Susannah stood very still, staring at Lucia, and then slowly lowered the gun. As if she'd used the last of her strength to hold it up, she collapsed to her knees.

Omar started to move forward, then stopped and looked back at Lucia. "Maybe you should - "

"I'll help her." She nodded, and moved in to slowly bend down and pull the gun from the woman's unresisting hand. Omar relaxed. Lucia handed the weapon to him and leaned down to take Susannah's weight on her shoulder. The woman was heavier than she looked. Solid muscle. She seemed out of it; Lucia took the opportunity to do a quick pat-down, but found no additional weapons.

"He might have tracked her here," Omar said. "Maybe wasn't looking to hire you at all, just got caught following her and decided to try to make the best of it."

"Very possible."

"Could be trying to get down here to the parking level."

"That'll take a while," Lucia said. "But let's not get cocky. Open up the track, help me get her inside."

He moved. Together, they got Susannah into the SUV and belted her in. Omar fired up the engine and cruised up the ramp toward sunlight.

As they exited into the white-hot glare, Omar said, "Bend over, Mrs. Davis. Head down. If he's out here, I don't want him getting a look at you."

Susannah slowly, painfully hunched over. Lucia scanned the street through the tinted windows and paused on a green Ford Expedition parked a block away. The engine was idling, and she was almost sure the indistinct figure in the driver's seat was wearing a red baseball cap.

Son of a bitch.

They cruised by. Omar didn't even look toward the other truck, but Lucia was sure he'd noted it. Unless Davis changed vehicles, he wouldn't be able to follow undetected.

"Okay," Omar said, and reached over to help Susannah back to a sitting position. She rested her head against the upholstery, whimpering slightly. Omar's gaze met Lucia's in the rearview mirror. "Hey, boss lady. You know a friendly doctor?"

"As a.matter of fact, I do," she said. "Turn right - "

"No doctors," Susannah croaked. "I'm fine. Nothing's broken."

"At least we can get you some painkillers - "

"I'm used to it," she said, and straightened up. Her slurred voice sounded stronger. "Thanks, but no. No doctors. I'll be okay."

"You could have a concussion."

"No doubt about it," Susannah said, with a grimace that might have been meant as a smile. "I was looking for you. Well, your firm, anyway. This detective, he said - "

"Welton Brown?"

"Yeah. I need protection. He said I should talk to you guys. I didn't want - I couldn't say anything about my husband. Not to the police."

Lucia exchanged another look with Omar, who turned left at the light, heading for the freeway. "Detective Brown also talked to your husband."

"Yes," she said, and let her head drop back against the upholstery again. "The story is that I was attacked by a mugger. That's what he told them. I had no choice. I had to agree."

"Because?" Lucia asked. Susannah painfully turned toward her.

"Because I already tried going to the police," she said. "All that happened was that when he got out, which took a grand total of less than thirty days for all three arrests, he took it out on me. I've moved. Hell, I moved here from New Mexico. Look what it got me. You don't know him. You don't know what he does for a living."

Tears shone hard silver in her eyes again, and she blinked them back.

"I need help," she said. "I need time to decide what to do. I have money. I can pay you."

"If you need to disappear, there are shelters - "

"He knows all about them. Believe me, he's an expert at this, and he's got people working for him. They'll find me. I have to use my ID and social security number to get a new job, a new apartment - he catches up. I need somebody who can get me a new life." Susannah's breath hitched unevenly, and she shifted, eyes shutting against some inner pain. "I know things. Things that can put him in prison forever. I just need - I need some time to think about it. Make plans. A few days. I wasn't lying - I have money. I'll pay you whatever you ask, just keep me safe and hidden for a while. Please."

Lucia stared straight ahead, thinking. She had contacts who could provide new ID, forged documents, clean social security numbers. Once Susannah's face healed, Lucia had people who could even provide her with some subtle plastic surgery to change the contours of her face. Make her plain or pretty, but different.

