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“I won’t go in. Taxi service only.”

Not much choice, really. Jazz nodded and levered herself out of her chair with only a small wince. She limped to her gun safe and got out her backup piece—a snubnosed .38—and attached the clip-on holster to her belt. The cops had confiscated her main gun, of course, along with Lucia’s. She hadn’t asked where Lucia’s backup piece had come from. Probably wouldn’t be wise to ask too many questions.

The cloak-and-dagger show proceeded slowly; Jazz retrieved the new phone number from the dead drop and spent thirty minutes convincing Manny to let her leave the photo in the same spot. He wanted to switch locations, too, all the way across town. She was more than a little out of the mood to coddle his paranoia. She was the one who’d been shot, after all.

Which did nothing to calm him down, of course. But she got him to agree to send a courier for the photo. He could dead-drop it all over town if he wanted. She had a job to do.

That was a nice change, she decided. And if she hadn’t been, well, shot, she’d have probably proposed a drink in celebration.

Just as well, all things considered, that the bars weren’t open, and painkillers didn’t go down well with alcohol.

And that having Lucia along lessened the desire to screw up her life any further.

An hour later, they were parked on a suburban street, eating food from a paper bag marked with a logo, and sipping diet drinks. Jazz hurt all over but didn’t complain about it. Lucia kept the radio on, tuned to a classic rock station, and they sat in comfortable silence watching the nondescript tract home with its pale brick and black shutters and closed garage door.

“What if she loads it in the garage?” Jazz asked. Lucia shrugged. “Do we still get paid?”

“I think we’d better take pictures anyway,” Lucia said, and proceeded to click the shutter. The camera was sleek, digital, and right out of the box. The battery was charging off a car adapter. Lucia checked the time code on the photo and said, “We’re right on time, according to the letter.”

Jazz nodded and took a bite of her hamburger. “Hey, if I fall asleep from the adrenaline, scream if there’s anything interesting.”

The day was still bright, although sunset would be coming on within the next hour; Jazz chewed mostly tasteless food and wondered if the silver plane threading the clear blue sky was carrying Borden back to New York. Lucia snapped pictures at some military interval known only to her own internal stopwatch. Cars drove by, some slow, some faster. None of them seemed interested in the house they were focusing on.

“We look suspicious,” Jazz said.

“Stakeouts do,” Lucia agreed. “And I’d suggest we get out and jog around, but neither of us is dressed for it and I don’t think that was what the doctor had in mind for you when he said light exercise. If you think sitting in a car looks suspicious, keeling over and bleeding profusely attracts even more attention.”

Jazz grunted around a mouthful of French fries. “Probably,” she agreed.

“I know it’s not necessary to say this, but if something goes wrong, you’re going to let me handle it, right? You’re not going to decide to kickbox a dozen ninjas and die on me?”

“Ninjas? Let me see the file.”

“Funny.” The light tone left Lucia’s voice. “I mean it. Don’t do anything to jeopardize yourself. You shouldn’t even be here, much less be exerting yourself.”

“Listen, at this rate, I’m more likely to die of cholesterol overload than a bullet.”

“Let’s keep it that way … heads up.”

A black van—cargo, not mini—turned the corner behind them and proceeded slowly up the block. Jazz felt a sudden flicker of something. Instinct, maybe. She dropped the rest of the fries into the bag, tossed it into the backseat, and made sure she could get to her gun.

Lucia snapped some pictures and watched the van glide up the street. Most of the houses were vacant of cars or people—it was a working-class neighborhood, largely deserted during the day—but there were kids out playing three yards down.

No sign of life from the house they’d been assigned to watch.

The van slowed, turned and bumped up into the drive-way.

“I think we’re officially on duty,” Lucia said unnecessarily. “Think she’s going to load it up?” _

The front door of the house swung open, and Pink Cardigan came out. It probably wasn’t fair to call her that, as the pink cardigan wasn’t in evidence today—there was a brown pullover sweater and khaki slacks, instead. Lucia snapped off a photo as the woman walked toward the driver’s side of the van. From their perspective, the driver was hidden.

“We should have parked up there for a decent shot of the driver,” Jazz noted, nodding about twenty feet ahead. Lucia didn’t respond. She was focused on the van, the woman. Snapping multiple photos of the license plate. Jazz left her to it and checked the side mirrors again. The kids were still galumping around in the yard a few doors down, spraying each other with water hoses. Nothing seemed to have changed.

Pink Cardigan went back into the house, and after a few minutes, the garage door rattled up.

“Uh-oh,” Jazz said. “That’s it. They’re going to pull it inside.”

But there wasn’t any room. The garage was packed full of boxes, and a small silver Nissan was squeezed into the remaining space.