“We? I just see one of you standing—”

“The Cross Society.”

“Stop interrupting me!”

“Stop acting like an asshole.”

“Hey!”

He uncoiled from the couch. It was probably unconscious, the way he tried to use his superior height and reach to intimidate her, but she didn’t like it. She stepped right into his space, staring into those dark eyes.

“Call me an asshole again,” she invited softly. “Go on.”

“I said you were acting like one, not—”

“I know what you said.”

Silence. She watched him breathe. Some part of her was acutely aware of him, of the warmth radiating off him, of the smell of his cologne and the matte-velvet slide of his skin. The quick throb of the pulse in his neck.

“I have work to do,” she said, and reached around him for her jacket.

He grabbed her wrist.

She pivoted, came in behind him and used her leverage to bend his arm up behind his back. Slammed him against the wall with such force that the pictures rattled. That was all right, they were Lucia’s choice anyway. Not like Jazz Callender had a lot of Kodak moments in her life.

She felt his shoulder muscles jumping, trying to resist, but she had the pressure point and he was off balance, and she grabbed the back of his neck and held him still.

“Seriously,” she said, “don’t think that just because you’re a big guy you can take me. Maybe you can, if you get lucky and I get stupid, but any normal day, Counselor, I’m going to whip your ass, all right? So don’t get tough with me. And don’t even try to tell me what to do.”

He moved his head fractionally, trying to get a look at her. She pressed harder. Her fingers curled into the soft hair at the nape of his neck, and God, it felt good.

“You can beat the crap out of me, and it doesn’t change anything,” he said. His voice was stressed but even. “And if you break it, you buy it. Assault on a lawyer—that’s pretty dumb.”

“Not like I’ve got a ton of assets you could want,” she replied, and pressed a little harder before letting go and stepping back. Borden caught himself with both hands against the wall, pushed off and spun to face her.

“Foreplay with you must be murder,” he said. “Fine. Do what you want, Jazz, but just read it. Please. Personal favor to me.”

“You should have given it to Lucia. She might not have shoved you into a wall.”

She got an adrenaline-pumped smile in response to that. He was breathing fast, watching her, and she wondered—not for the first time—if buttoned-up, nicely dressed Counselor Borden might not have some kink under there.

“No,” he agreed, “she’d have thanked me and taken it and shown me the door, but that wouldn’t have gotten me anywhere. Lucia’s bulletproof glass. You’re—”

“I’m what?”

“You listen. I might have to let you thump me a few times, but you listen while you’re doing it.” He took in another deep breath, let it out with deliberate slowness, and said, “I wouldn’t come here if it wasn’t important, you know that. There’s a life at stake.”

“From what your buddies tried to tell me, there are always lives at stake. Hell, there are lives at stake when I pick up milk at the store. Isn’t that what it means to be a Lead?” She couldn’t say the word without the coating of sarcasm, it just wasn’t possible.

Borden shrugged. “Yeah, that’s true. But this isn’t about you. Not this time. This guy’s got a wife and kids, and I’d rather not see this—happen.”

“So this is you. Begging me for a favor.”

She saw a tensed jaw muscle flutter. “Not exactly.”

“Well, this is me, walking away.”

“Fine. I’m still not begging. I’m asking, Jazz.”

She stared at him for a long few seconds, and then reached out and grabbed the envelope from his hand. She weighed it for a second, then yanked it open with unnecessary force. Wasn’t like it was resisting arrest, after all.

Inside were the details on the daily routine of a middle-aged man named Lowell Santoro, film producer. Pictures of a tired-looking guy with male-pattern baldness chatting on a cell phone. The letter—on official Gabriel, Pike & Laskins stationery, signed by Milo himself—contained instructions to shadow Santoro for three days, starting tomorrow. Audio and video surveillance.

She focused on the address provided as her starting point.

“You’re kidding me,” she said, and looked over the top of the letter at Borden. “Los Angeles? You want me to fly to L.A. to shadow this guy? No way.”

“It’s important.”

“Yeah, so you’ve said, and no, I’m not going. I’ve got things to do. I’ve seen the TV shows. They have private detectives in L.A.”

“We want you,” Borden said, which was nice but stupid. Not cost-effective.

“Sorry,” Jazz said, and slid everything back into the envelope. “The answer’s still no.” She tried to give it back. Borden showed absolutely zero willingness to take it from her. She rattled it impatiently.

He just looked at her.

“I’m serious,” she said. “I’ve got things to do. I’m not going to L.A. Not now. Next week, maybe.”

“It has to be now. Today.”

“It’s not going to happen.” She thought about the photos, sitting on the desk. The tantalizing thought of a lead, an actual honest-to-God lead after all this time. A chance to throw proof on McCarthy’s lawyer’s desk and demand action. A chance to sit in the courtroom and see Stewart’s face as Ben McCarthy became a free man.

A chance to see Ben smile again.

Borden must have seen it in her eyes. “You’re not going to do it.”

“No,” she said, and instead of coming out cold, the way she’d intended, it sounded regretful. “No, I’m not.”

“You’re going to let a man die.”

She didn’t have an answer to that, except to say, “If what you guys said in that car was right, there are other people out there. Other people who can stop it. It doesn’t have to be me.”

“You know what, Jazz? Sometimes, it does.” He didn’t sound angry, just sad. Sad, and a little lost. “Sometimes there just isn’t anybody else to step up and do what has to be done. You should know that.”

She didn’t say anything at all to that. Borden shook his head.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll get you copies of the autopsy photos. Maybe you can put them in your scrapbook.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Yeah? You know what? None of this is fair!” He shouted it at her, and for a second she saw something flare, something hot and wild and desperate, and it jumped across to her like ignition through a wire. “This is my friend! Do you understand me? My friend! So yeah, you want me to beg? I’m begging! Please, Jazz. Please help me save his life!”

She swallowed and came a step closer to him. His pulse was beating fast along the matte-velvet skin of his throat, and his lips were parted. He looked on the edge of doing something…dangerous.

“If you don’t go,” he said softly, “I will.”

“What does your boss say about that?”

“That I won’t come back.”

“But I will.”

He nodded slightly.

“So it’s not really just your friend I’d be saving,” she said. “Right?”

No answer. He didn’t move, didn’t speak.

“That’s a hell of a blackmail, Counselor. And it only works if I believe even a fraction of the bullshit the Cross Society is peddling.”

“Then don’t believe it,” he said. “Go on with your important case. I can’t stop you.”

He started for the door, then came back and grabbed his fruit basket.

She watched in disbelief as he stalked out the door, handed the basket to Pansy, whose lips parted in a silent O of amazement, and kept going, heading for the elevators.

Jazz caught up to him at the reception desk. “Hey! Counselor!”

He stiff-armed through the glass doors and into the elevator lobby, where he hit the button twice before stopping. He didn’t look at her.

“Borden,” she said, and then, half-desperately, “James.”