by Rachel Caine
“I’ll leave you to look it over,” he said. “I’ve got a meeting down the hall. Back in about thirty minutes. Oh, don’t try to walk out with any loose change or files or anything, Pansy’s tougher than she looks.”
He left them without a backward glance. Jazz knew her eyebrows were soaring, and her lips compressed against a laugh. She caught the same glitter in Lucia’s eyes.
“Well,” Lucia said in the silence after the door had clicked shut, “he’s not what I expected.”
“Taller?”
“Smarter.” She edged her chair closer to the desk and reached for the folder. “Oddly, that does not make me feel better about this.”
The folder contained loads of legal paperwork about the partnership. Jazz blurred out after a couple of pages, but she was pretty expert in shaking wheat from chaff, when it came to legal papers, and flipped through the thick sheaf until she found what she was looking for.
“Looks like the money’s coming from a nonprofit organization called the Cross Society,” she said, and scooted over to give Lucia a lean-in on it.
“A religious thing?” Lucia hooked silky black hair back over her ear.
“Um…no idea, actually. Why. Are you a zealot?”
“I’m religious, I’m not actually militant.” Lucia shrugged. “You?”
“Define religious.”
Lucia gave her a warm, quick smile. “And that answers my question. So, what do we know about them?”
“Not a damn thing.” Jazz flipped through the rest of the paperwork. “Address is care of the law firm. I don’t see anything else to go on.”
“Ah.” Lucia nodded, and went around Borden’s desk to test the drawers. Locked. She reached into her neat little designer purse, came out with lock picks in a zippered leather case, and set to work. It took her about ten seconds flat to open up the file drawer and start flipping through. “Hmm, he works for some interesting people—do you want to know about Donald Trump? — never mind, here it is. The Cross Society.”
She pulled out a fairly massive-looking folder and spread it open on the blotter, on top of the partnership paperwork. Jazz came around to take a look as Lucia’s elegant fingers fluttered pages.
“Here. Not religious, apparently. The Cross Society is a nonprofit organization established seven years ago with a mandate to research time, physics and causality.”
“What the hell is causality?” Jazz asked.
“I was hoping you’d tell me. They seem to have given out quite a load of grants and loans over the past couple of years. Take a look at the list. Anything look familiar to you?”
“Nope, but I’ll bet if we did an Internet search, we’d turn up with science stuff.”
“Not all of them,” Lucia murmured, and ran her finger down the list to stop on one name. Gregory Valentin Ivanovich. “I know this one. Definitely not a scientist.”
“Who is he?”
“Spy,” she said absently. “Once upon a time. He’s in security these days. Or that’s the euphemism for it. Actually, I think he more or less works for the highest bidder…. What would you say, there must be a few thousand names listed here, right?”
Jazz felt her eyebrows quirk again. “Seems to be a lot. This Ivanovich guy…you know him from business or pleasure?”
“Both,” Lucia said, and ran her fingertip over the name again, as if it was a bar code she could scan. “Although you mix those together often enough you get something that doesn’t fit the definition of either. Anyway, Gregory isn’t a scientist by any stretch of the imagination.”
“Neither are we,” Jazz pointed out, and pointed at the footnote on the page.
Offers extended to Jasmine Evelyn Callender and Lucia Imelda Losano Garza on March 23…
“Interesting.”
“Yeah, no kidding. I’d call it more like shocking. Imelda?”
“Shut up, Evelyn.”
“If they’re researching egghead stuff, why do they need spies, cops and whatever the hell you are, anyway?” Jazz asked, and tapped the paper nervously.
Lucia said, “Let’s find out,” and flipped through the files again.
“What are you looking for?”
“I don’t know. Anything out of the ordinary, I suppose.” She flicked the tabs, reading names. “Active cases. Mr. Borden’s a busy young man. He’s defending an insurance company against a class-action suit on denial of claims…a tobacco company…some rich billionaire with tax problems—not The Donald…”
She paused, backed up, and eased a file out of the middle of the drawer.
“What?” Jazz asked.
