Jazz crawled to him, yanked him forward and zip-tied his hands behind him before letting herself collapse to a weak sitting position on the steps. The place looked like a war zone. She dabbed cautiously at her face and sniffed. Yep, she had a nosebleed, too, not to mention a split lip and a ringing bell of a headache. Her side felt tight, protesting the action. One of her knees registered as hot and uncomfortable.
Not bad, considering. Not bad at all. She’d had worse after an interesting night of barhopping.
She patted down California Guy and came up with no ID at all—not even a bus pass—but a fat wad of cash and a letter.
She paused as she slid it out of his pocket, staring, because it looked…familiar.
Big red envelope. Like a Hallmark card.
She didn’t have a proper evidence kit—hadn’t thought she’d need it—but this was no coincidence. Killers didn’t stroll around with birthday cards for their girlfriends in their jackets. She tucked it into her windbreaker just as she heard sirens echoing up the stairwell. Heavy treads on the steps, coming up.
“Victim’s on the third-floor landing,” she called down. “The perp is up here. He’s secured.”
They came carefully, not taking her word for it. She sat against the wall, hands up, as two uniformed officers rounded the blind corner with guns leveled. When they were sure the situation was under control, she got searched. The baton got confiscated, along with the camera and cell phone.
California Guy was still out cold, bleeding all over the concrete. “Jeez,” the bigger, older cop said, bending over him. “I thought you looked like you’d had a rough time, but this guy needs a plastic surgeon. Good thing he’s in L.A. We’ve got more of them than gas stations.”
The atmosphere got more congenial, when her bona fides were vetted. Ex-cops got a little more respect than bloody-faced regular citizens armed with batons, although the out-of-town private investigator status didn’t necessarily win points. She went through statements to the uniforms, then another round with a blank-faced detective who didn’t seem to be listening but probably was, and a third time to another detective who focused on her like he planned to marry her later. By that time, the aches were kicking in. She’d washed the blood off, but desperately needed a nap and coffee, in that order. Her cell phone kept ringing. That was probably Borden, checking in and getting worried because there was no answer.
“Look,” Jazz pointed out the fourth time it rang, “if you don’t want to have the FBI down here poking around looking for me, you might want to let me answer it. I’m not operating in a vacuum. I have a partner, and I have a lawyer.”
Whatever they thought of that, they let her have the cell phone, and when she answered, sure enough, it was James Borden on the other end of the phone.
But what he said wasn’t what she’d expected.
“He has an envelope,” he said. No preamble. “Get it. Don’t let it out of your sight.”
“Oh, hey,” she said with grim cheer. “Yeah, I’m fine, by the way, thanks for asking. Your friend’s in the hospital. I don’t know much about him, but he was still breathing when they carted him away.”
“I know,” he shot back. “But you have to keep hold of that envelope, do you understand? Don’t let it out of your sight.”
The cops had taken it but hadn’t evidenced much interest in it. She’d said it was a card for her niece; they’d returned it without comment. It was currently a thick square reminder poking a corner into her ribs under the jacket.
“Yeah,” she replied. “Thanks for the advice. Any ideas about who my dance partner was today?”
“He doesn’t matter.”
“You know what? He did to me. And I’ll bet he did to Santoro, too.”
One of the cops got called from the room for a whispered conversation at the door, nodded, and came back. Jazz’s eyes tracked him, watching body language. She didn’t much care for the change. He was boring a hole in her with his stare. She hunched her shoulders a bit as she paced the small, dingy room. It was a standard interrogation room—a battered industrial table, some sturdy chairs, a camera in the corner and an observation window.
“I’m coming to get you,” he said. “I should be there in a couple of hours.”
She swallowed a sudden surge of relief, and said, “I’m sorry. Sorry for all of this.”
Another hesitation from him. “You tried.”
“I said I wouldn’t let anything happen to him.”
“You saved his life.”
That was it. No hearts and flowers, not even a fruit basket, just a quick disconnection. She stared at the cell phone for a second, then shrugged and handed it back to the hard-eyed detective, who—from the way he was watching her—must have talked to somebody back in K.C. with a less-than-glowing opinion of her. Probably Stewart. Somebody who’d filled his head full of crap about corruption and murder and drug running, probably. And cited Ben’s trial to back it up.
“Who was that?” the cop asked, weighing the phone in his hand.
“Wrong number,” she said, and smiled as brilliantly as she could, under the circumstances.
It didn’t get more pleasant as the day went on. She got another phone call, this one from Lucia, who was coldly furious and torn between kicking LAPD ass or Cross Society hiney. That felt oddly bracing. Jazz had quite a time convincing Lucia not to come flying to the coast, and in the end had only succeeded because Borden was already on his way and Lucia was convinced she was about to break the industrial espionage case within the day.
Toward the end of the day the cops finally informed her that Lowell Santoro was resting comfortably. He wouldn’t be giving any speeches soon, but he’d narrowly avoided a fractured hyoid bone and a nasty death. His trachea was seriously bruised but intact.
She’d saved someone. She’d actually, finally, saved someone.
Not that you’d know it from the continuing barrage of questions from two increasingly unfriendly LAPD detectives named Weston and Cammarata. Weston was thin and dressed in old, unfashionable suits; Cammarata was more the dress-slacks, snappy-tie, crisp-white-shirt type. He could have walked the halls of corporate zombiedom and looked utterly in place, if he’d taken off that clip-on badge from his belt and stuck a business ID in its place.
Of the two, she found she preferred Weston, who was at least honest in his dislike. Cammarata kept trying to make her think he liked her. She kept reiterating facts to them, stubbornly refused to reveal who’d hired her, and finally reverted to the old standard, “I’ll wait until my lawyer gets here.”
Borden arrived looking, well, like a lawyer. A damn fine one, too. Navy blue tailored suit, crisp off-white shirt, power tie, shiny shoes, a briefcase that looked expensive and was probably worth twice whatever she would guess. He looked L.A. spiffy, in a New York kind of way.
And he had her out of the police station in forty-five minutes, which she figured had to be a new world record for intimidation in a town that had more or less invented the fast-talking lawyer.
“So,” she said as he walked her down the steps to a waiting black chauffeured car, “you don’t do criminal cases. Because you seemed to do that all right, Counselor.”
“Shut up,” he said darkly. She could already tell he was in a towering bad mood, which was weird, because after all, she’d saved his friend. Weird, starting on annoying.
“Is that legal advice?”
He firmly directed her into the car—backseat—and walked around to climb in the other side. He’d gotten another limo for a reason, she saw—better leg room. Not so critical for her, but his knees were an absurdly long distance from his hips.
He flicked the locks, engaged the privacy screen between them and the driver—evidently not a Cross Society insider—and without looking at her said, “You could have called the police instead of going in.”