Too late, she grimaced at the implied consent in her answer. "Don't bother sending a car. I'll get there myself." Then impulse caught her and she asked, "Tonight?" with as much wide-eyed ingenuity as she could. "You don't think my boss would be okay with me cutting out for a few hours to visit the notorious House of Cards and rub elbows with a gangster?"

"If I'd gotten to him first," Janx said mildly, "I have no doubt it could have been arranged. The situation, I fear, is otherwise, and so I'll see you this evening. Goodbye, Margrit."

"If you'd-what? Dammit !" Margrit glowered at the silent phone, then got to her feet and stomped around the apartment as she finished getting ready for the day.

A Town Car idled on the street, its driver leaning on the hood so he could watch her building's front door. As Margrit exited, he snapped to attention, calling, "Ms. Knight? I'm your transportation."

Margrit looked both ways along the street, as if someone else might appear and answer to her name. "Are you talking to me?"

"Yes, ma'am." He was a few years her elder, far too young to call her ma'am.

Margrit glanced up the street again, a terse smile forming. "I'm sorry. There must be a mistake. Excuse me." She turned and managed a few steps before the driver moved in front of her.

"I'm supposed to give you this if there's a problem, ma'am." He offered a sleek cell phone, so small that his palm dwarfed it. "The number you want is programmed in."

"The number I want," Margrit echoed disbelievingly, and took the phone with dismay curdling her stomach. A glass of orange juice had seemed like a good idea minutes earlier. Now it felt like a bottle of acid had been poured into her belly and left to churn. She pressed the dial button and raised the phone to her ear, wincing preemptively.