“Eidolon Corporation.”
“Never heard of it.”
“I have.” Lucia kept staring at the file folder. She pulled it out and opened it on the desk, flipping pages.
“Well?” Jazz prodded.
“I know the name. I just can’t remember—” Lucia shook her head and looped silky dark hair behind her ear as she bent over the folder. “This is nothing. Tax accounting on assets, standard corporate stuff. But I know this name, I know I do.”
They were interrupted by the sound of the door opening. In retrospect, Jazz supposed it would have been a good idea to keep an eye out, even though Borden had said he wouldn’t be back for thirty minutes. Rookie mistake. She controlled the impulse to sweep the folders off the desk and looked at Lucia, who was looking utterly cool and composed and not at all tempted to try to hide what she was doing.
Must have been a spy thing.
“Ah. Eidolon Corporation.” The voice had a hoarse edge that came from a lifetime of close acquaintance with cigarettes or, Jazz amended, maybe Havana cigars. The old man standing framed in the doorway—short, neat, white-haired, with electric blue eyes—looked as if he’d never stoop to anything so pedestrian as cigarettes. Old money. Polish and style and sophistication. His immaculate tailoring made Lucia look dowdy. “I thought you might recognize it. You have an excellent memory, Agent Garza. That’s one of the reasons you came so highly recommended to us.”
Lucia said nothing. She met the newcomer’s stare squarely, chin firm, eyes bright. He came forward and put his hand on the back of Jazz’s chair, and turned his attention to her for a few seconds. “Miss Callender,” he said, and nodded down at her. His eyes were Paul Newman blue, and they looked as if they might require a separate power source. Maybe he recharged them at night, along with his cell phone. “My name is Milo Laskins. I am a senior partner with the firm, and Mr. Borden’s immediate superior. You may address any questions you have about the agreement to me, as Mr. Borden has been temporarily detained.” He nodded toward the file still sitting on the desk under Lucia’s hand. “Although I see your research is going quite well without me.”
“Are you expecting me to apologize?” she asked.
“Hardly. But I do expect you to abandon the attempt to rifle through the firm’s confidential records, if for nothing else than simple courtesy.” Laskins took the desk chair and looked at Lucia expectantly. She shrugged, slotted the files back in place and closed the drawer. “And if you wouldn’t mind locking it…?”
She took out the lock picks again and turned tumblers, then came over and sat in the visitor chair again, legs crossed. Jazz met her eyes for a brief second, and was surprised at the strength of communication between them. Careful, Lucia was warning her, which was the same that she was broadcasting.
“Tell me about Eidolon and how it connects to this Cross Society,” Lucia said. “You know that if I have five minutes and an Internet connection, I’ll find out everything I need to know anyway.”
“True,” Laskins said, and shot his cuffs and inspected his cuff links, which were gold and looked expensive. Like the suit. “Eidolon Corporation,” he said. “I’m sure what you’re remembering is the scandal some years ago in which the company’s chief executive officer was convicted of murder.”
Jazz felt an unexpected jolt, and connections fired in her brain. “Wait, I remember. Max Simms,” she said. “Serial k
iller.”
“Alleged,” Laskins said, and those Paul Newman eyes laser-beamed her.
“Convicted,” Jazz shot back.
“Not everyone believes he was guilty.”
“Sure, conspiracy theorists who also believe that OJ was framed and Elvis is running a bed-and-breakfast in the Blue Ridge Mountains. And those bodies in Max Simms’s basement…? Wait, let me guess—people broke into his mansion, tumbled down the stairs and buried themselves in the mud. Oh, and then mixed concrete and covered themselves. I’ve heard of guests not wanting to leave, but that’s pretty ridiculous.” Jazz remembered the case vividly. She remembered the forensic investigators and detectives climbing out of the crawl space wearing gas masks, looking sick and exhausted. It had made quite an impression.
Laskins was silent a moment, then turned back to Lucia. “You asked about Eidolon. That’s the only event worthy of note. Apart from that event, Eidolon has been a solid corporate citizen, employing thousands of people in dozens of locations around the country.”
