“Anyone in particular come to mind?”
“Besides that asshole Stewart?” She shook her head. Too sick, too tired, too numbed. She sank into a chair and heard papers crackle under her ass, but she didn’t care. “I don’t know. Ask me in the morning.”
Lucia stared at her for a few seconds, then turned and walked into the kitchen. Whatever disaster was there, she returned with a glass of water and a handful of pills. “Take them,” she said. “I mean it.”
And for once, Jasmine Callender did as she was told. She meekly swallowed the pills and sat watching Lucia straighten up papers, making stacks, clearing the floor. Then straightening up fallen chairs, putting drawers back in place, closing open cabinet doors.
Rehanging those god-awful pictures.
Jazz’s eyelids got heavy without warning. She woke up with a start when she felt a hand on her shoulder, and somehow made it on numbed feet back to the bedroom.
Lights out.
She didn’t even have time to worry about why somebody who’d broken in and trashed her house had taken the trouble to lock all of her dead bolts.
Or how.
She’d had better mornings after four-day benders.
Jazz woke up sick, aching, slightly feverish, and wishing she were dead for the first full minute before remembering that it was good to be alive. Mostly. Part of the reason that kicked in was the smell of fresh-brewed coffee wafting through the apartment. Unless Mooch had learned how to program the coffeemaker, she still had company.
Jazz groaned, tried to sit up and stayed flat for a few more minutes, gathering strength. Yep, it hurt. A lot. It hurt like the morning after indulging in some insane exercise orgy and doing a thousand sit-ups. Only worse. She wasn’t sure she could force her abdominal muscles to do even the simple work of getting her out of bed.
Suck it up, Callender, she ordered herself, and somehow managed to get up. After she’d swung her legs over the bed, she discovered that Lucia had taken off her shoes but left her wearing the loose sweatpants and T-shirt. Beneath, the bandages felt stiff. She tried not to think of what that might mean.
Getting to her feet was an adventure, but she managed. She ran fingers through her hair, felt unruly tangles and shuffled, on athletic-sock feet, into the living room.
Which looked like someone else’s apartment.
She blinked, cocked her head and tried to remember if she’d suffered a head injury, in and around the general insanity of yesterday. No, she was pretty sure not.
Maybe it was the same room, it just looked…better. Cleaner, at least. And neater. Weirdly not her home.
Everything was neat, squared up, polished. The carpet had been vacuumed to the point that it looked as if it might have been new, if anyone was unwise enough to make carpet that color in this day and age.
No sign of the chaos of the night before.
Lucia came out of the kitchen, looking glossily perfect, as usual. Sleek and shining. Her hair was still back in the action ponytail, and she had on some tight spandex-type workout pants and a jogging bra.
“Morning,” she said, and looked Jazz comprehensively up and down. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks. Very comforting.” Jazz found the coffeemaker and a mug and poured. She tasted bitter oily heaven, swallowed, and kept going until the cup was empty. Then refilled. Lucia watched her, leaning against the door frame and frowning.
“Wow,” she finally said. “That’s…frightening. Do you always drink that much caffeine?”
“Any messages?” Jazz asked. Her brain fog was starting to clear, at least a little.
“Borden called. He wanted to check on you. I don’t think he was very happy to hear you weren’t in bed.”
“I was in bed.”
“I mean, were planning on staying there. As in, recovering.”
“Borden’s not the boss of me,” Jazz said, and then wondered. Maybe he was. Not a pretty thought. “Did you tell him about yesterday? The assignment?”
“Yes, I told him. I typed up reports and faxed them in. I included the plate number and description of the car, too. I’d have waited for you, but…”
“No, that’s okay.” Jazz sank down at the kitchen table. Her abdominal muscles gave a sob of relief. “What’d he say?”
“Good job?” Lucia lifted a shoulder in a fatalistic shrug. “I tried to get some kind of idea from him about what it was we were supposed to have accomplished, but he’s a brick wall. I think he responds better to you. Maybe you can give him a call.”
Jazz shot her a look. “I don’t think so. Last thing I need is a lawyer going all sweet on me. No sign of the files, I guess?”
“No, no sign. I did a little canvassing up and down the hall. Nobody saw anything, apparently.”
Jazz reflected that if her neighbors were going to talk to anyone, they’d talk to gorgeous Lucia; no leads, then. She felt unreasonably depressed.
“I swept the apartment for bugs, by the way. Nothing. It still looks clean.”
“Cleaner than it did when I went to bed,” Jazz observed. Lucia looked away and studied the polish on her fingernail. “Never mind. Thanks.”
“I’m going out for a run,” Lucia said. “You going to be okay here?”
“Yep. Fine and dandy.” Jazz filled her coffee cup again and shuffled over to the gun safe. She dimly recalled having stowed her.38 in there, and sure enough, there it was, fully loaded and ready. She got it out and clipped the holster to her waistband. “You’re strapped, right?”
“In this outfit?” Lucia shook her head. “I’ll be all right.”
“No, you won’t.” Jazz limped to her bedroom, found a reasonably clean floppy sweatshirt and tossed it to Lucia, who pulled it on. It made her look adorably lumpy. Lucia added the pancake holster to the small of her back and nodded.
“Lock it behind me,” she said. “And if you have time and energy, you might want to read some things I found on the Internet.”
She indicated a small, neat pile of papers on the kitchen table and went out the front door. Jazz followed instructions with the dead bolts, then carried coffee and gun back to the table.
Max Simms had been arrested in the winter of 2000, claiming innocence. Nothing unusual in that, and of course he retained high-powered counsel. What was interesting was whom he’d retained.
Jazz cocked her head and studied the grainy black-and-white AP photo of white-haired, distinguished-looking Max Simms in handcuffs, with the lawyer striding next to him, head bent to confer.
James Borden. What had he said, in the office? I’ve never tried a criminal case in my life. Next to him was Milo Laskins, stone-faced, extending a hand to block photographers and reporters.
She stroked the printed side of Borden’s face with one blunt finger and whispered, “Liar.” It felt as if the whole world had shifted to the left, creating a slope, and she couldn’t get her balance. From the beginning, from the first time she’d seen him, she’d believed Borden. She’d felt that on some very deep level he was just plain honest.
And if she was wrong about that, what else was she wrong about? Lucia Garza? The partnership? Ben McCarthy’s innocence?
She swallowed hard and forced herself to keep reading. Lots of background on Simms, who had all the usual quiet sins that could be dug up on any adult. Gossip from his peers, mostly. Nasty comments about his work habits, ogling his female subordinates, having harsh words for people…the kind of stuff that came to the forefront when someone was down and probably not getting up again.
Simms had taken a plea agreement. Twenty-five to life. Or just life, for someone of his age. He’d been lucky to escape the needle.
The kitschy gold sunburst clock on the wall said that morning was rolling on. She washed up the mug and coffeepot, shuffled off to the bathroom and attempted a sponge bath, with limited results. Her hair was a disaster, and she wasn’t up to washing it. Bending over wasn’t really in the cards. She settled for giving it a punky spiked look with gel—thank you, Liar Borden—and climbed into fresh underwear and sweatpants and T-shirt.