CHAPTER ONE

It really was a shame nobody would pay her to kill the skateboard kids.

They were everywhere, the grubby little bastards. To Jeanette, they were all skateboard kids whether they actually rode skateboards or not. In-line skates, those fancy little scooters, bikes, boards … if they were doing stunts and tricks with any of their wheeled toys, they were skateboard kids.

She would have done it happily, too, if there had been any money in it. Not much money, either. A pittance, really. If the city – or maybe a collection taken up by the local business owners – established something like a bounty, five bucks apiece even, it'd be worthwhile. Like they did for rat-catchers in certain third-world nations.

And, tell the truth and shame the devil, she was tempted even without any cash compensation. It'd be a public service. If she had a weapon, something rapid-fire and high-caliber, she could make the world a much better place in a matter of seconds.

That, though, would be messy, noisy, and attract all the wrong sort of attention. Even today's self-absorbed, oblivious pedestrians would be bound to remember a pixie-petite platinum blonde with a machine gun. Not that she'd hit any innocent bystanders. She wouldn't go nuts or anything. She'd choose her targets with the same caution and care as always, and she was naturally a superb shot.

Still, some things generally just were not done by decent people. Shooting up the general population was one of them. The police would insist on getting involved. There would be some witnesses who might feel all civic-minded. It would be a hassle and a risk.

Yet, as she walked out of the Jensen Building in a crowd of business-suited lunch-lemmings, she saw the faces around her tighten in sneers of distaste at the rolling-clattering-whooping adolescent parade that met their eyes.

Maybe she was wrong in thinking they'd turn her in. Maybe they'd give her a round of applause. Hoist her up on their Armani-clad shoulders for a victory lap around Century Plaza. Give her the key to the city.

Wishful thinking.

In its original design conception, Century Plaza had been intended as a financial center, a place of influential movers and shakers. The buildings fronting on it were all towering edifices of the steel-and-glass variety, each trying to outdo its neighbor as a stunning example of modern architecture. The sun bouncing off all those windows turned the structures into glittering pillars of silver, gold, or smoked obsidian. The resulting sun-dazzle was blinding and the ambient temperature felt ten degrees higher than anyplace else in the city.

The Plaza itself, a square block of space closed to vehicle traffic, was an exciting arrangement of multi-level terraces, fountains, staircases, planters and large dynamic abstract sculptures of metal and stone. It would have been the perfect place for all those lunch-lemmings to brown-bag it, or scurry back from one of the surrounding bistros with take-away.

Would have been.

Trouble was, the skateboard kids had discovered Century Plaza almost as soon as it was completed. Never mind that there were no less than four skate parks in the greater downtown area. Skate parks apparently required safety gear like pads and helmets, which made them the domain of the helplessly uncool.

So here they were, caroming around, flipping their boards up onto the marble edges of fountains, leaping down flights of stairs. The ratcheting din of their various wheeled toys was nowhere near enough to drown out their conflicting music. Clearly, they believed in headphones about as much as they believed in helmets.

How they could be so quick and agile in those clothes boggled the mind. Most of them wore pants that looked three sizes too large, sagging and bagging down over enormous Frankenstein shoes. Oversized sports jerseys billowed like sails in a fickle wind, often exposing bare arms covered with homemade ink-pen tattoos of rock band logos or pot leaves.

A machine gun and thirty seconds. That was all she'd need.

Or would a sniper rifle be better? Up from one of the high windows, picking them off one by one.

No … both! That was the ticket.

She could take out a dozen with the sniper rifle before the rest realized that the wipe-outs hadn't been caused by a miscalculated stunt, and then switch to the machine gun and mow the rest down in the panic.

Not at lunchtime, though. During the morning or afternoon hours, the Plaza would be emptier. The only witnesses and bystanders she'd have to worry about would be the dwindling population of smoke-break refugees and the occasional deliveryman.

She was midway down the steps from the Jensen Building when a parent's nightmare on skates plunged through a nearby knot of suits. They scattered, losing their dignity in a tie-flapping, briefcase-waving flurry. The kid – a teenage girl with too much figure packed into too skimpy of an outfit – shrieked wild laughter as she zipped through their midst.

