The Drafter by Kim Harrison Page B

everything he’d need.
    â€œGive it back,” Matt demanded, afraid to force the issue.
    â€œSoon as I’m done with it.” From outside, a car door slammed, then another. The flickering vid screen at the front showed a long black car and a tall woman in formal cocktail dress striding forward, flanked by her driver. Beyond the car was the river and one of Detroit’s casinos, looking dead in the low sun. “Someone’s at the door,” he said, and Matt spun at the sudden hammering.
    â€œDragon lady,” the tech whispered. Face reddening, Matt shoved off the counter to send his rolling chair to the front of the van.
    The driver hammered again, and Matt punched in the code tounlock the door. 31415. Pi , Silas thought, moving Matt’s pad to the duffel bag and hiding it under the sweats. How original .
    The door swung open, and Silas breathed in the cold fresh air coming off the river in relief. Diamond- and ruby-strewn, Fran stepped up and in, her six-inch heels making her more formidable than usual. A white fur shawl was draped over her shoulders and she reeked of perfume. “Stay,” she said, pushing her driver back onto the pavement with a white-gloved hand before shutting the door behind her. “I have five minutes. Impress me.”
    â€œMrs. Jacquard, come in!” Matt said, already standing and shoving his rolling chair out of the way. “Welcome to Reed recovery central. Completely mobile, and ready to go.”
    And as conspicuous as a dog in a cat show , Silas mused. Wrapping the surveillance van in a furniture logo only worked during business hours. Even here at the docks, the homeless had been avoiding them.
    Fran’s nose wrinkled. “Why are we still using these? Couldn’t we have gotten you a real trailer?”
    â€œYes, ma’am.” Matt lurched backward as she came deeper into the van. Silas got to his feet, impelled by ingrained manners, not respect. “But I know where everything is,” Matt added. “All the information feeds into here, and from here, I can direct everyone’s movement.”
    Eyebrows high, Fran looked at Silas, chuckling at his obvious annoyance. “Right.”
    â€œA small ship turns fast,” Matt tried again, starting to sweat.
    And it sinks faster, too , Silas thought, sitting down before Fran could take the chair.
    â€œIt has an air conditioner, doesn’t it?” she said, looking around. “Turn it on. And straighten your tie. We pay you enough to look better than a university reprobate.”
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    Matt fumbled his way to the front and Silas pushed his cuticles back, ignoring Fran. He didn’t like her. He didn’t like Detroit. There was too much steel, in the people as well as the streets. The new layer of green wasn’t fooling him. Detroit was a hard, unforgiving mistress.
    â€œSo how is our man?” Fran asked, her voice dry as she realized thatthe only other place to sit was Matt’s rolling chair, sticky with electrical tape.
    â€œAhh . . .” Flustered, Matt finished tightening his tie and reached for a printout. “He’s fair with a gun, okay with hand-to-hand simply due to his size.” He chuckled in dismay and shook his head. “Good with electronics, though. Mrs. Jacquard, I’ve got better—”
    Matt jumped when Fran snatched the printout, then gasped when she dropped it into the shredder.
    â€œI meant,” she said as it roared into silence, “does he have his equipment? Is he ready to go? Reed is meeting Bill at that drafter bar in less than six hours.”
    Silas loosened his tie and slouched in his chair—daring her to say anything.
    â€œAh, no,” Matt said, eyes flicking between them. “He keeps taking my equipment out of his duffel.”
    â€œI’m so surprised,” Fran mused, clearly not, and Silas grinned insincerely at her.
    â€œMy way, or no way,”