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Lucia took a picture.

Pink Cardigan grabbed a box—it appeared to be fairly heavy—and went around to the back of the black van. She opened the rear doors and slid the box inside.

Click.

Box number two. Same drill.

“Why isn’t the driver helping?” Jazz wondered. “They’d be done in half the time. He’s a little obvious sitting there idling the engine.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to be seen,” Lucia said. Which was logical, and Jazz wished she hadn’t opened her mouth. She sucked on diet cola and glanced at the side mirrors again. Nothing sinister going on anywhere that she could see.

Pink Cardigan went back for the third box.Click.“Watch out for lens flash,” Jazz said.

Lucia threw her an irritated look. “I’m not a novice,” she said. “Relax.”

That really wasn’t possible, because this was feeling reallywrong.Not that there was anything obviously strange going on … another bright shiny day in suburbia … but Jazz felt tension creeping up her spine and into her shoulders.

Pink Cardigan was getting red in the face, hauling boxes. She was working on the fifth one now, looking harassed. If what she was doing was illegal, she was pretty unconcerned about it. Of course, that was the secret to getting away with it, not being furtive. Still, this was a littletooblatant, wasn’t it? Out in the open, at her own house, personally loading up the shiny black obvious van?

Didn’t make sense.

Click.Lucia ran off another photo. Jazz was willing to bet they all looked pretty much the same.

“What are we looking at?” Jazz asked.

“Good question,” Lucia answered. “I have no idea. She’s a neat person, conservative dresser—I’d put the out-fit she’s got on at high-end department store—and there aren’t any markings on the boxes. Plain brown cardboard and tape. Everything sealed up, like for shipping. I don’t know.”

“Drugs?”

“Not like any drug shipment I’ve ever seen. Way too obvious. And look at the number of boxes stacked in there. She’d be a Colombian drug lord, with that inventory. And the lack of security …”

Jazz’s cell phone rang, caller unknown. When she answered, it was Manny.

“Jazz,” he blurted before she could say a word. “That picture? Her name’s Sally Collins. She’s a single mother, one daughter, Julia, fourteen. No criminal record, not even a speeding ticket in the last ten years. Normal debts. She co-owns a ceramics shop.”

“Thanks, Manny …” He’d already hung up.

She relayed the information to Lucia.

“Ceramics,” Lucia said. “Could be what’s in the boxes.”

“Ceramics with drugs?”

“It’s a stretch,” Lucia admitted.

“Yeah.” Jazz chewed her lip. “So what do we do?”

“Take pictures,” Lucia answered; “Until it’s done.”

Pragmatic, but not satisfying. Jazz sipped cola and scanned the mirrors again. Still, all quiet on the neighborhood front. It was positively Mayberry out there.

Pink Cardigan carried a total of ten boxes out. When she had the tenth one stacked in the van to her satisfaction, she closed the rear doors and walked around to the driver’s side again. A short conversation ensued.

“Parabolic mike,” Lucia said softly.

“On the shopping fist,” Jazz agreed. “We definitely need more toys.”

The black van reversed out onto the street. Lucia leaned over, angling for a driver’s side shot, but the windows were tinted and rolled up tight.