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 Denny's, watching a waitress who hadn't done anything but yawn, give bad service and drop a plate of food. The other hadn't been that exciting.
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.
Around an hour and a half later, the assistant broke into his routine to remind him he had some kind of set visit, which marked the end of the administrative portion of the day, and Jazz gulped down the last of her coffee as Santoro tidied up and prepared to depart.
Apart from having heard half of a conversation - the wrong half, unfortunately - with Johnny Depp, she hadn't accomplished a damn thing, really. She hadn't spotted a single person tailing him, watching the office or home, or any suspicious activity whatsoever.
She picked up the still camera and shot a couple of angles of his car while she was waiting for him to emerge from the building.
Her cell phone rang. She flipped it open without taking her eyes from the entrance.
"Anything happening?" Borden. She actually felt a little electric tingle at the sound of his voice, caught sight of herself in the rearview mirror and realized that she was smiling. That kind of smile. She wiped it off her face and glared at her reflection, as if it was to blame.
"Not a damn thing," she said. "Your friend's doing fine."
"That's good." He sounded relieved. "How about you?"
"Not a damn thing happening to me, either," she said, "except that I'm about to OD on caffeine. You know the biggest problem about stakeouts without a partner?"
"No conversation?"
"No bathroom breaks," she said. "Gets pretty difficult."
"I can imagine."
"You at the office?" Because he'd have to be, it was almost noon in New York.
"No. I was in court earlier. I have the rest of the day off."
"Do you ever work, Counselor? All I ever see you do is stroll around your office looking sharp, taking meetings, and fly around bugging the hell out of me."
"It's a filthy job, but the compensation's pretty good," he said blandly. "So I look sharp, eh?"
"Don't get cocky."
"Wouldn't think of it."
She checked the monitor. Santoro's office was empty, except for his assistant cleaning up the coffee cup and restraightening piles of paper. He hadn't come out of the front door yet.
"I'm going to have to go," she said to Borden.
"Anything wrong?"
"No," she said. "Go help a corporation hide its ill-gotten gains in an offshore account or something. I'll call later."
Maybe Santoro had stopped off at the bathroom. Hell, she was starting to regret the second cup....
Another full minute passed. No Santoro. No activity in his office.
Jazz drummed her fingers on the steering wheel again, this time more from nerves than any enjoyment of the pop jingle on the radio. She watched the digits crawl on her clock.
He was taking way too long.
"Dammit," she whispered, and got out of the car. She grabbed her still camera - nothing odd about a tourist with a camera in L.A. - stuck her collapsible baton in her back pocket, covered by the windbreaker she threw on, and moved quickly toward Santoro's office building.
She kept expecting him to pop out at any moment, as she got closer, but all remained quiet. Something tingled at the base of her spine, like a gun pressed close. She walked faster, took the three short steps up to the glass doors and walked in.
No security in the lobby. There was a desk, but it was empty. She checked the elevators. Nothing was moving. Santoro's office was on the fourth floor, and both elevators were on the ground. If he'd come out here, he'd have walked out the front. There weren't any other places for him to have gone.
Except for the stairs.
Jazz cracked the door to the stairwell and listened, and heard a dull scuffling noise. Grunts of effort.
She shoved the camera in a pocket, grabbed the baton and snapped it out to its full length as she ran up. She took the steps three at a time, feeling the burn in her thighs and a sharp twinge in her side, but if she was right, there wasn't time to take it any easier.
She burst around the third-floor landing and saw, on the flat halfway point to the fourth floor, Lowell Santoro being strangled.
He was still alive, barely - face congested dull purple, eyes bulging, mouth open and tongue protruding. Fingers still scrabbling weakly for the cord around his throat that had dug in so deep she couldn't even see it. The cord was all that was holding him upright.
Jazz yelled - she didn't even know what - and the sound bounced and echoed sharply from the concrete all around her.
The man standing behind Santoro, both gloved hands twisting a black rope, met her eyes. She didn't know him, but she knew the type - something missing in the eyes, a kind of animal vacancy that marked a bad life and a worse end coming. He was tall, blond, California-pretty, with an off-kilter nose that had seen somebody's fist close up in the not-too-distant past.
He let go of Santoro and let him pitch forward, right into Jazz as she bounded up toward him. Santoro's weight - she didn't dare think, dead weight - bowled her over, and the world became a confusing, hurting blur as they fell. Jazz landed flat on her back, Santoro half-crushing her, and saw California Guy heading back up the stairs, fast.
