“Suit yourself. But I can promise you that I’ll never, ever make you get coffee.”

There was a long, long pause, and then Pansy said, “Kansas City, huh?”

Jazz grinned. Take that, Lawyer Borden.

Chapter 6

U pon returning from her run, Lucia informed Jazz of two things. One, she’d be camping out on Jazz’s couch until her leasing agent found her a local apartment. Two, they had an appointment to shop for office space.

“We’re shopping?”

“Shopping is a necessary part of life, Jazz, you should reconcile yourself to it. Unless you want me to make all the decisions.” Lucia didn’t sound averse to it. Jazz eyed her distrustfully.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll take a look.”

Lucia drove. All the way, Jazz kept an eye on the street, but traffic patterns looked random and safe, and she saw nobody following—either from in front or behind—for more than a couple of blocks. It was possible the faceless bad guys had enough manpower to do fast-rotating teams, but if so, they were screwed anyway, and all the eagle-eye vigilance in the world wouldn’t help.

No white vans, no black cars with tinted windows, no electric blue sedans with out-of-date plates.

But when they pulled up in the parking lot of a five-story office building, she spotted someone she knew waiting, leaning against the granite-faced entrance with his long arms folded. Borden was back in casual mode, long leather jacket and blue jeans and an oatmeal-colored long-sleeved Henley underneath. Gelled hair again. He looked up as Jazz’s car rattled to a stop, and straightened.

Jazz took her time getting out, partly so as not to run over and bash his head against the wall, partly because she didn’t want to show any awkwardness or hesitation from the pain. Smooth and controlled. She was going to out-Lucia Lucia.

“Hey,” Borden said, and took a couple of steps toward her. She shut the car door, put her hands in her jacket pockets and looked at him with what was probably not a polite smile.

He stopped.

“Let me guess, Counselor,” she said, “you’re in the real estate business, too.”

“More or less. How are you—”

“Feeling?” She forced herself not to limp as she walked toward, then past him. “Great. You?”

In the shiny tinted glass of the building’s double doors, she saw Borden toss Lucia a look. Lucia shook her head.

“You should have stayed in the hospital,” he said, coming up next to her with a thick set of keys in his hand. He unlocked the door and pulled the right one open with a sigh of cool air. “And for the record? I’m not the landlord. I just helped Lucia find the place. Third floor. Take the elevator. You don’t have to prove how tough you are by tackling the stairs.”

She glared at him but walked inside the building. It was dark, except for some indirect spots illuminating empty alcoves and an equally empty reception desk. Still had that new-building smell, equal parts paint, drywall and fresh carpeting.

“Ready to move in?” Lucia asked.

Borden nodded. “If you sign the lease, you could be operational in a few days.”

Lucia nodded and tucked her hair back behind her ear, sneaking a look at Jazz as she did so. Jazz watched the numbers flash on the floor counter overhead. When the right one arrived, she pushed through the still-opening doors…

Into a dream.

Déjà vu, she thought, and fought the disorientation. She knew this place. Knew it. She knew what she’d see before she looked left, or right. She knew that there would be a big-ass boardroom behind the reception-desk half wall directly in front of her, and that the table in there would be a long black lacquer thing, and she could see someone sitting there, looking up at her.

Ben. Ben McCarthy. I remember Ben McCarthy being here, in these offices.

She told herself it was just a dream, but she couldn’t make herself move. Her heart was hammering, her skin suddenly coated in sweat.

I know this place.

Borden went to the reception desk and did something behind the counter. Lights flipped on and marched left and right in fluorescent banks. The place took on light and color. It was champagne-and-blond woods and dull silver, very chic.

“It’s fully furnished,” he said. “The management fitted it out for an Internet firm that went belly-up before move-in. They’ve been trying to lease it out for months.”

“Other tenants in the building?” Lucia asked.

“They’ve got a law firm moving in on five, and an investment firm coming in on the ground floor,” Borden said. “It’s pretty safe. Very corporate.”

Jazz walked over to the reception desk and looked at the half wall behind the empty chair. It was begging for a name. She blinked and imagined the silvery lettering on it: Callender & Garza. She wasn’t sure if that made her feel better or even more disoriented.

She went around the wall. Behind it sat a black lacquer table that seated at least a dozen, with black leather chairs pulled around it. A Zen-appropriate arrangement of dried flowers in the center of the table. Beyond it, tinted glass had a view of the K.C. skyline.

The sense of déjà vu was fading. Maybe it had just been one of those things, a weird-ass chemical imbalance of a brain that had suffered too many shocks recently.

She heard Lucia say something about taking a look at the offices. She turned and followed.

There were two large offices to the right, sharing an administrative station. Jazz entered the one on the left, moving by instinct, and noticed Lucia moved to the right. She stood in the doorway and looked at the expanse of carpet, the empty bookshelves, the desk and chair.

Borden had moved behind her. She could feel him there, even though he was staying a prudent few steps away.

“You did a good job,” he said, “with the assignment. The client was pleased.”

“We didn’t do anything.” Jazz turned to face him. The indirect lighting did things to his face, made him look like a stranger. But then, he was a stranger, wasn’t he? And she didn’t really know a thing about him, except that he wasn’t telling the truth.

“You did exactly what you were supposed to do,” he said, and suddenly put out a hand to grab her by the forearm. “Jazz?”

She’d faltered, lost her balance, and only realized it after the fact. She leaned against a wall and sucked down deep breaths, clearing her head. “Paint fumes,” she mumbled. She felt light-headed and more than a little sick. “You lied to me, Borden.”

He could have moved his hand. He didn’t. She felt his strong hold slacken a little, but he kept touching her.

“I didn’t,” he said, and moved closer. Too close. She felt smothered. “I wouldn’t.”

“You told us you don’t do criminal cases.” Like Manny, she thought. Manny won’t do them, either.

Borden’s sharp face went blank for a few seconds, then settled into an expression of resignation. “Yeah. I don’t.”

“I saw the pictures. You and Max Simms.”

The name rocked him back, and she saw a startled flash in those big brown eyes, quickly concealed. “That’s what I get for generalizing to a cop,” he said. “I didn’t try that case, I was second chair. Laskins was principal. It was my first, last and only criminal trial with the firm.”

“Because of Simms?” she asked.

He smiled sadly. “My firm doesn’t like losing.”

The office’s waiting silence closed around them. He still hadn’t taken his hand off her, and she hadn’t insisted, by word or motion, that he do it. Her eyes met his, and she felt a jolt deep inside, something warm and frighteningly real.

“I wish you’d stayed in the hospital,” he said, his voice low and hoarse. “You have a hole in your side, you know. Not a hangnail.”

“Believe me, Counselor, I know.”

He studied her for a long moment, and then suddenly let go of her arm and stepped back. Two feet back. Hands in his pockets, as if he didn’t trust himself not to touch her again.