As the door closed, the roar of morning traffic vanished, replaced by the murmur of calypso jazz, so soft I had to strain to recognize it. Gone too were the exhaust fumes, making way for the stench of stale smoke.

“Cigar,” the man said, catching my nose wrinkling. “Cuban, though the expense doesn’t make the smell any better. I requested a nonsmoking vehicle, but with high-end rentals, people think if they pay enough, they can do as they please.”

Benicio Cortez. He bore little resemblance to the one Cortez I knew-his youngest son, Lucas. Benicio was at least sixty, probably no more than five eight, broad-faced and stocky. Only his eyes reminded me of his son-nice eyes, big and dark. The kind of guy you’d let hold your purse or take your son into the bathroom. Bet that came in handy when he was telling you he understood why you didn’t want to sell your three-generation family business…while text-messaging a fire half-demon to torch the place before you got back from lunch.

“Do you mind if we drive?” he said. “If we sit here much longer, I’ll be arguing my way out of a sizable ticket.”

I was sure Benicio Cortez had more than enough cash in his wallet to pay for any ticket. I could say no supernatural likes drawing undue attention to himself, but I suspected he was testing my nerve…and maybe my naiveté, seeing whether I’d let him take me on a ride to parts unknown.

I said, “If you turn left at the lights, you’ll hit construction, so you can make a very slow trip around the block.”

“Perfect. Thank you.”

A press of the button and the divider buzzed down. As he conveyed my directions to the driver, the passenger door opened and Troy climbed in, leaving the other guard behind, as if protecting his boss’s idling spot.