“Wait,” he said. “He’ll call back, or he’ll contact you some other way. Stick to the story. Make sure he believes that you want to deal. He hasn’t got too many moves right now, if he wants ready cash; this guy is too cautious to take it to the street. Fairview Mortuary is a known quantity.”
“He’ll recognize that your goons are
in the parking lot
!”
“They’re contractors, not Pharmadene employees. Even if he’s watching and makes their faces, he can’t trace them back. We’re good.” He gave her a warm smile. “Relax, Bryn. I’m not taking any chances with your safety. I promise.”
That, Bryn reflected, made her feel both better and worse, because she really didn’t want to like Joe Fideli any more than she already did. But as the day went on, as the two of them found reasons to talk, she couldn’t help it. He was just … likable.
The last call came in as she was gathering up her things to leave, and Mr. French let out a mournful whine as he stood at the door. “I know,” she said. “We’re going, I promise. Hang in there.” She picked up the phone. “Fairview Mortuary, Bryn Davis speaking. Can I help you?”
“Maybe.” It was the modulated voice again. “You surprised me last night. I was expecting my usual contact.”
Bryn put down her purse and sank into a chair. Mr. French came over and flopped down onto the carpet beside her, looking depressed but resigned. She hardly noticed when he laid his warm, heavy head over her feet. “Well,” she said, fighting to keep her voice even, “you have to admit, I think you surprised me a little more, what with the gunfire and all. I was just keeping my uncle’s appointment.”
“Your uncle.” She couldn’t tell if he meant that to sound suspicious; the modulation ironed all expression out of his voice. In fact, she wasn’t even sure it
was
a him “You’re telling me you’re related to Lincoln Fairview.”
“Yes. And I inherited his property.”
“Let’s pretend I believe you. How did you know where to meet me?”
“Honestly? I didn’t. My uncle’s car had a nav system. I thought it was probably the warehouse, but it was a guess. He didn’t leave me your contact information.”
“He didn’t have it.”
Bryn waited, but he didn’t say anything more. Still, he hadn’t hung up on her. That was something. “So,” she said. “You were supplying him with … a certain drug. And I’m going to need new stock, obviously. Whatever my uncle had on hand burned up with him, and I’ve got clients. Desperate ones. I need something to sell.”
“I don’t trust you,” he said.
“My clients don’t have a lot of time to wait around for us to develop a relationship.”
“That’s too bad for them. My advice is to recruit new clients. This is going to take some time, and you’re going to show me some goodwill to start or this conversation ends now.”
Bryn’s office door opened, and Joe Fideli stepped in, moving in his usual ninja stealth mode. She pointed at the phone, and he nodded. Luckily, Mr. French had already gotten used to Joe; he raised his head and stared at him, but didn’t bark or even growl. “What kind of goodwill?” she asked.
“You’re going to do a wire transfer of a hundred thousand dollars into an account that I will name in the next call, and you’re going to do it without bargaining.”
“Really,” she said flatly. “What do you take me for, an idiot? You think I’ll just hand over that kind of money for nothing?”
“Not for nothing,” he said. “You’ll hand it over so I don’t put a bullet in your head the next time you go home to that crappy apartment, Bryn, or the next time you go out walking that ugly dog of yours—and I’ll kill the dog for free. A hundred thousand buys you a week for me to look you over and decide whether or not I want to deal. No negotiations. I know Fairview’s coffers are deep.”
Click. She waited, but he was gone.
Bryn hung up the phone and took a deep breath, feeling strangely violated—not so much that he knew so much about her, but that he’d mentioned her dog.
Dogs are off-limits
. “He threatened to shoot me,” she said to Joe. “And my dog.”
“Fucker,” he said, and bent to pat Mr. French, who allowed it with regal indifference. “What does he want?”
“A hundred thousand dollars. I suppose it’s an introduction fee. Black-market deals in Iraq used to be like that—you pay to play.”
“And you know about black-market deals in Iraq how, exactly?”
She smiled grimly. “I was in supply, on the ground, in a war zone. How do you think I know? We couldn’t always get what we needed when we needed it. My job was to get it, period.”
“You’re just full of surprises, kid. Okay, so you pay the hundred thousand, and …?”
“And maybe he’ll come back for more. Or maybe he’ll just shoot me and walk away.”
“Well,” Joe said, “the good news is that if he does, you’ll just ruin a good outfit.”
He was, Bryn thought, always looking for the bright side.
The next morning, she got a modulated voice on the phone, reciting a string of numbers, which she took down and read back. There was no conversation, and no additional threats, by which she understood he wasn’t screwing around. She gave the info to Joe, and he made the transfer using some method she didn’t know about, and didn’t want to know.
She got another call that simply said, “You’re not dead yet.”
Which almost made her laugh, because, hey, she really was.
