Your life is way too complicated as it is.
And it wasn't like she didn't have other things to think about, for God's sake. A sister she hadn't talked to in six months after their last fight. A father puttering around on the family farm, still vital but growing old. A brother in the Navy who deserved a few more letters at the very least. She had a life.
Come on, Jazz. Having a family doesn't mean you have a life. Only relatives.
She eyed the letter again, fingered the check, reread the resume. Folded everything together and stuck it back into the red envelope, then tucked it in her waistband, under the sweatshirt. She worked her knuckles experimentally and found that the bruising was pretty minimal - funny, she didn't even remember throwing a punch, but that was how fights worked - and the abraded skin would be okay after a day or two. All in all, not the worst bar fight she'd ever had.
Kinda fun, actually. She wondered if that made her dangerous, or just masochistic.
She fished her cell phone out of its cradle on her belt, hesitated, and then dialed the number on the resume.
Two rings on the other end. Three. And then a brisk, contralto voice said, "Diga-me."
"Lucia Garza?"
"Yes. Who's this?" The tone was courteous but not welcoming.
If I hang up now...hell, she'll still have my number. Jazz took in a breath and said, as professionally as possible, "My name is Jazz Callender. I got a letter from - "
"Gabriel, Pike & Laskins?" Lucia finished. "Yeah, me, too. It said you'd be calling. Something about a partnership agreement."
Jazz went still and felt her eyes half close as she thought it through. "You must have gotten my resume, then. I got yours."
"I did." Nothing in the voice at all, and certainly no approval or offers of friendship. Lucia liked to keep her feelings to herself. "I apologize, but this is very strange for me. I'm uncomfortable with talking to a stranger on the phone about - "
"You're uncomfortable? Join the club. I just had my evening interrupted by some lawyer with a cock-and-bull story and a nice-looking - " she edited her usually street-worthy vocabulary with a conscious switch " - presentation. How do you know these people? You owe them money, or what?"
She didn't mean to lash out, exactly, but Lucia's careful, measured voice had pissed her off.
"I don't," Lucia replied. The voice was still level and calm, but there was a floor of steel underneath. "And I don't know them any more than I know you, Detective."
"Former detective," Jazz shot back. "Which you'd know, if you'd read the damn resume."
There was a brief, dark silence, and then Lucia's cool voice. "A word of advice, Former Detective, there's no need to take your anger out on me."
"What?"
"You're obviously angry at being manipulated, and - "
"Great. A fucking psychologist, you are."
"Don't interrupt me."
"Excuse me?"
"Apparently no one's ever explained that it's rude," Lucia said. "Like your general attitude."
"Are you done? Because I don't want to interrupt your apology, which I'm sure is coming any second now."
"This isn't going to work for me."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't like you."
"Well, I don't find you a bowl of cherries, either, Lucy!"
She was talking to dead air. Lucia Garza had hung up on her.
Shit.
Jazz angrily slapped the cell phone back on her belt, tossed the coffee cups and headed home. It was a six-block walk, and night had well and truly fallen; overhead, stars struggled to outshine the blank glare of streetlights. Kansas City wasn't much of a walking town in this part of the city; it was a mostly industrial area, and while there were plenty of cars, she was the only one on the sidewalk.
That was all right, she was probably better off on her own just now. She walked faster, burning off adrenaline and anger, feeling the red envelope hot against her stomach.
Just as well, she told herself. This was a total waste of time, anyway. Why the hell would a lawyer from New York fly all the way out to the sticks to hand-deliver something like this? And get the hell beat out of him in the process? What had he really been after? She hadn't given him anything, except a promise to think it over and call him.
A nonprofit organization? What the hell was she, some kind of charity case? What did they want?
He'd been told where to find her. How was that even remotely possible? He had to have followed