She rolled Santoro over. His eyes were blinking, and he was whooping for breath. His mouth was bloody. He'd bitten his tongue.
"Stay here!" she shouted at him, and lunged to her feet, digging her cell phone out of her pocket as she started up the steps in pursuit. She yelled out the office's street address to the 911 operator, craning her neck to try to see where California Guy was on the stairs. She paused to listen.
No sound. Either he was waiting, or...
She hung up on the operator, who was trying to get her to give her name, and took the next few steps slowly, quietly, feeling cold sweat slide down her back. She wished for a gun, or at least a good coating of Kevlar. California Guy might like to use his hands, but that didn't mean he was a conscientious gun objector, either.
She had an unpleasant flashback of her blood glittering on asphalt, of the strange liquid feeling of being shot, and shook it off to ease up one more rising step. She was scared, she realized. Scared of being hurt.
California Guy was waiting for her around the blind corner. Or rather, California Guy's powerful kick was waiting for her, and it caught her squarely in the stomach and slammed her back against the concrete wall, seeing stars and out of breath. She hung on to her baton, somehow, and saw a black flash coming at her; she ducked, and heard his fist make hard contact with the wall, followed by a loud, yelping grunt of pain. Since she was safely braced, she yanked up a knee, missed his crotch, kept going and planted her foot flat against his chest and uncoiled with a shout. He went stumbling backward.
She blinked the last disorientation out of her eyes and took a surgical swing with the baton. Whap. Right in his undefended ribs, which she felt crack. As he hunched over in reaction, she gave him a hard smack to the side of the head, too.
His knees buckled, but instead of falling down unconscious, he lunged from a kneeling position, got hold of her and slammed her back against the wall again. Her head impacted with a dull thud. She tasted blood and damn, that hurt. She could barely get her breath, but his hands were yanking at her waistband, fumbling for a gun she didn't have, and then he pulled her off balance and down, his weight on top.
He liked to use his hands. Jazz didn't particularly mind that. She grinned at him, spit blood in his face and slammed the heel of her palm up into his crooked nose just before he managed to get a grip on her neck. It didn't drive bone up into his brain, but it certainly rearranged cartilage with a satisfying crunch and made him yowl in pain. Blood spattered her, warm as tears, and she used her leverage to flip him off.
This time his head hit the wall.
It was lights out, sweetheart, and he slumped sideways, breathing heavily through his mouth as his rebroken nose leaked a steady stream of red.
Jazz crawled to him, yanked him forward and zip-tied his hands behind him before letting herself collapse to a weak sitting position on the steps. The place looked like a war zone. She dabbed cautiously at her face and sniffed. Yep, she had a nosebleed, too, not to mention a split lip and a ringing bell of a headache. Her side felt tight, protesting the action. One of her knees registered as hot and uncomfortable.
Not bad, considering. Not bad at all. She'd had worse after an interesting night of barhopping.
She patted down California Guy and came up with no ID at all - not even a bus pass - but a fat wad of cash and a letter.
She paused as she slid it out of his pocket, staring, because it looked...familiar.
Big red envelope. Like a Hallmark card.
She didn't have a proper evidence kit - hadn't thought she'd need it - but this was no coincidence. Killers didn't stroll around with birthday cards for their girlfriends in their jackets. She tucked it into her windbreaker just as she heard sirens echoing up the stairwell. Heavy treads on the steps, coming up.
"Victim's on the third-floor landing," she called down. "The perp is up here. He's secured."
They came carefully, not taking her word for it. She sat against the wall, hands up, as two uniformed officers rounded the blind corner with guns leveled. When they were sure the situation was under control, she got searched. The baton got confiscated, along with the camera and cell phone.
California Guy was still out cold, bleeding all over the concrete. "Jeez," the bigger, older cop said, bending over him. "I thought you looked like you'd had a rough time, but this guy needs a plastic surgeon. Good thing he's in L.A. We've got more of them than gas stations."
The atmosphere got more congenial, when her bona fides were vetted. Ex-cops got a little more respect than bloody-faced regular citizens armed with batons, although the out-of-town private investigator status didn't necessarily win points. She went through statements to the uniforms, then another round with a blank-faced detective who didn't seem to be listening but probably was, and a third time to another detective who focused on her like he planned to marry her later. By that time, the aches were kicking in. She'd washed the blood off, but desperately needed a nap and coffee, in that order. Her cell phone kept ringing. That was probably Borden, checking in and getting worried because there was no answer.
