.

She didn’t have a gun—a wholly unusual circumstance for her—but that wasn’t an issue. Neither did the man facing down McCarthy.

“Stewart,” McCarthy said. “Hey. Thanks for coming.”

Ken Stewart. Kansas City Police Department, Detective First Class. Lucia let the adrenaline course a little faster, let her heart rev up another couple of beats per minute. Stewart was, at best, unpredictable. At worst … Jazz’s bitter assessment came back vividly: He’s got the winning personality of a rottweiler raised by wolves. He’d always struck her as volatile, but now she was convinced he was a Molotov cocktail in search of a lit match.

“You think I’m here to smile and kiss your feet like these other assholes?” Stewart asked, and took another step into McCarthy’s space. McCarthy didn’t back away. He tilted his head a few degrees to continue to stare into the other man’s eyes. “You hear me? I’m not letting you just walk away from a mass murder, you bastard. If it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to make you pay.”

McCarthy said nothing for a few seconds, then glanced at Lucia. “Detective Ken Stewart,” he said, calmly and steadily, “meet Lucia Garza. Since she’s a witness to you threatening me, you should probably be formally introduced.”

“Oh, we’ve met,” Lucia said crisply, as Stewart turned around to look at her. He had blue eyes, too. Crazy ones, shallow as glass. His skin looked pasty, unpleasantly shiny, and his hair stuck up in greasy spikes. Very unattractive indeed.

He tried the crazy-eye with her. She stared back, a faint smile on her lips, until he whipped back around to McCarthy and muttered something under his breath, then pushed past to talk to the prosecutor.

It was comforting to see that the prosecutor didn’t look any happier to see him, especially when she entered ground zero of his body odor.

McCarthy took a deep breath, let the coldness fade from his face, and said, “Sorry about that.” He came the last few steps to join her, but his attention was still on the other man, who was haranguing the prosecutor in a low, furious voice.

“No problem. It isn’t the first time Detective Stewart and I have locked horns.”

“No?” That got his attention, with a vengeance. He was wearing a blue sport coat that was too large for him, blue jeans that were perfectly acceptable, and a plain, open-collar shirt. No tie. Relaxed for a court appearance, but then he’d been there to get out of jail, not to try to avoid going in. He smelled of a particularly cheap aftershave and an underlying astringent scent that was probably prison-issue, as well.

“He’s made a run at Jazz a few times,” Lucia murmured.

Ben started walking toward the courthouse doors. She kept pace. “Bet she handed him his nuts on a platter,” he chuckled.

Lucia grinned. “I don’t think she bothered with the platter.”

“Yeah, she’s not much in the kitchen. So … where is she? I admit, I kind of expected to see her….” McCarthy opened one of the doors and stepped aside to let Lucia pass. She glanced at him, but there wasn’t any calculation in his eyes. It was automatic gentility. He wasn’t even aware of doing it. She suppressed another smile as she thought of how little gestures like that would have chafed on Jazz. She liked her independence and saw every common courtesy as an infringement upon it. Jazz should have been born in the Old West, where she could have made a living on the frontier, riding rough, drinking hard and swearing at the top of her lungs. Calamity Jazz.

McCarthy was fishing for an answer to a question he hadn’t asked. Lucia obliged. “Truthfully? Borden and I kept her away. We didn’t want her presenting a clear target.” James Borden had volunteered to keep her distracted—not exactly a sacrifice; the man had been madly in love with her for almost a year—and the significant lack of Jazz’s presence this morning might mean that they’d finally tipped over from flirting to … something more.

Or alternatively, knowing Jazz, it could mean she’d had a massive fight with Borden, gotten drunk, belligerent, taken on a motorcycle gang in a fistfight, and was celebrating her victory with a hospital visit.

McCarthy looked somber. “She okay?”