Those were contacts she hadn't used in years. A part of her life she'd hoped she'd never have to acknowledge again. But that life had made her what she was now, the way broken bones sometimes mended stronger.

"Maybe," she said. "First priority is to take you someplace safe, so you can rest. You look ready to collapse."

Lucia settled back in the seat, took out her phone and called Jazz.

Omar made the last two turns and slowed the SUV. It was a bleak industrial area, all solid blocks of buildings with grimed windows and blank concrete faces. He slowed to a crawl in the middle of the block. "There?"

It was a warehouse, just like the rest. Three stories, windows on the top floor and a blank front below with three roll-up doors, all rusted and apparently securely fastened.

"That's it."

"So how do we get in, exactly?"

"Pull up to the door."

He turned the SUV up the incline and to an idling stop at the bay door. Nothing happened.

"And?" he asked.

"Wait"

They waited. After three or four minutes of silence, the bay door began to move upward - not slow and creaking, as you would have guessed from the looks of it, but smooth and silent, and much faster than a typical garage door.

"Go. Manny won't keep it open long." And true to her word, the door began to crank back down when the SUV was halfway through. Omar swore and hit the gas, and even so the door barely missed the back bumper of the truck. "Park under the light."

There was a single working light on the ground level, illuminating a patch of bare concrete floor. Everything else was in inky darkness, except for the slight suggestion of a staircase over to the side. Omar pulled the truck up as instructed and put it in Park.

"Engine off," an amplified voice ordered, loudly enough to penetrate the closed windows of the SUV. Omar shot Lucia an amused, questioning look, and she nodded for him to follow instructions. She rolled down her window, and Omar did the same.

"Manny!" she called. "It's Lucia!"

"I can see that." He didn't sound pleased, not pleased at all. Manny Glickman, on his own ground, seemed a lot more commanding. "And before you even ask, the answer's no."

"Manny - "

"No. Sorry. Can't come inside."

Omar opened his door and stepped out, looking around. Lucia sighed and got out, too, walking around to join him. He didn't seem very impressed. "This is it?"

"No," she said. "Believe me, there's a lot more to it than this. Manny, can't we just come upstairs and talk about it?"

"Too many people."

"I can vouch for Omar - "

"No room at the inn, Lucia. Sorry, but that's how it is."

The last of that was delivered in person, an echoing voice from the bottom of the stairs. He shuffled out of the shadows and into the pool of light, looking different from the man who'd taken charge back at the office yesterday. He slumped, which spoiled what might have been an otherwise impressive entrance. Having Pansy in his life had been a good influence, but he was still phobic, still flinched at loud, unexpected noises, and he did not enjoy company. Having Lucia, Omar and a strange woman on his virtual doorstep wasn't waking any innate feelings of hospitality.

"Look," he said, "I like you, okay? I like you fine. You come alone, you're welcome. You call for help, I do what I can. But you're coming to my house right now without asking first, and look, you brought people. I need you to go."

"This woman's in trouble. Manny, you have the safest place in the city. Put her up for just a few days - "

"No!" he snapped, then looked away. "I'm sorry, but no. I'm not the friggin' Witness Protection Program, here. I do consulting forensic work. I took in Jazz 'cause she's family. Pansy..." He tried to come up with a phrase, and failed. "I'm not running a dorm. I'm out of room."

"You're kidding," Omar said, and looked at the size of the ground floor. "Upstairs has to be a couple hundred thousand square feet."

"No."

Lucia held up a hand - not to Manny, to Omar. "It's all right," she said. "Manny, it's your space, I completely understand and respect that. I was asking for a favor. You can choose not to give it. That's all right."

Manny flush faded from hot rose to a dull pink. "I can't. I can't have strangers here right now. Please, Lucia. I need you to go away."

