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know." Male ego stroking. She was an expert on the subject, after years with McCarthy...no, she wasn't going to think about McCarthy. She didn't take her eyes off the envelope. If she'd still been on the Job, she'd have bagged it and dusted it for prints, but there was no point. She no longer had access to those kinds of toys. "Who gave this to you?"

"My boss."

"Who is...?"

Borden sighed and sipped his coffee. He made a face - she'd been dead right about his preferences - and watched her without replying.

Just get it over with. She slid a fingernail under the envelope flap. Tugged experimentally. It was only lightly sealed, and came open with a crisp pop. Despite his assurances, she lifted the flap carefully.

No booby traps. There was a thick parchment sheet of paper inside, folded to fit the envelope. She extracted it, using her fingernails, and put the envelope aside. Wish I had chopsticks, she thought as she made do with a couple of coffee stirrers to hold down the edges and smooth it out.

"What are you doing?" Borden asked. He sounded annoyed but interested. The table creaked as he leaned his weight on his elbows, craning for a look.

"Not getting my fingerprints all over it," she said. "Just in case."

The letterhead was Gabriel, Pike & Laskins, LLP, with an address in New York City, on Central Park West. Nice, old-fashioned raised printing, none of that inkjet stuff. The cream-colored paper had thickness and texture.

It read:

Dear Ms. Callender:

Our firm has been engaged by a nonprofit foundation to offer you a business opportunity. Our research has shown that you have made inquiries with lending institutions toward opening a private investigation agency, which inquiries have been denied. The nonprofit agency wishes to make funding available to you, under the condition that you accept a partnership agreement with another qualified individual.

The terms of this agreement will be discussed in a separate communication should you indicate a desire to proceed. As a good-faith gesture, the firm has provided the name and vitae of the individual our client requires you to accept as a partner in this start-up business, as well as a check made out in both of your names in the amount of one hundred thousand dollars (U.S.), which should be used to defray expenses related to establishment of the partnership, including but not limited to rent, office equipage, and hiring of staff, as well as an advance against salary.

Please communicate your reply via the individual who has been entrusted to deliver this communication. We thank you for your attention.

Sincerely,

Milo Laskins, Partner

Gabriel, Pike & Laskins, LLP

Jazz read it again. Then again.

And slowly tented the envelope to look in it again.

"It's there," Borden said. "The check, I mean."

"How do you know?"

"I put it in myself."

She reached in and pulled out...a business check. Thick, official stock, emblazoned with the Gabriel, Pike & Laskins, LLP, name and address. Private bankers. Printed with a neat, computerized "one hundred thousand and no/100."

Made out to Jasmine Callender and Lucia Garza.

"Here," Borden said, and slid over another envelope - slightly bent from the beating he'd taken, but bloodstain-free - that when opened proved to have some kind of resume with the name Lucia Garza in bold at the top. She didn't read it.

Her eyes went back to read the check again.

One hundred thousand and no/100.

Borden was still coming up with things, like a magician without a top hat...a business card, this time, in creamcolored stock that matched the letterhead and the check. Gabriel, Pike & Laskins, LLP. Under that, in smaller letters, James D. Borden, Attorney-at-law.

Jazz couldn't help it. The whole thing was so absurd, so downright idiotic, that she started laughing, and once she had, she couldn't stop. She clutched Borden's card and laughed until her sides hurt and her eyes watered, with his frown grooving deeper every second.

"You're - " She finally managed to gasp it out. "You're a lawyer?"

He folded his arms and sat back. He looked tougher in the black knit shirt than in all that load of leather and zippers; he actually had some biceps to flex, though nothing like the trucker twins back at Sol's. She remembered the washboard-tight abs, and thought he was probably more of a boxer or a runner than a weightlifter. Some strength in him, though. Not that the trucker twins wouldn't have kicked his ass until it fell off, but...

He derailed her train of thought by saying, in an aggrieved tone, "Yes, I'm a lawyer. What's so