“She’s fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” Again, a little white lie. Jazz was all right in one sense, in that the past few months had made a huge change in her life. Since the day Jazz had been given her first red envelope—the same day that Lucia, halfway across the country, had received one—her life had begun an uphill climb, after the downhill express she’d taken following McCarthy’s arrest. But the offer Lucia and Jazz had jointly received—to open a new detective agency with funding from a rich but highly secretive donor organization—had come with trip wires attached, and Jazz had been a casualty. When they’d followed the last lead, from instructions in one of those damn red letters from the Cross Society, she’d nearly died.

Lucia had no idea how much of that Jazz had shared with her former partner. Knowing her, probably little.

No new envelopes had arrived recently. Lucia allowed herself to think that perhaps, just perhaps, the insanity was over. A faint hope, but she refused to abandon it just yet. All of this unexplainable conspiracy-theory stuff was just too odd to live with for long, if you expected to have a firm grip on reality.

McCarthy had noted her brief mental detour. “Somebody’s still gunning for her, right?”

“Why do you say that?”

He grinned, a flash of humor that lit his eyes like sunlight. “Hell, you tell me. You’re the one who kept her out of the courtroom.”

“Well, somebody was gunning for her. Are they still?” Lucia shrugged. “I don’t know. But I prefer to be careful.”

“Good plan.”

They moved out into the hall, and he suddenly stopped walking. She looked back at him with eyebrows raised. He surveyed the corridor, the people coming and going as the day began to come alive. The glow of dawn outside the courthouse windows.

His eyes had a wet shine to them. Tears.

“McCarthy?” she asked gently.

He took in a breath. “Yeah. Freedom. Kind of took me by surprise,” he said. “Give me a second.”

“Take your time,” she murmured. She knew how it felt. There had been a dark time in her life—pitch-black, in fact—when she hadn’t been sure she’d ever see daylight again. The emotional impact of realizing that the trauma was over, that you were free … it could be overwhelming. It wasn’t relief. It was terror.

When you get used to the dark, the light can burn you.

He blinked, and smiled slightly. “Sorry,” he said, and cleared his throat. “So. Want to have breakfast with an ex-con? I mean, it’s not like we’re not acquainted already. Fifteen hours of interviews has to count for something.”

First, second and third dates, most likely. She cleared her own throat, banishing the thought. “I’d love to.”

“Got to confess, I’m low on funds.”

“They confiscated your ill-gotten gains?” She made it an ironic question, not quite accusatory. He met her eyes without shame.

“I asked them to,” he said. “Wanted to start out fresh.”

“Ah. My treat, then.”

He offered her the crook of his elbow. She put a hand in it, and they resumed their walk down the long paneled hallway, to the free world.

Chapter 2

Over breakfast at the restaurant in the Raphael Hotel, which was a good deal fancier than his suit jacket warranted, McCarthy wolfed down a Hangover Omelet stuffed with chili, chorizo and potatoes; Lucia stuck to a large fruit cup and dry toast. She enjoyed watching him eat. He seemed enchanted with everything he tasted, but then, she supposed nearly two years of prison chow would do that. She suspected he was always a bit of a sensualist. Something about his eyes, his smile, the clever exact movements of his hands …

She pulled herself back from the dizzy edge of that thought, and said, “Do you have any idea who could have used your gun to commit the murders?” Because the circumstantial evidence had been convincing. McCarthy’s gun had been matched to the bullets in the bodies. There had been footprint evidence at the scene, too, and an eyewitness who’d seen McCarthy with the victims half an hour before their murders, although Lucia doubted the authenticity of that. Eyewitnesses were often wrong.

“Oh, I know who did it,” McCarthy mumbled around a mouthful of eggs and cheese. “Stewart.”

“He didn’t.”

“Crazy enough.”

“Jazz checked it out. Stewart had an alibi.”

“So did I. Funny how that is.”

“Stewart was booking a carjacker downtown at the time of the killings, in front of twenty other cops.”

McCarthy studied her with those intense blue eyes as he chewed and swallowed, wiped salsa from his lips, and for a second she thought he was going to argue the point. Instead he said, “So what’s your story?”

“Excuse me?”

“Fifteen hours of talking, and I don’t think you said boo about yourself. Name, rank and serial number, but you didn’t exactly meet me halfway. So tell me how you got mixed up in all this—and why the hell you care about a guy like me.”