His gaze kept moving from Lucia to Susannah in the SUV, irresistibly drawn, and then snapping back as if what he saw frightened him. It probably did. Manny had some bad, bad images in his head, and a trauma that had hardwired him against ever risking himself again. He didn't like criminal cases, avoided them at all costs, and he put his personal security ahead of most everything else. Including, sometimes, his friends.

Still, he seemed uncomfortable at Lucia's silence. "I don't mean to be - look, I'm sorry. I know she needs help. But - Lucia, I can't." His green eyes held hers, willing her to understand. "I can't."

"I know," she said. "I'm sorry, Manny. That's all right. Can I go up to see Jazz?"

"No."

That, she didn't expect. "You're kidding. Manny? You know me!"

He shuffled uncomfortably. "Okay, come with me. But they stay here."

She sighed, and without even asking - or waiting for Manny to demand it - she pulled her gun out of its holster, made it safe and handed it to Omar. It disappeared into his leather jacket.

"I'm all yours," she said. "Omar, Susannah - wait here."

"And don't touch anything," Manny said. "I mean it. Anything."

Omar looked around at the utterly featureless space. "I'll try to hold back."

Manny led her through pools of harsh industrial light and velvety shadows to a steel door. This one had a keypad. He covered it with his hand and typed in a string of at least a dozen numbers, then opened the door for her. It made a hydraulic hiss. She stepped inside, he crowded in behind her, and they were in - what the hell was this?  -  a kind of secured room. Presuming somebody got past the security on the previous door, this room would stop them cold. It was about six feet square, and - she rapped the wall - seemed like solid steel, with some vents in the ceiling.

Manny pointed up. "I can drop knockout gas," he said. "In emergencies."

"You scare me sometimes."

"Yeah, that's what Jazz says, too. But I've never been robbed."

"I'll bet."

Manny edged past her to the other end of the room and slid aside a well-concealed metal panel. Inside was another keypad. This sequence was longer, and was probably -  knowing Manny - completely different and randomly generated. She thought about Jazz, coming in and out of here, and knew her partner well enough to realize that, regardless of Manny's instructions, she would have had all of these pass codes written down somewhere. Probably on a sheet of paper labeled Secret Codes.

That made Lucia smile, thinking of Manny's probable reaction if he knew. He'd definitely move. Again.

"Where are we going?" she asked. The door opened, and on the other side was an openwork metal staircase. For a man who'd been buried alive, Manny seemed to have an affinity for small spaces - but, she realized, they were small spaces he controlled. It made a certain cockeyed sense.

"The office."

"Is Jazz there?"

"No."

Two flights of stairs, another key-coded door, and she was in another world. The office was a big, spacious place, all windows on one side, with thick, off-white carpeting.

Modern art hung on the walls, and she could tell instantly that it wasn't lithography; those were originals. He seemed particularly partial to the cool logic and simplicity of Mondrian, but he was eclectic. She spotted a Kandinsky, then a Miro. The colors glowed in the soft natural light.

Gradually, she realized that there was furniture, as well - all pale, spare, unobtrusive. A desk with two chairs on either side. A huge expanse of pale oak cabinets.

"Wow." It was all she could manage. Why was Manny never what she expected? He looked as if he might live behind a sewer grate.

How in the hell did Manny Glickman, former government employee, have the cash to live like this? Consulting was profitable; it wasn't that profitable. Then again, she hoped nobody would ever force her to explain the funds in her bank accounts, or the penthouses in New York and Madrid. Even though she'd come by the money legitimately, if not perfectly honestly...

Manny seemed to relax as he walked to the desk. His shoulders straightened, his muscles loosened. By the time he eased himself into the suede chair behind the desk, he looked only a little worried.

"Sit," he said. His green eyes were level on her as she silently obeyed. "Do you have a fever?"

It wasn't what she expected. Again. "What...? No. No, of course I don't."

