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***
As we walked from the clinic, I noticed a balding man across the road on a bench, reading the
newspaper. As we headed down the road, he watched us over his paper. Nothing unusual about that I'm
sure Jaime got more than her share of lingering looks. When we'd gone half a block, though, I happened to
glance over my shoulder and saw the man strolling on the other side of the road, keeping pace with us thirty
feet or so behind. When we turned the corner, he did the same. I mentioned it to Jaime.
She glanced back at the guy. "Yeah, I get that sometimes, usually from guys who look like that.
They recognize me, hang around a bit, work up the courage to say something. There was a time, I'd have
killed for the attention. Now, some days, it's just " She shrugged off the sentence.
"More than you bargained for."
She nodded. "That's the bitch of celebrity. You spend years chasing it, dreaming of it, starving for
it. Then it happens and the next thing you know, you hear yourself whining about the lack of privacy and
you think, 'You ungrateful bitch. You got what you wanted, and you're still not happy.' That's where the
therapists come in. Either that or you self-medicate your way into Betty Ford."
"I can imagine."
Her gaze flicked toward me and she nodded. We walked in silence for a minute, then she checked
over her shoulder.
"Let's, uh, skip the Cuban place, if you don't mind," she said. "We'll drive someplace else, lose the
admirer."
"Sure. Does this happen a lot?"
"Is three or four times a week a lot?"
"Are you serious?"
She nodded. "Now, I have to admit, most aren't middle-aged admirers, just folks who want me to
contact someone for them. I don't do private consultations, but people don't believe me. They think they just
aren't offering enough money. There was this woman once, a friend of Nancy Reagan's. You remember
Nancy . . . or are you too young for that?"
"She had a thing for psychics." I'd read this somewhere, having been in preschool during the
Reagan administration, but I doubted Jaime would appreciate a reminder of our age difference.
"Well, Nancy had this friend Is this where we're parked?"
"Next lot."
"Jesus, my memory lately . . . I swear, the holes are getting bigger."
We walked into the parking lot. Though it was midday, tall buildings surrounded the tiny strip of
land, wrapping it in shadow.
"What? Buggers too cheap for hydro?" Jaime said, squinting into the half-filled lot. "Hey, our city
has only the second-highest crime rate in the nation. When we hit number one, we'll celebrate by springing
for security lights."
"I'd cast a light spell," I murmured. "But I hear footsteps."
As Jaime shoulder-checked, a car door slammed. We both jumped.
"I didn't see a car turn in here, did you?" I said.
She shook her head. I glanced around, but saw no one.
"Let's just " Jaime began.
The slam of a second door cut her off. She followed the noise and swore under her breath.
"Walk fast and don't look," she whispered. "Two very big guys bearing down fast."
"How big?"
"Huge."
I stopped and turned around. "Hey, Troy."
Troy lifted his sunglasses onto his head. "Hey, Paige. Morris, this is Paige."
The temp bodyguard was the same one who'd been at the courthouse yesterday. He was several
inches shorter than Troy, broader in the shoulders, and black, which ruined the whole bookend-bodyguard
effect. Morris did, however, share Griffin's stone-faced demeanor, responding to the introduction with a nod
so abrupt I thought it might be a hiccup.
Across the lot, our middle-aged stalker headed for a Mercedes. Troy lifted a hand in greeting. The
man waved back, confirming what I'd only just suspected, that he was a Cabal employee sent to follow not
Jaime, but me.
I completed the introductions by identifying Jaime. Troy smiled and shook her hand.
"The celebrity necro," he said. "Pleased to meet you."
"Uh, thanks," Jaime said, surreptitiously tucking in the back of her T-shirt. "So I'm guessing you
guys are Cabal security?"
"Benicio's bodyguards," I said. "And I'm guessing the boss is in the SUV waiting for me."
"Yeah, different city, same plan. I told you, he likes routine."
"Benicio Cortez? Here?" Jaime glanced at the Cadillac SUV. "Oh, shit."
"It's more like 'aww, shit,'" I said. "Now comes the boring part. I have to send Troy back to say I
want Benicio to come here, then he'll insist I come there, and poor Troy will get his daily dose of jogging
running between us."
Troy grinned. "True, but the good part is that it's definitely not routine. Most times, when I say Mr.
Cortez wants to speak to someone, they trip over me running to get to him."
"It's getting late, so let me make this easy on you. Wait here and I'll see what he wants."
I walked to the SUV, tapped the rear window, and motioned for the driver to lower it. Instead,
Benicio opened the door.
"Come around the other side and get in please, Paige."
"No, thanks." I held the door open and stepped into the gap. "Let me guess: The clinic called you
when I showed up, then you had one of your security guys hang around outside and follow me when I left."
"I wanted to speak "
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