The only problem was that he was actually too good at background checks, Lucia discovered while reviewing his first six assignments. They were seated in what was unofficially his office—bare except for a desk, computer, chair and stack of folders. Oh, and the ever-present coffee cup. He couldn't seem to function without one in sight.
"This one?" Lucia held up a folder. "This one should have been passed."
"Why? The guy has a criminal background."
"It was an arrest twenty years ago for drunk and disorderly, and he was in college. Not really relevant to whether he's a risk for a major corporation now."
McCarthy leaned back in his chair with a creak of metal, aiming a stare directly at her eyes. "You want me to pass him even though he fails the standards."
"I want to give our client a viable candidate. We can write a note putting his prior history into context. As someone who might fail the test yourself just now, you might consider being a little less…harsh."
That put a spark in his eyes, but nothing else. "You're the boss, boss. Say, this one, the one with the cocaine habit—you want me to pass him, too? Call it a treatable medical condition?"
"Just keep it in mind. Our clients want us to be cautious, but let's face it, there's something in everyone's background that could disqualify them, if you dig deep enough."
She knew as soon as she said it that it begged a question, which he obligingly provided. "Yeah? What's in your background?"
She was silent for a few long seconds. He'd probably intended it to be a softball, but it was something of a grenade, really. "Mine?" She smiled. "Deep, dark secrets. The kind that get you killed."
Why in the world had she said that? She hadn't meant to. Her past wasn't a seduction. The last thing she wanted was for him to learn more about Lucia Garza, and what she'd done in the name of causes and country.
"Intriguing." He pushed back his chair and tilted his head, returning the smile. "Come on, I gave you mine earlier. Just tell me one."
She had no business even thinking about it. The silence stretched, and she knew it seemed odd; she was taking it beyond simple idle conversation into a much more serious realm.
"I worked overseas," she said. "For the government."
He raised his eyebrows. "Spy stuff?"
"I'd tell you, but—"
"— you'd have to kill me, yeah, I know the drill." He held out his hand. She gave the file back. "I'll amend the report. Mr. Student Protester gets a free pass."
She nodded. "Do you have a place to stay yet?"
"Figured I'd find a cheap motel. Just temporarily, until I can close on that penthouse with a city view. And please, don't tell me you've got recommendations for a cheap motel. I like to keep my illusions."
"I'll find you a place," she said, refusing to be baited. She was familiar with the process; she'd been through it with cocky, aggressive men in every job she'd ever had. They all felt they had something to prove.
"I didn't think you wanted a paper trail back to the company," he said.
"I don't. It won't trace back to us."
"Aren't you the clever one."
"Allegedly." She paused in the doorway, looking back at him. He'd pulled his tie askew, and his collar was unbuttoned. Sexy. Very sexy. "Are you having dinner with Jazz?"
"Yeah. Indoors, since you don't let her out without body armor and the Popemobile. Want to join us?"
"No, thank you. Somebody's got to catch up on the work."
On her way back to her office, she felt a flash of guilt. That had been a passive-aggressive thing to do, a cheap shot; she'd implied that Jazz wasn't pulling her weight. And it wasn't true. Jazz was more than fulfilling her half of the agreement, even handicapped by the death sentence that they had to assume was still in effect for her. It was hell for Jazz, no question; she was the active one, the one more suited to running over rooftops and wrestling suspects to the ground than having polite conversations over the phone.
Lucia sat down at her desk and picked up the phone. "Omar? Hey, man. Need a favor. Can you book a room for McCarthy? Nothing too cheap, nothing too expensive. Very bland. Safe house quality. You know what to look for."
"For how long?"
She considered that carefully. The spy in her hated to leave him in one place for long; she was unconsciously considering him a compromised source, she realized. If anyone—say, Detective Ken Stewart—had a grudge against him, leaving him booked at just one location under his own name would be asking for trouble.
"Listen, could you book him at four places, a week each? Four names, none of them his? I'll give you cash."
"Some things never change," Omar said, amused. "Yeah. I'll come up."
She counted out bills from a lockbox and wrote out a receipt, put them in a plain white envelope and had it on the corner of her desk when Omar knocked on the open door and strolled in. He was a big man, well-muscled but not bulky. He was also of Arabian descent, and had found himself out of his chosen work in fairly short order after 9-11. Nobody wanted to hire Arabs as freelance security, and Omar stubbornly had refused to give up. He was proud. It was his principal characteristic, and it was something Lucia loved about him. That, and his liquid dark eyes and wicked smile.
He came in and pocketed the envelope. "You know I'm going to get the looks when I do this. The I'm-calling-the-FBI looks. Hell, I'll be lucky if they don't shoot me."
"Try to, you mean," she said. "But I can't hand McCarthy a pile of money. He'd take it personally."
"Yeah, you'd never do that yourself—take anything personally," he said. "Apart from acting like the new guy's travel agent, is there anything I can do other than hang around in your dungeon, guarding cars?"
"It's important work, guarding cars," she said. "You're all that stands between me and an oil leak."
He kissed his fingers at her and left. She shook her head, smiling. Omar was a good friend, and he'd once been a good lover, but that was long past. It wouldn't happen again. She'd seen him at his very lowest point, and a man like Omar didn't forget.
Better to keep it light and loose, these days.
She picked up the phone and began the first of the day's phone calls. By the time she was done with the second conference call, Omar was back at her office door, holding out a series of small key folders marked with the stamp of four popular, ubiquitous, utterly anonymous motel chains.
"He does anything, I'm going to be very unhappy," Omar said. "I had to use my own cherished fake ID. And I have no doubt that the clerks are probably alerting the FBI right now. When you hear about a Waco-style raid on a cheap motel, they're shooting it out with your ex-con."
"You're enjoying this."
"Damn right I am. At last I get to act furtive and guilty, as befits my race. The dream comes true." His words were clever and light, the bitter twist of his mouth was not.
"I'm sorry," she said, and meant it. Perhaps she hadn't been wise to use him, but the truth was, she hadn't had a surfeit of choices. "Back to work, Omar."
"Harsh mistress."
"You haven't seen me harsh."
It was the wrong thing to say, because he had, actually, and it was one subject they didn't talk about. Omar looked at her for a few seconds, and then nodded and walked away.
It always surprised her how quickly the hours could pass when there was a full slate of things to do. Jazz stuck her head in at some point and announced that she was heading home, with Omar as an unwanted passenger, riding shotgun. Lucia checked the clock and found it already after office hours. She gathered up the motel cards that Omar had secured, and went down to McCarthy's office.