Devil's Due. Рейчел Кейн
you’re into loading trucks, making French fries or beating up people for a living.” It was said lightly, but she heard the ring of truth. There was a certain grimness in his eyes, the set of his mouth, as he finished his coffee in a long sip. “Okay, the truth. I’ve got a hundred dollars in my pocket right now, my apartment’s long gone and the KCPD wouldn’t have me back even as a janitor. So yeah, I wouldn’t kick a little work to the curb. Bodyguard, investigator, whatever. If you need it.”
“Your job prospects aren’t any worse than for anyone else walking out of jail.”
“Since my job used to be a police officer, yeah, I think they kind of are. Look, I never deserved to be there in the first place. I lost two years of my life to this crap.” He’d gone intense again, head inclined toward her, voice urgent. “I don’t even know where I’m going after breakfast. You know how that feels?”
She did, but it didn’t seem the time to tell him so. “You begin your life again. That’s what people do, Mr. McCarthy. Start over. Reinvent themselves. Become someone new and, hopefully, better.”
“Nothing wrong with who I am right now.”
“Isn’t there?” She raised her eyebrows slowly. “Are you sure?”
She accepted the leather folio containing the check from the waiter. McCarthy gestured for her to hand it over.
“I already said I was paying,” she said. “Remember?”
“That was before you pissed me off. Now I’m paying.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she retorted, and pulled her wallet from her black leather purse. It was specially reinforced to hold her containers of Mace, clips for her gun, a six-inch collapsible truncheon, handcuffs, and—sometimes, but not today—a Taser. “You’ll have a hard enough time without worrying about picking up the check for me.”
“Then I’ll owe you. And pay you back.”
“Without a doubt. This isn’t a date. And I’m not some prison groupie.” Ouch. She really hadn’t meant it to be so harsh.
He was staring at her, hands on the clean white tablecloth. Just … watching. As if he knew that last part had been, in some small measure, a lie. She had found him attractive. And yes, this had been a date, hadn’t it? Unorthodox as that might be …
She handed the folio to the waiter, who whisked it off so quickly his apron fluttered. Probably afraid that Ben McCarthy, who was looking more than a little feral in his cheap coat and ragged haircut, might come after him and wrestle him to the ground for it.
As she watched the waiter go, she said, “Allow me to make some insightful comments about you, Mr. McCarthy—”
“Just Ben,” he interrupted. “This mister-miss crap is getting old.”
“Fine. Ben. You are tough, clever, and you’re probably the single best liar I’ve ever met in all of my life. And I’ve met almost as many as you have.”
Her turn to score a hit; she saw him blink, saw the prison-hard Ben McCarthy waver for a second to reveal someone far less armored.
“Why do you say that?” he asked.
“Because Jazz never believed you were guilty of anything,” she said, “and you were a dirty cop. She’s incredibly sharp, and you had her completely snowed for years. Do you have any idea how much that hurt her, by the way?”
He stared at Lucia for so long that she felt uncomfortable. Whatever was going on in his head, none of it was showing in his face.
“Yeah,” he finally said. “I know. And you’re right. I’m a son of a bitch.”
“Have you changed? Has prison reformed you?”
He gave her a small, cynical smile. “Doesn’t it reform everybody?”
Outside, the day was cool and clear, the sky a pale, sun-bleached blue. Lucia took in a deep breath to catch the scent of damp earth and green growing things. She missed that, living in the city. Hadn’t been out to hike and climb for too long now, other than on gritty training ranges. She had the credentials to visit Quantico if she wanted to do so; the woods there would help her get her center again, and she could visit the gun range for an excuse … and God knew, the marines would be more than happy to drive her to the edge of endurance in heavy, sweaty field exercises.
The valet arrived in her silver Lexus, parked and stepped out as she came around to the driver’s side. She was watching McCarthy over the top of the car, but something caught her eye, something …
Something about the valet. Not right. Something …
McCarthy was talking to her. It was noise. Her world had narrowed to the out-of-focus blur of the valet standing there, holding the door for her.
She started to turn her head toward him, and as she did, she saw his hand emerge from his pocket.
A brilliant glint of silver in the morning light.
Fear bolted through her, there and gone, replaced by a deadly smooth calm. Too late. I’m too late. She brought her elbow in, drove her left forearm out in a stiff arc. It hit squarely against his extended arm, and knocked his hand into the door frame.
“Ow!” The valet stepped back, surprised, and what he’d been holding thumped to the ground. A small metal clipboard, with a receipt stuck under its holder. “Jeez, lady. Chill. I was just getting a signature. New policy.”
She felt herself blush as the adrenaline chased out of her system, leaving a thick aftertaste of embarrassment. She apologized as she retrieved the clipboard and signed on the line next to her tag number. She slid a twenty dollar bill under the clip holder. The valet’s attitude improved considerably.
In the silence of the car, McCarthy kept studiously quiet about it. She put the car in gear and pulled out, around the circular drive and back onto the street.
“So,” he said slowly. “About that bodyguard job.”
She glanced at him. At the ill-fitting sport coat, the prison-styled hair, the shirt and shoes so cheap they were the next thing to disposable.
“I’ve already got a bodyguard,” she said. “However, I could use another good investigator. Under one condition. You let me make you look presentable. I wouldn’t want you giving a bad impression to our clients.”
“Deducted from my wages. Like a uniform.”
“If you insist.”
“I do.”
“Then yes, deducted from your wages.”
“Yeah. Okay.” He eyed her mistrustfully. “When?”
“Now.” She thought for a few seconds, mentally measuring him. “Thirty-two regular, I think,” she murmured. “Italian cut. French collar and cuffs. How do you feel about Magnanni?”
“Am I supposed to know what that is?”
“No. Shoe size?”
“Ten.”
“Fine. One other thing.”
“I knew you were getting to it.”
“I’m taking you for a haircut.”
“Do I get to pick the barber?”
“No. It will be a stylist, and there will be a manicure, and, if you’re not polite, skin treatments.”
He sighed and said, “Pull over. I’m getting out.”
“I don’t think so. We’ve made a deal. Believe me, this works better if you just let it happen.”
“Great,” McCarthy said grimly. “Just like prison, with product.”
His reaction to being marched into Lenora Ellen’s Day Spa was, she thought,