“You haven’t answered the question,” Lucia said coolly. “How does Eidolon relate to the Cross Society?”
Laskins’s white eyebrows notched upward a bare degree. “It contains some board members who are, shall we say, alumni of that firm. However, you needn’t worry. Max Simms no longer has the legal standing to associate himself with any organization, nonprofit or otherwise.” He had a self-satisfied smile. Jazz wasn’t sure she approved of it. “Apart from seeing a complete roster of our clients, what can I do to set your mind at ease about the offer we’ve extended? I understand it’s unusual—”
“Unusual?” Jazz interrupted. “Try crazy. You want to give us money for no good reason? You don’t even know us. And how exactly do we fit in with a bunch of scientists and spies, anyway? What makes us a good investment for their money?”
The door opened again. She expected Pansy, but instead, it was Lawyer Borden, strolling in with a chunky-looking coffee mug in his hand. He passed it over to Laskins, who accepted it with a nod. Casual. It almost hid the tension in his shoulders and back.
“Everything okay?” Borden asked without looking at Laskins. He was watching Jazz. She felt a touch of heat in her cheeks. “Enjoying the guided tour of my drawers?”
They’d been monitored. No getting around it. She couldn’t believe Lucia hadn’t picked it up…and then she wondered if Lucia had, and simply hadn’t cared. She wasn’t sure which one was more unsettling.
“It’s not been very enlightening,” she said. “Okay, give. What’s the catch? You give us money, we open a detective firm. Presuming we’re willing to do that, I’m supposing that the Cross Society isn’t in this to perform a public service or they’d give it to the homeless shelter down the block, right? So what’s their angle?”
Laskins and Borden exchanged a look. Laskins sipped coffee.
“I cannot answer for the society,” Laskins said. “It would be a conflict of interest.”
“Right. Whatever.” Jazz rolled her eyes. “I’m thinking you have about ten seconds to start making sense, or the two of us walk out of here, tear up your check and go about our lives. Poorer and sadder, maybe, but—”
“We’d send you cases,” Borden said. “Not many, maybe one a month, if that. Nothing big, for the most part. Escort duty, stakeouts, surveillance.”
“I knew it,” Lucia said, and stood up. “You’re trying to set us up for something illegal.”
“No, I promise, it’s nothing like that. We’re not in that business, and neither is the Cross Society.” Borden spread his hands. Jazz’s eyes followed the sweep of those long, elegant fingers, then snapped back to his face. “You’d be paid for each case. Regular billing rates. The only thing is that we’d expect our designated cases to take priority.”
It sounded reasonable. Surprisingly reasonable. Jazz glanced at Lucia and experienced that surge of communication again.
“In writing,” Lucia said. “No offense, but your word of honor is meaningless if we don’t know you. Also, we’d need to talk to these people at the Society.”
“That won’t be possible,” Borden said. “Before you get upset about it, there’s nothing mysterious going on, it’s just that most of the members travel extensively. Our word is binding to them. We have their power of attorney.”
“How do we know they even exist?” Jazz asked. “Maybe you guys are the Cross Society. Maybe this is just a way for you to funnel drug money through the system.”
“If so, it’s an extraordinarily stupid way to go about it,” Laskins said waspishly, and frowned at Borden. “Can you handle this on your own? I really should be attending the meeting with Richmond and Fieles. God only knows what they’ll bargain away if they’re not supervised.”
“Yes, sir.” Borden nodded. “I can handle it.”
Laskins gave him a cynical twist of his lips that was not exactly a smile. “I’ll hold you to that, my boy.” He put the mug of coffee aside and left without another word.
Borden opened up the folder—the one containing the partnership paperwork—and handed Jazz and Lucia each a bound copy of what must have been a hundred pages of legalese.
“Let’s go through it step-by-step,” he said.
Jazz looked at the pound of paperwork and sighed.
“Maybe I’ll have that espresso after all,” she said.