He stood up, took a set of keys out of his pocket and unlocked a desk drawer. She couldn't quite see what he'd palmed. He walked over and, with deceptive quickness, slapped his hand over her forehead. For a ludicrous instant she thought, That's it, he's gone insane, he thinks he's a faith healer, and then he took his hand away and stared at her forehead intently. She reached up and touched plastic.

"Thermometer," he said. "Disposable."

Oh. She put her hands in her lap and waited, wondering idly what the thing was saying. Manny's expression was unreadable.

He reached down and peeled it off and mutely turned it to show her. The red line had reached a marker that read 100.2 degrees.

"No?" he asked.

Her reflex was to snap back I'm fine, but that was stupid, and it was rooted in fear. She swallowed, closed her eyes for a few seconds and considered. She felt hot, but not really sick. Tired. Had a slight ache in the back of her throat.

"All right," she said calmly. "I have a fever. Some muscle aches. I could sleep for a week. But Manny, those aren't necessarily symptoms of anthrax. They're just as likely to be reactions to stress."

He nodded, dropped the thermometer in the trash and returned to the safety of his chair. He leaned back, still watching her.

"You need to rest," he said. "Let the antibiotics work. And go see your doctor, today."

"You have the results of the tests?"

"The culture's still cooking."

"If it's anthrax, what are my chances?"

"Excellent. You got on antibiotics right away. You just need to take care of yourself."

She took in a slow breath. "Does Pansy have a fever?"

He shook his head, and the tension gathering in her stomach lessened a little.

"No symptoms at all?"

"Nothing. I'm watching over her," he said, and went quiet again for a few seconds. "I want to talk to you about Ben McCarthy."

Of course. Manny knew Ben; in fact, he had more loyalty to Ben than anyone except Jazz. "Go ahead."

"You can't trust him."

She sat back, surprised. It clearly cost him to say that; his expression was deeply unhappy.

"Don't get me wrong," he added quickly. "Ben...Ben means a lot to me. I mean, he's -  I wouldn't be here if it weren't for Ben. I wouldn't be anywhere. But - " She watched him struggle for words, with no impulse to help him along. "He manipulates people. Women."

She smiled slowly. "Manny, you've just described ninety-five percent of the men I've ever met, if you insert the words tries to."

"No, I mean..." He ran his hand through his curling dark hair and left it looking just a bit mad-scientist. "I don't think he's telling us everything. There's something wrong here, Lucia. Jazz doesn't think so, but I do. You should watch out."

"It's all right if you just don't like him," Lucia said. "You don't have to, you know. You can owe him your life and still not like him."

Something flickered over Manny's face.

"I died," he said quietly, and curled his hands into loose fists on the wooden top of his desk, as if he wanted to keep them from doing anything foolish. "Seemed like I died, anyway. I was down there in the dark, all that dirt on top of me, running out of air. Screaming until I couldn't scream anymore, with that tape running, the one of his last victim. He tied me up so I couldn't breathe much. So that every move I made pulled the rope tighter around my neck. I had a choice - I could lie there quietly and suffocate, or I could try to get loose and strangle."

"Oh, no, Manny," she whispered. She hadn't known.

"Over forty hours. You know what it's like to run out of air? You get a headache. It just gets worse until it kills you, until you can't breathe, until you're nothing but a gagging animal. And when I tried to struggle, the rope was like his hands, like his hands around my throat." He swallowed hard and wiped his forehead. "All my life I thought I was smart, but he showed me that when you're down in that hole, smart doesn't mean shit. You need someone else. Someone else. Anyone else."

"Manny - "

"Ben dug with his bare hands, you know. With his bare hands, while the other cop went to get shovels. I was dead. He gave me mouth-to-mouth to bring me back. I'm alive because he dug me up and made me live." Manny raised his eyes and fixed them on hers, fierce and angry. "Ben's the hand of God to me. You know how much it costs me to tell you not to trust him? You think I don't like him? How do you not like someone after that? I love him, and screw your smug attitude!"

