Devil s Due Page 0,41

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