"Look," Jazz pointed out the fourth time it rang, "if you don't want to have the FBI down here poking around looking for me, you might want to let me answer it. I'm not operating in a vacuum. I have a partner, and I have a lawyer."
Whatever they thought of that, they let her have the cell phone, and when she answered, sure enough, it was James Borden on the other end of the phone.
But what he said wasn't what she'd expected.
"He has an envelope," he said. No preamble. "Get it. Don't let it out of your sight."
"Oh, hey," she said with grim cheer. "Yeah, I'm fine, by the way, thanks for asking. Your friend's in the hospital. I don't know much about him, but he was still breathing when they carted him away."
"I know," he shot back. "But you have to keep hold of that envelope, do you understand? Don't let it out of your sight."
The cops had taken it but hadn't evidenced much interest in it. She'd said it was a card for her niece; they'd returned it without comment. It was currently a thick square reminder poking a corner into her ribs under the jacket.
"Yeah," she replied. "Thanks for the advice. Any ideas about who my dance partner was today?"
"He doesn't matter."
"You know what? He did to me. And I'll bet he did to Santoro, too."
One of the cops got called from the room for a whispered conversation at the door, nodded, and came back. Jazz's eyes tracked him, watching body language. She didn't much care for the change. He was boring a hole in her with his stare. She hunched her shoulders a bit as she paced the small, dingy room. It was a standard interrogation room - a battered industrial table, some sturdy chairs, a camera in the corner and an observation window.
"I'm coming to get you," he said. "I should be there in a couple of hours."
She swallowed a sudden surge of relief, and said, "I'm sorry. Sorry for all of this."
Another hesitation from him. "You tried."
"I said I wouldn't let anything happen to him."
"You saved his life."
That was it. No hearts and flowers, not even a fruit basket, just a quick disconnection. She stared at the cell phone for a second, then shrugged and handed it back to the hard-eyed detective, who - from the way he was watching her - must have talked to somebody back in K.C. with a less-than-glowing opinion of her. Probably Stewart. Somebody who'd filled his head full of crap about corruption and murder and drug running, probably. And cited Ben's trial to back it up.
"Who was that?" the cop asked, weighing the phone in his hand.
"Wrong number," she said, and smiled as brilliantly as she could, under the circumstances.
It didn't get more pleasant as the day went on. She got another phone call, this one from Lucia, who was coldly furious and torn between kicking LAPD ass or Cross Society hiney. That felt oddly bracing. Jazz had quite a time convincing Lucia not to come flying to the coast, and in the end had only succeeded because Borden was already on his way and Lucia was convinced she was about to break the industrial espionage case within the day.
Toward the end of the day the cops finally informed her that Lowell Santoro was resting comfortably. He wouldn't be giving any speeches soon, but he'd narrowly avoided a fractured hyoid bone and a nasty death. His trachea was seriously bruised but intact.
She'd saved someone. She'd actually, finally, saved someone.
Not that you'd know it from the continuing barrage of questions from two increasingly unfriendly LAPD detectives named Weston and Cammarata. Weston was thin and dressed in old, unfashionable suits; Cammarata was more the dress-slacks, snappy-tie, crisp-white-shirt type. He could have walked the halls of corporate zombiedom and looked utterly in place, if he'd taken off that clip-on badge from his belt and stuck a business ID in its place.
Of the two, she found she preferred Weston, who was at least honest in his dislike. Cammarata kept trying to make her think he liked her. She kept reiterating facts to them, stubbornly refused to reveal who'd hired her, and finally reverted to the old standard, "I'll wait until my lawyer gets here."
Borden arrived looking, well, like a lawyer. A damn fine one, too. Navy blue tailored suit, crisp off-white shirt, power tie, shiny shoes, a briefcase that looked expensive and was probably worth twice whatever she would guess. He looked L.A. spiffy, in a New York kind of way.
And he had her out of the police station in forty-five minutes, which she figured had to be a new world record for intimidation in a town that had more or less invented the fast-talking lawyer.
"So," she said as he walked her down the steps to a waiting black chauffeured car, "you don't do criminal cases. Because you seemed to do that all right, Counselor."
"Shut up," he said darkly. She could already tell he was in a towering bad mood, which was weird, because after all, she'd saved his friend. Weird, starting on annoying.
