Page 7 of Devil's Due

He stared at Lucia for so long that she felt uncomfortable. Whatever was going on in his head, none of it was showing in his face.

“Yeah,” he finally said. “I know. And you’re right. I’m a son of a bitch.”

“Have you changed? Has prison reformed you?”

He gave her a small, cynical smile. “Doesn’t it reform everybody?”

Outside, the day was cool and clear, the sky a pale, sun-bleached blue. Lucia took in a deep breath to catch the scent of damp earth and green growing things. She missed that, living in the city. Hadn’t been out to hike and climb for too long now, other than on gritty training ranges. She had the credentials to visit Quantico if she wanted to do so; the woods there would help her get her center again, and she could visit the gun range for an excuse … and God knew, the marines would be more than happy to drive her to the edge of endurance in heavy, sweaty field exercises.

The valet arrived in her silver Lexus, parked and stepped out as she came around to the driver’s side. She was watching McCarthy over the top of the car, but something caught her eye, something …

Something about the valet. Not right. Something …

McCarthy was talking to her. It was noise. Her world had narrowed to the out-of-focus blur of the valet standing there, holding the door for her.

She started to turn her head toward him, and as she did, she saw his hand emerge from his pocket.

A brilliant glint of silver in the morning light.

Fear bolted through her, there and gone, replaced by a deadly smooth calm.Too late. I’m too late.She brought her elbow in, drove her left forearm out in a stiff arc. It hit squarely against his extended arm, and knocked his hand into the door frame.

“Ow!” The valet stepped back, surprised, and what he’d been holding thumped to the ground. A small metal clipboard, with a receipt stuck under its holder. “Jeez, lady. Chill. I was just getting a signature. New policy.”

She felt herself blush as the adrenaline chased out of her system, leaving a thick aftertaste of embarrassment. She apologized as she retrieved the clipboard and signed on the line next to her tag number. She slid a twenty dollar bill under the clip holder. The valet’s attitude improved considerably.

In the silence of the car, McCarthy kept studiously quiet about it. She put the car in gear and pulled out, around the circular drive and back onto the street.

“So,” he said slowly. “About that bodyguard job.”

She glanced at him. At the ill-fitting sport coat, the prison-styled hair, the shirt and shoes so cheap they were the next thing to disposable.

“I’ve already got a bodyguard,” she said. “However, I could use another good investigator. Under one condition. You let me make you look presentable. I wouldn’t want you giving a bad impression to our clients.”

“Deducted from my wages. Like a uniform.”

“If you insist.”

“I do.”

“Then yes, deducted from your wages.”

“Yeah. Okay.” He eyed her mistrustfully. “When?”

“Now.” She thought for a few seconds, mentally measuring him. “Thirty-two regular, I think,” she murmured. “Italian cut. French collar and cuffs. How do you feel about Magnanni?”

“Am I supposed to know what that is?”

“No. Shoe size?”

“Ten.”

“Fine. One other thing.”

“I knew you were getting to it.”

“I’m taking you for a haircut.”

“Do I get to pick the barber?”

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