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“Sure.” This was moving a little fast, but hell, Jazz’s schedule for tomorrow had mostly been devoted to sobering up from tonight. “Call me with the flight number.”

“Jazz,” Lucia said. “You hate Jasmine, right?”

“Wouldn’t you? Fucking Disney movies.”

Lucia laughed and hung up without saying goodbye.

Jazz clipped the cell phone back on her belt and walked the rest of the way to her apartment in silence, thinking.

Then she wrote her brother a letter.

Just in case.

The call came at seven-thirty the next morning. Jazz was already up, showered and dressed, making her shaggy hair look a little less like a mop and more like an actual style. In honor of Lawyer Borden, she’d used hair gel. She’d chosen a plain brown shirt, blue jeans, and her ubiquitous cop shoes, deliberately unimpressive but clean and neat. ID and the red envelope in her purse, along with paperwork that showed she’d been a decorated Kansas City police detective, until six months ago.

She’d included the paperwork about the retirement, too, but she figured that if Garza was anything like she sounded, she’d already have the full story from three credible sources.

At the first chirp of the cell phone, Jazz picked it up and said, “Garza?”

“Holá,” the other woman responded. She didn’t sound awake. “It’s early.”

“And here I figured you for a morning person.”

“Not even close. Look, my plane’s landing at ten-thirty. Meet you at baggage claim, right?”

“Flight number?” Jazz wrote it down, clicked the on-off switch on the pen nervously, and then said, “How will I recognize you?”

“I’ll be the one standing on one leg, singing ‘The Star Spangled Banner,’” Lucia said grumpily. “We’re cops, right? We’ve got to have a sign?”

True enough.

Jazz put out food for Mooch the Cat, petted her on the way out the door, and went to bail the car out of the parking prison where she stored it.

The drive out to Kansas City International was about fifteen miles, but it took longer, of course; traffic on Broadway, then on I-29. Jazz hated driving. Other drivers made her crazy. McCarthy had always gotten behind the wheel when they’d gone on calls, picked her up at her apartment, navigated the streets with casual ease and no sign at all of irritation. When she’d been forced to do it, she’d been a snarling bundle of nerves, arrived at crime scenes angry and wired. It had been a job for McCarthy to calm her down …

She flicked the thought of Ben out of her head, hit the turn signal, and exited for MCI. Parking was a nightmare, of course. She hated that, too. And parking garages. She ended up taking a distant spot, because she damn sure wasn’t cruising the lot for anything closer. The walk would help her calm down, anyway; she didn’t want to meet Lucia Garza looking sweaty and wild-eyed.

She checked her watch. Ten-thirty on the dot. A couple of jets were coming in for landings; unless there had been a miracle and the plane was early, she should be right on time.

Jazz followed the signs to baggage claim. She arrived at ten-forty, just as the flight number flashed on the screen and one of the carousels began to clunk out luggage to a growing crowd of travelers.

She scanned the group without focusing on anyone in particular. Nobody stood out.

No. Someone did. Jazz fixed on a woman who was standing very still, watching luggage bump its way around the segmented track. Her arms were crossed, and she was leaning against a pillar. There was a single black laptop bag over her shoulder and a black ripstop nylon backpack between her feet.

Jazz’s cop brain relentlessly photographed her, chronicling long dark hair, glossy and straight; a model’s golden, flawless skin. She was tall, long-legged, and dressed in what looked like a designer black pantsuit with a close-fitting white shirt under the coat.

As Jazz watched her, the woman’s head turned, and her dark eyes fastened on Jazz. The same merciless evaluation, fast and accurate. Jazz wondered what the final catalog entry had been, but then Lucia pushed off and walked confidently through the crowd.

They both stopped, regarded each other for a few seconds, and then Lucia extended her hand. No rings on her fingers. Short, well-maintained French-manicured fingernails with plain gloss polish. Jazz felt like a clumsy lump of dough next to her, but she held eye contact as she shook, feeling strength in the grip but no challenge.

“Hey,” Lucia said simply.

“Hey,” she replied. They both stepped back and considered each other for moment, and then Lucia smiled. It was a cop’s smile—cynical, secretly amused, as familiar to Jazz as breathing.

“Nice to meet you,” Lucia said. “Let’s find a place to talk.”

They settled in some bright orange battered preformed chairs at the rear of baggage claim, out of the way of the loitering travelers. Lucia crossed her legs, rested an arm on the back of an empty seat and kept scanning the crowd. She looked casual and elegant, and very alert.