He was angry. She'd never really seen him angry before - scared, sure, but this was different. He stood up, and she did, too, feeling a little worried. But he stalked over to the door and jerked it open. Made a jerky after-you gesture, head bent. She went to the stairs and walked down them, aware of his bulk behind her. There were no code panels on this side of the barriers. Manny could always get out.

She opened the last door and stepped into the cool dimness of the parking garage, then turned around. Manny stood right behind her, one hand on the knob, watching her.

"I didn't mean to discount what he did for you," she said. "And if you think I should be careful, then I'll be careful. Thank you."

He nodded once and slammed the door. The code panel's red lights lit up.

No getting back inside.

She went to the SUV, where Omar lounged against the side, smoking, and Susannah waited in the passenger seat.

"Is he going to help?" Susannah asked anxiously.

Lucia climbed in the back when Omar opened the door for her. "No," she said.

Omar flicked a look at her as he started up the truck. She shook her head. She didn't know how to begin to tell him what had just happened, and she wasn't sure she should.

As the big steel door cranked up to let them exit to the street, another car pulled in to block the way from outside.

James Borden got out of the sedan.

He evidently realized it was too late to wave at Manny for admittance, and he sure as hell must have thought it was important, because instead of stopping like any sane person as that massive door rattled down, he dashed forward.

Three feet left. Two and a half...

Borden dived through the gap, elbow banging on the steel door, and came to his feet in a not-quite-clumsy roll. He didn't have the animal grace of, say, Jazz, but then again, he had a lot of arms and legs to work with.

"Manny!" he yelled. "You asshole!"

An intercom came on. "Next time call first." That seemed to be that, so far as Manny was concerned. He really wasn't feeling hospitable.

Borden brushed imaginary dust from his suit - he was nicely done up today; hopelessly off-the-rack, but he cleaned up well, considering. His hair had the unyielding, gravity-defying gel look that Jazz found so funny.

Lucia got out and walked toward him. "Looking for Jazz?" she asked. It was pretty much a given.

"No," he said. "I was looking for you."

And it hardly came as a surprise when he pulled a red envelope from inside his jacket. It was a little creased from his acrobatics.

"Let me guess," she said, and didn't move to take it. "You were told where I'd be."

The tips of his ears turned red. "Don't make this hard. I'm just a messenger."

"Just following orders?"

"Don't - hey, who's she?" Borden's eyes suddenly shifted to look over Lucia's shoulder. He was staring at the bruised and abused faced of Susannah, visible through the van's front window.

"Nobody you need to know, unless you're taking on pro bono criminal cases," she said. "Forgive me for being a little cautious, but the last one of those I got came with a toy prize."

"I talked to Laskins," Borden said, and came a step closer. Just a step, because Omar was watching him with that closed expression that meant trouble. "This one comes directly from the Society. Nobody's touched it but me and him. Do you want me to open it?"

She'd feel like an idiot. And a coward. She took the envelope, ripped it open and drew out the single sheet of paper inside.

It said, GET MS. CALLENDER. GO WITH MR. BORDEN. PARK IN THE LOT ON THE SOUTHWEST CORNER OF PARALLEL PARKWAY AND 10TH AT 5:16 P.M. TODAY. LOOK FOR A MAROON CHEVY VAN. WE TRUST YOU WILL KNOW WHAT TO DO.

"Hang on," Borden said, and handed her something else. It was a tiny flashlight, and when she tried it, the light emerged a cool, faint blue. "UV," he said. "Shine it on the paper."

When she did, a sprawling signature appeared. Milo Laskins.

"From now on," Borden stated, "everything we send you comes marked both on the envelope and on the paper inside. Deal?"

"Deal." She stowed the flashlight in the zip case in her purse, which included keys to her house and car, secondary ID and a thousand dollars in cash. The bare necessities of a life that might require running at a moment's notice. "Do you know what it says?"