A woman in sober charcoal grey almost took a header into the fountain, whirled, and shouted, "Why aren't you in school?" after the skater-chick.

Applause. Victory lap. Key to the city.

Public service.

Jeanette shook her head and hefted her bag higher on her shoulder. She slid through the crowds like she belonged there. Trim and pretty in a forest-green suit and a cream-colored silk blouse.

Upscale. Competent. Professional.

She was all of those things. In her chosen field. Her chosen field just didn't happen to be law, business, or politics.

Except, in a certain way, it was all of them.

A tall skinny kid with hair dyed the unrealistic orange of Kraft macaroni and cheese shot past on a bike, aiming for one of the sculptures that was unfortunately in the shape of a large sloping crest like a wave. It was as good as an engraved invitation to these people.

The kid went up the curved side, perhaps meaning to do some tricky maneuver at the top, but blew it and crashed in a tangle of handlebars and long, gawky limbs. He lay there, groaning and bleeding from abraded knees and palms.

"Idiot," grumbled a man in a dark suit, giving the newspaper tucked under his arm a satisfied little rattle.

"Pff," another man agreed, with a downward scornful look as he stepped around the boy without slowing.

Jeanette was beginning to believe that she could draw a gun and start plugging the skateboard kids right here and right now. Then, when she was done, she could pass the hat for donations and walk away with enough for a luxury cruise to the Caribbean.

Not that she needed the money. She could be on a flight to Bermuda tomorrow if she wanted. She had a nice house, an emerald-green convertible that still smelled showroom-new, and a television so big that it was like watching the Brobdingnagian Network. If it was only about the money, she could have retired long ago.

It was about … well, about doing a public service, wasn't it? And keeping busy. A career-minded woman had to keep herself busy.

Every now and then, police officers would swing through Century Plaza and encourage the skateboard kids to move along, but in Jeanette's observation, that was about as effective as waving a hand at flies buzzing over a dirty plate. They might disperse momentarily, but they'd be back a moment later as if nothing had ever happened.

What this situation called for was a fly swatter. Or a bug zapper.

She got through the open space without being run down, waited at a corner for the light to change, and checked her watch. Seven past twelve. She had eight minutes, the restaurant was a block up, and so far she didn't suspect anyone was following her. The fine hairs on the nape of her neck were not prickling with unease, and the adrenaline she felt speeding through her veins was the typical excitement of an impending job.

In a few minutes, she'd be seeing Rayburn.

That thought sent a different sort of prickle along the nape of her neck.

"Cool and professional, Jade," she admonished herself under her breath. "You know better."

No one was following. She was sure of it now. She was getting some looks; she got looks all the time. It was unavoidable. Men looked at women. Especially at small, slim, harmless-seeming blondes with soft white-blond hair and big green eyes. But these weren't the wrong sort of looks. Not the "she fell for it; here's our chance to eliminate her" looks, or the "hey, that could be the lady from the police sketch" ones that could lead to a call to any FBI tip line. They weren't thinking looks. Thinking looks were bad.

Fantasizing looks, on the other hand … well, she wasn't overjoyed about the notion that she might be prancing through some sleazy young lawyer's or perverted old banker's daydream, but she could live with it.

The Stag and Hound tried to present itself as an Olde English style pub, with lots of dark wood and fox-hunting prints. The specials included beer-battered fish and chips, bangers-and-mash, and shepherd's pie. The waitresses all wore white blouses, red corsets with black laces, black skirts, and silly little lace-trimmed caps.

Jeanette waited behind a quartet, three men and one woman, who seemed to be together but who were each conducting separate calls on cell phones. When it was her turn, she said, "Table for Dufarge, please."

The hostess picked up a leather-bound menu with a gold tassel dangling down from it, and led her toward the back of the pub. In the bar, where twenty different kinds of ale and lager were available, the TV was turned to a soccer game and the air was low and thick with smoke.

Dufarge. One of Rayburn's jokes, not a particularly funny one. Madame Dufarge had been one of the guillotine-hags of the French Revolution. Off with their heads.

The table was in a booth, tucked in a corner by a window. Jeanette sat down with her back to the wall, under a framed print showing a horse-back mounted hunting party galloping through a foggy meadow. She set her shoulderbag on the windowsill, slipping a hand into it so that she would be ready to switch on her cunning miniature tape recorder.