Lucia was, for an instant, thrown. She disliked talking about herself, especially when faced with someone like McCarthy, who was certainly a damn good investigator. She chose her words carefully. “Did Jazz tell you how we came to be partners?”

“Yeah. A letter to each of you, offering to put up the money to open a detective agency. Some kind of nonprofit agency. I get why Jazz took the deal. Why did you?”

“I didn’t,” she said, and speared a slice of electric-green honeydew. “I turned it down.” She enjoyed the look on his face as he assimilated that. “I was leaving when Jazz got shot in a drive-by attack—you know about that?”

He nodded shortly, face set.

“I had my doubts about her as a partner,” Lucia continued. “But I don’t like people shooting at me, and I don’t like people shooting my friends. Even new ones. So I decided that it might be a good idea to stick around. One thing led to another, cases came up, we solved them. And here we are.”

She nibbled the fruit. He watched her, concentrating on her mouth, and she felt a surge of self-consciousness that surprised her. Something about McCarthy threw her off stride. He made her hyperaware of how her clothes fit, of the tiny imperfections in the way the sleeves hugged her arms, the way the lapels didn’t quite lay straight.

The way her skin shivered into gooseflesh when he stared at her.

McCarthy tilted his head. “Jazz is a walking disaster, but somehow, she does okay. She’s also a pretty good judge of character. Me notwithstanding.” He continued to watch as Lucia chewed and swallowed. “I know what you mean about sticking around her, though. I wasn’t going to be her partner—I was just saddled with her for a week. But she grows on you. You want to protect her from herself. Doesn’t generally work, though. She ends up saving your ass more than you save hers, and before too long you’re joined at the hip. And then you realize that’s not a bad thing.”

“Regarding ass-saving, I believe the score’s just about even between us now,” Lucia replied.

“That tells me something about you.”

“What?”

He surprised her with a wicked grin. “You’re damn good at what you do. Whatever it is.”

“Obviously, I’m a private investigator.”

“And I’m your maiden aunt Sally,” he snorted. “I’ve known a lot of P.I.s over the years, and none of them ever came looking or sounding like you. You avoided the question. What’s your story?”

“I’m avoiding the question because I don’t want to answer it.”

“Because …?”

“Because it’s none of your business, Mr. McCarthy,” she said evenly, and took another bite. Pineapple, fresh and sweet and pulpy. She savored the juice on her tongue and the look of surprise on his face. “I helped Jazz get you out of prison, that’s all. I don’t owe you any information, any conversation, or anything else.”

“Yeah? So what’s this?”

“I said I don’t owe it. I can still give it of my own free will.”

He’d demolished the omelet, and now he set his fork on the plate with a clink and took a drag of coffee from the heavy white cup. Around them, the well-groomed breakfast crowd in their expensive suits and trendy casual wear chatted and smiled. We’re both out of place here, Lucia thought, even though she seemed to fit seamlessly into the crowd. There was something different about McCarthy that spoke to the wildness at her core. It wasn’t his prison-roughened image.

McCarthy smiled at her. “Okay, so you don’t owe me. I was hoping you liked me enough to want to answer, anyway.”

“I don’t like anybody that well.”

“Harsh.”

“Pragmatic,” she countered. “I hardly know you, except that you might not be guilty of murder, but you’re surely guilty of other things. Add that to the fact that your friends and relatives were hardly crowding the gallery today—”

His face shut down even further, hiding emotion. Lids drifted lower to hood his expressive eyes. “Let’s leave them out of it,” he said. “I was a cop, and my buddies were all cops. Cops stay away, times like these, until they feel better about the facts. Stewart’s not the only one who still, deep down, thinks I pulled the trigger on those people.” McCarthy stared at his coffee and took another deep swallow. “My brother would have been here, but he’s on a tuna boat this season. My parents—” He shook his head.

She took pity on him. “I doubt they could have made the trip,” she said. “Your mother is ill, isn’t she?”

“Old,” he said. “Your folks still alive?”