"No."

She handed it over. Borden read it, rubbed his forehead as if he wanted to scrub his frontal lobe, and handed it back. "Fine," he said. "Why me?"

"I think only your boss can answer that one." She turned away from him, toward a corner where she knew a camera was watching, and raised her voice. "Manny! I need to talk to Jazz!" She held up the paper.

After ten seconds of silence, the steel door in the shadows clicked and sighed open.

"Just you." Manny's voice rang over the concrete. Then, after a delay: "And, uh, Borden."

Borden grinned. "Hey, Jazz."

Jazz's magnified voice said, "Hey, Counselor. Get your fine ass up here."

Lucia looked over at Omar, who shrugged and got back into the SUV. "I have DVD built in," he said, and looked at Susannah, who had leaned back with her eyes closed. "You like Russell Crowe?"

"I just want to sleep."

"Concussion," Omar said. "No sleeping. Or I take you straight to the hospital."

Susannah opened one eye. The other was swollen to a slit. "You got Gladiator?"

"A woman of taste." Omar gestured for Lucia to go.

She shut the door, and heard the chunk of locks as he secured it into a minitank.

Then she followed Borden back upstairs.

This time Manny guided them by voice, releasing locks remotely. They entered on a different floor, into living quarters. Pansy was lying on the luxurious suede sofa in the middle of the loft, watching a big-screen plasma television. She had a DVD on as well, and Lucia experienced a moment of envy. Pansy looked rosy, clean and relaxed, and was wearing a fluffy white robe. If only I could do the same...

Pansy scrambled to her feet and brushed her dark bangs out of her eyes when Borden and Lucia passed, as if they'd caught her doing something illegal or unmoral...like resting. Lucia couldn't hold back a smile. "As you were, soldier," she said. "Believe me, if I could, I'd pull up a couch next to you, robe and all. And we'd share a gallon of ice cream."

"You feeling all right?" Pansy asked anxiously.

"I'm fine. Manny says you're well...?"

"No symptoms." Pansy's pageboy hairdo bobbed vigorously when she nodded. "Um - shouldn't you be resting?"

"I will be," she said, "as soon as we take care of some things."

"Uh-huh." Pansy didn't sound convinced. "What can I do?"

"You," Manny said, coming around a low cubicle wall that Lucia assumed separated off the surveillance equipment, "can sit down and relax. Right, Lucia?"

"Right." She threw them both a quick smile. "This won't take long." She knew Jazz was going to say, in typical fashion, "Screw it," and toss the message in the shredder.

Only, of course, Jazz surprised her. First, she was dressed, and well dressed - no badly fitting jeans and floppy sweatshirts today. She'd chosen another pantsuit, this one in dark red, and a tight-fitting white knit shirt. Cute. The shoes were still more or less a disaster; Jazz was never going to give up her flats when there was any chance of having to pursue a bad guy. Then again, she had enough height to pull it off.

"Going somewhere?" Borden asked, and crossed to kiss her. It was an open, intimate kiss, and brought instant bright color to Jazz's cheeks. "Or just dressing up for Manny? Should I be jealous?"

"Shut the hell up."

Manny's living space held a series of temporary partitions in the open warehouse - some low translucent walls, some higher and more private. Lucia let her eyes roam over the entire floor, hunting for something she'd never noticed before - ah, there it was, a door set flush in the wall, with one of those red-lit key code panels. There was another door to his office, from this floor. She'd been wondering. But it made sense, really; Manny would want multiple access points, all under his control.

Despite the almost Japanese simplicity of the place, Manny's build-outs, where they existed, were luxurious. The kitchen where Jazz sat could have been lifted from a model home, with wood cabinets and glossy appliances, double steel sinks, and a spacious bar area with high-backed stools.

Jazz was at the bar, Borden close beside her. Lucia hopped up on a stool next to her. "Are we finished with the love talk?" she asked. "If so, there's work to be done."