Paranoia or preparedness … toe-may-toe, toe-mah-toe. Either way, it had kept her alive this long.

And here he came. If she'd thought that she blended in well with the crowd, just another lunch-lemming, Rayburn stood out, and he did it on purpose.

Tall and well-built, he had a full head of black hair just beginning to go silver, a toothpaste-commercial smile, and enough of a resemblance to Pierce Brosnan that he turned heads. He knew it, too, and Jeanette was willing to bet that he made the most of it.

The hostess, who had been properly courteous and efficient when dealing with Jeanette, went all fluttery and girlish as she escorted Rayburn to the booth. She stopped short of 'dropping' his menu and having to bend way down to retrieve it, but her interest couldn't have been more apparent if she'd climbed right into his lap.

Rayburn wore a crisp suit the color of pewter, and had chosen to defy business-attire convention by pairing it not with a red power tie, but an iridescent one that seemed to shift from emerald to sapphire to amethyst depending on how the light struck its glossy fabric. He carried a calfskin briefcase that might have cost as much as a car.

A plain gold band glinted on his left hand. A wedding ring, but he had once mentioned to Jeanette that he was a widower for almost twenty years. He had a grown daughter, an Irish Setter, a skewed sense of humor, and that was about all she knew.

Jeanette took a mental deep breath as she pressed the "Record" button. He was a handsome son of a bitch. There were times when she thought she wouldn't mind climbing right into his lap herself, so she couldn't really blame the hostess. Wouldn't do, though, to mix business with pleasure.

Still, it didn't hurt to enjoy the scenery. Rayburn was much more scenic than Fletcher or Christopher, the other men she primarily dealt with in her association with the Company. Fletcher, a florid, beefy older man, would have fit in with the three-martini crowd. Christopher, younger and too twitchy to last long in this line of work, preferred to arrange meetings in more suburban venues like shopping mall food courts or fast-food places.

The hostess took their drink orders – Guinness for him, hot tea with honey and lemon for her – and left, though not without a backward glance or two.

"The fish and chips are very good here," he said. "Hungry?"

"Yes, all right."

His cobalt-blue eyes crinkled at the corners, showing the perfect degree of maturity and amusement. "How've you been, Jade?"

"Keeping out of trouble."

"You must be getting bored with that by now."

"I might," she said.

"Glad to hear it."

"Don't think that because I'm bored, I'll work cheap," Jeanette said.

"I know you better than that."

How well did he know her? That was the question. How much did they really know, Rayburn and Fletcher and Christopher and their nameless, faceless bosses? They knew how to contact her, and she wouldn't be surprised to learn that they knew where she lived. Had they gone poking into her past? It didn't much matter if they had; all of that was behind her now.

She had no close friends anymore, no relatives, no significant other. Never been married, never had kids. She didn't own a dog, cat, or goldfish. There was no living being that they could use against her if they decided that they wanted to put some pressure on her.

Besides, why would they? She had never crossed them, never let them down, never given them any reason to want to get rid of her. And if they ever decided that they did, well, 'Jade' had a few secrets stored away herself. Insurance. Like nuts for a long winter.

The hostess must have been reluctantly called back to her duties at the front of the pub, because a waitress brought their beverages, recited the specials, and jotted down two orders of fish and chips. She even performed these duties without slobbering all over Rayburn.

When she was gone, Jeanette turned to him with an expectant look. "So, what do you have for me?"

His eyes crinkled again. "Are we talking work, or play?"

"Work," she said, trying to quell an unprofessional flutter.

"Pity." He snapped open the expensive briefcase and took out a thick manila envelope, the kind padded on the inside with a layer of bubble wrap.

To outward appearances, she knew, this would merely seem to be one of two things, either of which were being repeated hundreds of times over in the vicinity of Century Plaza this very instant. Either a legitimate business lunch, or an affair masquerading as a business lunch.

Well, but it was business.

"You'll like this one," Rayburn said, sliding the padded envelope across the table to her. "It's practically an antique, but in beautiful condition."

"Is it loaded?"

**