She smiled noncommittally. “So I’ll forgive you the low turnout among your admirers. Still, it does say something, doesn’t it? To have more reporters than supporters?”

She got a thin slice of a smile. “Careful when you cut me like that. You’ll have to buy me a new shirt. I’ll bleed all over this one.”

“I’m tempted to buy you a new one whether you bleed all over it or not.”

“That’s kindhearted of you.”

“Call it fashion charity.”

He was studying her again, with lazy interest. “I just can’t picture you and Jazz as friends.”

“Why?”

“She’s just—one of the guys, you know? Not so …” He gestured vaguely, letting her finish the sentence with whatever adjective seemed best. Wise of him. “I was surprised how good she looked, last time I saw her. Your influence, or the counselor’s?”

He knew about Borden, then. Yes, of course he did. Lucia shrugged. “Maybe both.”

“She’s not drinking so much.”

“No.”

“Not getting into fights.”

“Well, we’re working on that part.”

“Good luck with that.” He grinned, and caught the attention of a passing waiter to get a refill on his coffee. He drank it black as the devil’s heart. “So, if you’re not going to tell me anything, I’ll just have to tell you three things about yourself, Miss Garza.”

“Is this popular at parties?”

“A riot on cell block six.”

“Then please, enlighten me.”

“One, you manipulate people. Sometimes for their own good, but always to your advantage.” He sopped a piece of toast in a remaining bit of peach jam and ate it, watching her reaction. She kept her face bland, but felt the barb sink unpleasantly deep. “Two, you use your looks as deception. You look warm and girlie and elegant, but I’ll bet you can hand most guys their asses in a fight.”

He was right again, of course. She didn’t allow herself to blink. “And three?”

“How am I doing so far?”

“We’ll see. And three?”

He shrugged. “You’re lonely.”

She laughed out loud. “Excuse me?”

“You heard.”

“Hardly!”

“I didn’t say you don’t get attention. Every guy in here has checked you out at least once, and half the women, too. I said you were lonely. A woman as beautiful as you is nothing but lonely. Even when you’re with somebody, you’re wondering if they’re into you or the glossy package, and sweetheart, just from the fifteen—no, make that sixteen—hours that we’ve been talking, I can tell you that you’re high on the paranoid scale, anyway. So the point is, you don’t let anybody close these days.”

It hit hard, under the armor, right in a soft place she didn’t know she had. Years of dealing with a string of men who’d professed love and delivered obsession. Years of mistrusting and holding back and staying cool.

For a second, she hated those blue-diamond eyes and their ability to see everything.

“You’re wrong. I’m not lonely. Far from it.”

He gave her a slow smile. “That tells me something else about you. You think you’re a good liar. And hey, for most people, you are.”

“Do you make a habit of insulting people who do you good turns?”

“Usually they want something. Speaking of that, what is it you want?”

Once again, he caught her off guard. “Me? I’m only here out of courtesy.”

“Courtesy?”

“It has something to do with manners. Perhaps you’ve heard of those.”

“Sorry, not exactly popular where I’ve been.” She’d struck a nerve; she could see it in the subtle reactions of his face. “You just came in Jazz’s place, is that it? Second string?”

Lucia took the insult without reaction. “I want her to be safe, yes.”

“What about you? Aren’t you in just as much danger, if the two of you are supposed to be partners?”

It was an excellent question, and one to which she didn’t have an answer. They were working for the Cross Society, but she had only the vaguest hints as to who those people were and how they operated; for all she knew, the danger that Jazz had run into head-on had come from someone inside the Cross organization.

She’d seen cutthroat competition in nonprofit groups, but if true, that might be a new low.

In any case, whether it was the Cross Society or—as their mysterious benefactors insisted—the rival Eidolon Corporation, they hadn’t sent soldiers after Lucia specifically; she’d only been in the vicinity. Jazz was the target. Then again, the enemy didn’t seem prone to doing gentlemanly things like firing warning shots.

Lucia wondered if McCarthy had deduced why she’d taken a table in a protected corner that had no direct view from the windows.