"This thing's broken," Jazz said mutinously, staring at the high-tech coffeemaker. Jazz preferred one-button models. Lucia was reasonably certain that hers could navigate a spacecraft to Mars, if adequately programmed.

"No, it isn't," she said. "It's just temperamental. Jazz, I need you to listen to me for a minute."

Her partner paused in the act of spooning grounds into the filter. "Yeah?"

"Something happened last night."

"McCarthy brought you home." Jazz snapped the filter basket shut and punched buttons. Nothing happened. She slapped the coffeemaker with an open palm, frowning. Lucia sighed, got up and pressed the right button. The machine began a soft chuffing. "Yeah, I know. You can skip the details."

"No. No, Ben—didn't stay. He just saw me home. Something else happened."

"What?"

"I had an unexpected visitor."

That drew Jazz's total attention. "Here? I mean, I know it's not Manny's Fortress of Solitude, but it's got ambassadorial security. Who?"

How could she explain it, exactly? "It was someone I once knew. His name is Gregory Valentin Ivanovich—"

"I remember the name. You saw it in the files about the Cross Society."

Lucia blinked. "What?"

"The first day we were in Borden's office, and you jimmied the lock on his file drawer. Ivanovich's name was on a list of people employed by the Cross Society. You said he was somebody you recognized."

She barely remembered it. Jazz, it seemed, had a rare gift for memory. "Gregory came to warn me that the Cross Society means to set us up. Set you up, I mean. This morning."

Jazz took it with a shocking lack of surprise, and a shrug. "I don't doubt it," she muttered, and came to sit next to Lucia. "I'm not exactly a good little soldier. I mean, come on. Wouldn't they rather have people who follow orders, in something this complicated? You start knowing too much—"

"You start questioning the right and wrong of things. Like we've already done."

"Like Borden does, too." Jazz frowned at the coffee-maker, which didn't really deserve it, since it was doing its job. "That's why you're strapped? Because you think our buddies at the red envelope factory are out to get me?"

"Yes."

"L., I've been assuming that from the very beginning," she said. "Makes no difference if one of your oh-so-mysterious ex-boyfriends shows up to point a spotlight at it."

Lucia smiled wearily. "The only difference is that he was very precise about it being this morning."

"You trust this guy?"

She considered that very carefully. "In certain specifics, yes. And I think he was telling me the truth as he knew it."

Jazz raised her eyebrows. "Huh. That sounds not very convincing." She looked toward the coffeemaker, which had started filling the carafe. "That thing have a sensor so you can take the pot out and it won't pee all over the burner?"

"Yes."

"Figures." Jazz filled two cups and put the carafe back in place. The machine continued its puffing, hissing work. She carried the cups over and handed Lucia one. "Listen to me, okay? I don't care what kind of doomful signs of the apocalypse are on the horizon. You're going into the hospital and you're going to rest. End of story. Now go take off the gun and pack your bag. Consider me forewarned. You know for damn sure I'm always forearmed."

Lucia eyed the time. It was going on 9:00 a.m. now, and Gregory had been quite specific. Morning. Assuming he had been truthful, and that came down to her instincts.

"I'll stay with you until noon," she said. "No negotiations, chica. I mean it. I'm not letting you run around un-chaperoned. Three hours won't make any difference. They can strap me to the bed and give me whatever they want this afternoon."

"Lucia…"

Jazz, she saw, was close to exasperation. Lucia reached across and captured her hand. Jazz's fingers were slack with surprise.

"You shot someone yesterday," Lucia said. "The second man in a few weeks."

Jazz's eyes flew up to meet hers. "What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

"Is that why you're mother-henning me?"

"No, dammit, I'm mother-henning you because you need it! Because you—you did the same thing for me. Remember?"

She did. She remembered Jazz, white around the lips, barely able to move after surgery to remove a bullet, determined to try to go about the business of her life.

She stared at Jazz for long seconds, and then said, "My life is my own, Jazz. As is yours. But please, let me do this one thing before I give up control. All right?"

Jazz swallowed, looked away and nodded. "We keep it to a minimum, then. Far as I'm concerned, we don't do anything that puts either one of us in danger. We can hang out here and watch TV until noon—"

The telephone rang. Jazz's eyes went dark and shadowed, and she grabbed it before Lucia could reach for it. "Yeah," she snapped. Her body language shifted, from resistant to cautiously open. "For me? You're sure? Okay. I'll be right down."

She hung up and looked at Lucia, who frowned. "Down for what?"

"Delivery. FedEx, for me."

"Let's consider the last FedEx I opened, shall we? Carefully."

"It's like the lotto. Can't win if you don't play." Jazz grabbed her jacket and swung it on to hide her shoulder holster. "You stay here. I'll be right back. No fair having ninja fights while I'm gone or anything."

Jazz was gone before she could protest. Lucia, resigned, went to the intercom and buzzed the security desk. "Mr. Tarrant? My friend is on the way down. I want extra attention while she's coming and going, all right? There could be trouble."

"Yes, ma'am," he said. "We'll keep a close eye."

That was all she could do to protect Jazz at the moment. She pulled out a small carry bag and stuffed in sweatpants, underwear, tank tops, comfortable soft things that wouldn't bother her if—as she anticipated—the doctors did indeed tie her down for the duration. The bathroom necessities went into the side pockets, and after a second she put in the collapsible combat baton that Jazz had given her as a partnership gift, and professional-strength pepper spray. She'd have to surrender the offensive weaponry, but…

She heard the front door open and close, and made her way back that direction. Jazz was standing there, frowning.

"You're not gonna like it." Jazz held up the FedEx envelope and removed a red envelope with the air of an actress about to announce an award.

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Yeah, I wish I was. But I checked it out with your little light thingie." Jazz handed it over. "It's to both of us."

It read, IMPERATIVE YOU GO IMMEDIATELY TO THE RAPHAEL WHEN YOU RECEIVE THIS MESSAGE. TAKE MS. GARZA.

"So much for our plan to stay put," Jazz said. "Didn't you stash Susannah Davis there?"

"Yes. But there's no need for us to go. Omar's with her."

They exchanged silent stares, and Jazz nodded. "Call him."

She dialed Omar's cell number. It rang to voice mail. She hung up and dialed the hotel's main desk and was put through to the room.

No answer.

She didn't have to say anything. Jazz's face was grim with understanding.

"You think—" Lucia began.

“I’ in trying not to." Jazz looked down at the paper Lucia was still holding. "I can get Ben to go with me."

"No. If anybody goes with you, it's me. I told you, Ivanovich said there was an explicit threat." Lucia got up, retrieved the UV light and ran it over the message. It was signed, again, by Max Simms. "Simms sent this, not Laskins. You tell me, does he want you alive or dead?"

"Who the hell knows what that creepy guy wants? Look, you're not going. And if you're not going and I'm not going, what are we going to do? Hide here like a couple of rabbits?" Jazz looked fierce, in fighting mode. Razor-edged and glittering with menace. "I don't hide."