"Is that legal advice?"
He firmly directed her into the car - backseat - and walked around to climb in the other side. He'd gotten another limo for a reason, she saw - better leg room. Not so critical for her, but his knees were an absurdly long distance from his hips.
He flicked the locks, engaged the privacy screen between them and the driver - evidently not a Cross Society insider - and without looking at her said, "You could have called the police instead of going in."
"Oh, please, what's the nine-one-one response time in L.A. when you call and say, hey, I'm on stakeout and my subject hasn't come out of the building yet? I'm guessing it's twenty-four to forty-eight hours, if they don't laugh you off the phone."
"You could have called them when you knew something was happening."
"By that time, your friend was about ten seconds away from choking to death on a broken throat. Look, what do you think you sent me here to do? Knit doilies? Run and hide when the going gets tough?" She shrugged. "Borden, you know me better than that. If there's a fight, I'm in it. That's who I am."
"I didn't send you here to stage the first annual Stairwell Smack-down and nearly get yourself killed. Again." His voice sounded tight and grim, and as she stared at him, she saw the tension in his shoulders. In the hard line of his jaw. "You like this, don't you? The adrenaline rush. Kicking ass at every possible opportunity."
"You think I did this for fun?" she asked, and felt her hands trying to make fists.
"Tell me what was going through your head, then."
"The subject went out of the range of electronic surveillance," she said. "The subject didn't reappear on schedule. I went in to check it out, which was exactly what you knew I was going to do. And if you think maybe I should have checked on him, discovered him being choked to death and gone back to the car, well, maybe you don't know me very well."
Borden raised his head, finally, and looked straight at her. "I know you better than you think," he said. There was something odd in his eyes. "I'm not the only one. Take out the envelope."
She didn't. She looked at him, frowning, and then reached into her windbreaker and pulled it free.
"Open it," he said.
She slit it with a fingernail and pulled out the letter folded neatly inside.
"Read it."
She didn't want to, suddenly. It felt as if something was wrong, something was very wrong, indeed, and if she just slid this letter back in the envelope...put the genie back in his bottle...then maybe things would be different.
Instead, she unfolded the crisp paper, and saw the letterhead of Eidolon Corporation. It was a bold red logo, a world in an hourglass. It read in neat typewritten lines:
To Jasmine Callender,
Should you read this, you will have taken matters into your hands that would have been better left to others. We have no choice but to take steps. In acting today, you have forfeited what little protection the Cross Society could offer you. Inform them.
She read it through twice, numbly. There was no signature. She finally looked up mutely to stare at Borden.
"It says - "
"I know what it says," he interrupted her. "Laskins got a fax two hours ago and read it to me on the plane. Jazz, you were just another Actor before, but they know what you are now, and you've proved a real threat. They've moved you up to the top of their hit list. You're not safe now."
"But they addressed it directly to me," she said. The words felt strange in her mouth. "How the hell could it be to me, when I took it from the other guy? Why - ?"
"They must have known there was a chance you'd do this. I think - " He paused, licked his lips and looked very, very sick. "I think the Society knew, too. They..."
"Let me guess," she said. "You heard Santoro was on the hit list. They decided to let him get taken out for strategic reasons, and you decided to act on your own. You didn't fly out to deliver an assignment from Laskins. That's you. You decided to produce the paperwork and bring it to me in a red envelope, just like the rest of them. And they told you not to do it."
He didn't answer. He was pale to the lips.
"Did they fire you?"
"Not yet," he said, and she saw some of the stiffness leave his shoulders. He slumped against the window and closed his eyes. "Santoro - he's a good guy. He does good things. His wife and kids - "
"So we saved him," she said. "I'm not upset about that, believe me. I don't believe all this fortune-telling horse-shit anyway."
He reached out and touched the unfolded Eidolon Corporation letter still in her hand. "No? Then why does that have your name on it, when you took it off a guy you'd never met who was trying to kill you?"
"People try to kill me all the time," she said. "Not like it's new."
He hit an intercom switch and said, "Let's go," and the limo glided into motion. "There's somebody I need you to meet."
She groaned. "Not more of this crap. Look, Borden, just let me go home, okay? I have things to do." The photos. McCarthy, waiting for freedom. Every day he sat behind bars now was another day that she couldn't take back, and could only regret. If anything happened to him...
"If I let you go home, you're dead," Borden said. "I realize that might not mean much to you, because you think you can win any fight, but I'm not as brave. Not with your life."