Chapter 4
Two hours later, they had a catered lunch in a quiet, cavelike boardroom, with indirect lighting and a silently playing plasma-screen TV showing the latest disaster footage on one of the news channels. Just her, Lucia and Borden; Counselor Laskins hadn’t returned from his other meeting, thank God, so they were able to order sandwiches instead of some impress-the-boss spread. Jazz stuck to tuna fish and low-fat chips. Lucia did her one better with a salad, dry, which Jazz guessed was what it took to maintain that statuesque perfect shape.
She had a cookie in retaliation.
Borden sat next to her, still thumbing through the paperwork as he gobbled down a roast beef on wheat, dripping with mayo. “Not that I want to rush you,” he said, “but my boss is bound to bring up the fact that I’m burning billable hours waiting for you to make up your minds. Any decision yet?”
Lucia had her copy of the partnership agreement in front of her, and she flipped pages and scratched notes on a legal pad as she speared lettuce. “No.”
“Afraid not,” Jazz said. She had another mouthful of tuna salad, which was excellent, packed with walnuts and celery and some kind of lemon spice. “We’re going to need time.”
“How much?”
“We’re not signing anything today,” Lucia said. “We have to get back later this afternoon, we’ll be in touch. You understand, we have to be sure about this.”
“I’d never advise you to sign anything you weren’t sure about. Still, we do have some cases coming up, and we’d like to have you on them.”
“Very flattering,” Jazz said, “but I’m not sure you’re going to get us. Yet.”
She got a full-on stare from his brown eyes, and remembered how he’d been in the bar—off base, off balance, awkward. Out of his element but determined enough to tough it out. She’d liked that Borden. This one—slick, sophisticated and in control—was less easy to trust.
“Your choice,” he said neutrally. “But just remember, I picked out the cookies personally.”
Lucia snorted.
Jazz took a second one and ate it contemplatively, watching him.
He suddenly rolled his leather chair back and said, “Jazz, can I have a minute? Just one minute.”
She looked at Lucia, who raised her eyebrows in an eloquent whatever. Jazz stood up and fisted her hands in her jacket pockets. “Sure, Counselor.”
He led her out into the hallway. Instead of turning toward his office, which was two doors down, he took her to the right, to the big indoor garden with its quietly tinkling fountain and elaborately raked Zen sand. He walked her down the path to a blind corner shielded by a broad-l
eafed palm. There was a stone bench, but he made no move to sit down. He was staring at the tops of his shoes.
“Well?” she asked finally. “Nice plants. What else?”
“I know you don’t trust us,” he said. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, and the awkwardness made her remember how he’d been back in K.C., at the bar. Standing up to two men when it was a foregone conclusion he was in for an ass-kicking. For a lawyer, he sure didn’t lack spine. “But…please believe me when I say that you need to try to believe me. Things are coming. Bad things. And I don’t want you to get hurt.”
She felt a sudden chill and stepped closer, trying to get his eyes. He avoided her. “Borden?”
“Look, I can’t tell you anything. But things are going to happen, and I’d rather you were inside than out. Right? For your sake as well as ours.”
“Are you trying to threaten me?”
That got her a stare, a big wide one, shocked. “No! Of course not. Besides…hell, I’ve seen you kick ass, Jazz. Threatening you is the last thing on my mind, believe me. I’m just…worried.”
“What have you heard?”
“That there were men after you in the airport,” he said. “Jazz, you were in danger from the minute I walked into that bar and handed you that envelope, just like Lucia was in danger the moment hers was delivered. I wish I could make this easy for you. I can’t. It isn’t just…money and opportunity. This is about something else.”
The Cross Society. And Eidolon Corporation?
“About what?” she asked, instinctively. Keeping her voice down. He was almost whispering. “Borden? About what?”
“Time,” he said. “We’re almost out of it.”
He was wearing the same aftershave as he had at the bar, she realized suddenly. It radiated off him in warm waves, and she had to fight an impulse to breathe in deeply. She’d stepped closer again without realizing it. Inches from him. He was stooped, looking down into her eyes. She’d always considered herself pretty stocky, but he made her feel delicate, somehow.