Jazz rolled her eyes and gestured for the red letter, which Borden handed to her. She read it quickly. "We sure it's genuine?"

"He says so." Lucia demonstrated the new UV toy.

"Who's downstairs?" Jazz tucked a stray lock of blond hair behind her ear, and read the note again. "In the truck?"

"Omar and a new client."

"The wife."

"Yes."

"No sign of the husband?"

"Omar lost him."

Jazz glanced up at Manny. "Better have. You wouldn't believe how he gets if he thinks - "

"Omar lost him," Lucia said firmly. "I'm going to find a place to stash her, and put Omar on bodyguard duty until we can get her in touch with the FBI. She claims she's got incriminating information about her husband, but she doesn't want to deal with the local cops. Not even Welton Brown could convince her. The way she talks, it's probably organized crime. I expect Agent Rawlins will do us another favor, so long as it also looks good on his resume."

Jazz snorted. "That's Rawlins, all over. Okay, so this thing. Another typical piece of Cross Society bullshit. Go here, wait here, blah blah. You'll know what to do? What the hell does that mean?"

"I hope it doesn't involve shooting someone. Again."

"Pros and cons," Jazz said, and tapped the black marble counter with blunt fingernails. "Pro, we make a quick five grand for doing whatever this is, and more than likely, it doesn't even involve us lifting a finger. Most of these don't, right? We just change events by being there on time.

We force other people to make different choices. Like a couple of boulders dumped into a stream."

Lucia blinked. "You understand this better than I do."

"Yeah, I'm frickin' deep that way. Any other pros you can think of? Besides money?"

"It's possible that what we do could help someone. Maybe save a life."

"Or not. I got over the whole idea that we're working for the good guys when they sent me to wait outside while a woman got murdered, just so I could write down an apartment number and testify about it later."

Lucia shrugged. "I said it's possible."

"I'll put that one in the 'maybe' column. Okay, cons. I don't trust these jerks anymore."

Borden cleared his throat. "Standing right here, Jazz."

She reached up without looking and put her hand on the lapel of his coat. Her fingers curled, touching his shirt beneath, unconsciously seeking skin. "Not you," she said. "And we talked about that."

That must have been an interesting conversation, to say the least

"There's something else," Lucia said. "Neither of us wants guilt on our head when people die because we didn't act."

"That's exactly what they want us to think - that it's somehow our fault. But it isn't, L. And it isn't our responsibility, either. We're not superheroes. Well, I'm not, anyway. I don't know what the hell you do in your spare time. Me, I bowl. I don't want to save the world. I just want to work my cases and save my friends and family and people who come to me for help."

Jazz paused and looked down. A cat was prowling around the legs of her bar stool, weaving in and out, purring. Mooch, Lucia recalled. Jazz's cat. Evidently, Manny didn't run a no-pets dorm. Jazz leaned down and dragged her fingers down Mooch's silky-smooth back; he arched into her touch, purring harder, and flicked his high-held tail as he walked away.

"He seems to like it here," Lucia said.

"He's a cat. What does he know?" But Jazz was smiling. "Sorry. Guess I mountaineered up to the soapbox again." Lucia hadn't been confused. She understood very well that this was Jazz venting her frustrations, not Jazz explaining a decision.

"I understand perfectly what you're feeling," Lucia said. "But our choice at the moment is simple. We have a red envelope, and it's from the Cross Society. What do you want to do?"

Jazz sighed. "Let me get my gun."

She slid off the bar stool and walked to another temporary structure, this one an actual room with four walls and a ceiling, about fifteen feet away across the concrete floor. Her bedroom. Borden followed her. She looked back at him as she opened the door. "You going to help me get my gun?" she asked.

Borden said, "No, I'm going to help you put on your body armor."

"Oh. Okay."

The door shut.

Lucia poured herself a cup of coffee, smiled and waited.

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