He looked tired. As well he should, she realized; he'd come all the way from New York, and for all she knew he'd done it on little or no sleep.
"Borden," she said. He opened his eyes, which had drifted nearly shut. She wasn't sure if he was even aware of it. "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize," he said, and there was a gray leaden weight to his words. "I did this. I made the decisions. I changed the rules, and now you're a target. I need - I need to find out how to fix it."
"So we are going to see somebody from the Cross Society."
"Not exactly." He turned away and looked out of the smoked-glass window. "Not exactly."
She realized, belatedly, that he hadn't even asked if she was okay. That pissed her off to an unreasonable extent. She glared at him and read the letter again, silently. It was dated for today. She'd pulled the envelope out of Surfer Killer's jacket herself, and had hardly let it out of her sight since. It was dimly possible - dimly - that one of the cops might have switched it while they'd been holding it, but she didn't think so.
She rubbed her aching forehead, folded up the letter and jammed it back into the envelope. Too late to worry about fingerprints or any other useful forensics.
It has my name on it.
That was a whole new level of creepy. The Cross Society was way creepy enough for her tastes; she felt out of her depth in dealing with them. This was...
This was crazy.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
Borden didn't answer. After a few seconds, she looked over and saw that his eyes were shut, his breathing light and even. He couldn't be asleep, could he? No, he was just trying to piss her off.
He was succeeding brilliantly.
It was a long, long drive, and L.A. traffic was everything everyone had always said it would be. Being in a limo made it palatable but boring. Jazz stared out at the unmoving traffic. People in other cars were checking out the limousine's tinted windows, trying to imagine what celebrity was hiding within. She'd have been right there with them, imagining George Clooney or Meryl Streep.
Borden actually was asleep. Ridiculous as that seemed. She'd been on the verge of shaking him awake to shout questions at him, but the truth was, she didn't think it would do any good, and she had an odd little soft spot for watching him this way. He had a lock of hair falling over his forehead, and her fingers itched to do something with it. Yank it by the roots, maybe. Or move it gently aside, light as a feather. The jury was still out and deadlocked.
She was off balance, leaning forward to see what was available in the minibar - because, what the hell, how often was she actually going to be in a limousine and have unrestricted access? - when the limo moved forward, then jerked to a sudden stop. She ended up being pitched forward across Borden's knees.
Well, that was embarrassing.
She slowly straightened up without looking at him, although she could feel the sudden tension in the legs under her hands, which meant he was wide-awake.
"Something you wanted?" he asked neutrally. His voice sounded rough and tight.
"Yeah," she said. "Soft drink." She straightened up without actually looking at his face.
They negotiated over brand names. He clinked ice into a crystal glass better suited to holding Scotch or bourbon and poured her a short little can of cola. He handed it over without comment. She drank, grateful for the syrupy rush, the liquid on her dry throat, and for something to do with her mouth other than get herself in even more trouble.
Borden, awake, was much less readable than Borden, asleep. He looked at her from time to time as she drank, and stared out the windows. They hit smooth sailing after about fifteen more minutes, and Jazz made her drink last as long as possible before passing him the empty glass and last few melting cubes. He stowed it away without comment.
"It's not your fault," she said to him.
"No?" He sounded so damn neutral. "How do you figure that?"
"If somebody above me had said, no, you need to lay back and let your friend get horribly murdered? Guess what. I would've been forging documents and persuading you to help me, too. And I don't think you were wrong to do it. It's never wrong to save a life."
"No?" he repeated. "You'd pull, say, John Wayne Gacy out of a river and start chest compressions."
"It'd be easier if I didn't know he was a crazy murdering bastard, but yeah, that's pretty much the size of it."
"You'd do it even if you knew. Even if you knew he was killing people."
"If I knew that, I'd revive him and slap handcuffs on him before he could figure out what I was doing," she said. "I'm - I was a cop, Borden. I never tried to make myself judge, jury and executioner. That's a responsibility I don't want, and nobody should have unless they have checks and balances. That's what scares me about your dear friends in the Society. How do you know what they're doing is right? How can you really tell? Save that guy, let that guy die - " She shook her head. "I don't care what they think they know, I can't really believe they're ready to play God."
He shook his head. "I'm not feeling guilty about saving Lowell," he said finally. "I'm angry at myself that you had to put yourself in danger to do it, and I'm scared that this saving one life is going to cost me another, and I
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