It took exactly the amount of time Joe had said for the construction work to finish, and during that time, she got no more calls, except from two more of Fairview’s extortion victims; those were quietly spirited away by Pharmadene, but away from Fairview’s premises.
The grand reopening arrived, mostly thanks to Lucy’s hard work; Bryn honestly didn’t know what she would have done without her. Lucy knew absolutely everything about everything, including things Bryn had never imagined would have to be done. Plus, she was a complete sweetheart with inspectors, all of whom went away charmed and delighted with Fairview’s new improved looks.
Bryn had settled into a little bit of a routine—wake up, shower, breakfast, pat Mr. French on the head, drive her new car to Fairview, and get her coffee there. Joe Fideli had morphed into a totally acceptable funeral director, which did not surprise her much; in putting on the dark suit and tie, he’d also put on an air of gravity and seriousness. The only time he dropped it was when they were alone in her office, and even then, he used his little black pyramid device to give them a few moments’ privacy.
“Done,” he said on the morning of the grand reopening, as he emptied the contents of a syringe into her arm. She’d gotten used to choosing blouses that rolled up easily, determined not to have to go half-naked before him, and particularly McCallister, ever again. Fideli disposed of the syringe in a red biohazard sharps container, which he put in a second red biohazard bag. She watched this process, frowning, as she slipped her jacket back on.
“Is the syringe dangerous?”
“Nah, but it’s proprietary. So I try to keep it double-bagged until I can get it back to the mother ship. I’m responsible for every one of these bastards.”
“Have you found Fast Freddy yet?”
“No.” Fideli seemed peeved about it. “He must have had a stash of the drug somewhere, and was able to make it there safely before too much damage was done. Otherwise he’d have shown up by now. People tend to notice shambling, decomposing—” He checked himself and looked at her. “No offense.”
Bryn cleared her suddenly tight throat. “Uh, none taken, I guess. So what do we do now?”
“Same thing you were doing before, while we wait for our mysterious friend to get over his stage fright.”
“I need another trained mortician before I can open for business.”
“Luckily, I already got that covered. You’ve got an appointment in”—he checked his watch—“half an hour. Applicant’s name is Riley Block.”
“But I didn’t even put out an ad yet!”
“Actually, you did. You’re paying pretty well, too. Oh, and you offer medical and dental. Lucy’s already prepared all the paperwork for you.” He stood up and smoothed the creases out of his pants as the front bell sounded. “That’d be your applicant, I guess.”
It was. Lucy bustled in, marched up to Bryn, and gave her a sassy grin and a thick sheaf of paperwork. Bryn took it and tried to smile brightly in return, but she must not have fooled anyone. Lucy gave her a concerned look. “Boss, you look pale. You need to stop working all day and night. You spend too much time inside this place.”
The more she came in contact with real human sympathy, the more isolated Bryn felt. “I’m okay, Lucy. Thank you. I have to say, between you and Joe, you’ve done an amazing job pulling this place together. I really don’t feel like I’ve done anything.”
Lucy smiled. “Well, that’s just nonsense. You pay me to know what I’m doing, and I know more about the death business than anybody you’ll ever meet. I’ve been through
all
the wars.”
“I’d love to hear some of those war stories,” Joe said.
“Why, let me tell you …” And she was off, chattering with Joe about her favorite mortician story, which was not just shocking but downright perverted, and hilarious. Bryn got herself a cup of coffee and left them to it as they walked from her office. She’d decided not to take Mr. Fairview’s palace of a workspace, but had kept her own; she felt more comfortable there. Less haunted by what had happened. Now she sipped her coffee, then got up and put on her white lab coat and modeled it for the mirror.
How did I get here?
She could still remember the echoes of how proud this coat had made her, how excited she’d been to dive into the new job on that first day.
It seemed like a million miles away now.
Bryn started a little as a brisk knock sounded on her door; she couldn’t help but flash back to Mr. Fairview, and her first morning with him. She took off the lab coat and hung it up, straightened the line of her jacket over the holstered gun, and went to greet her prospective new employee.
Riley Block was not what she’d expected—mostly because she’d expected, well, a man. Riley was a woman, older than Bryn by about ten years; she was taller, blonder, and had a square face with a prominent jaw that seemed all business, all the time. Even the smile she gave Bryn seemed artificial and businesslike as she held out her hand. “Miss Davis,” she said. “Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you. Please come in.”
They settled in the same comfortable area where Bryn would have placed a prospective customer, and Bryn tried to gather her wits. She’d never interviewed anybody else for a job; she’d expected Joe Fideli to be here and guide her through it.
How do you tell if someone’s a lunatic, anyway?
There had to be some kind of clue, but as she studied Riley Block, she didn’t catch one. She finally, somewhat desperately, said, “So, tell me about yourself.”
Luckily, that seemed to be the right thing to say. Riley whipped out an impressive résumé, which Bryn studied as Riley described her training (excellent), academic record (also excellent), references (ditto), and goals.
One thing was certain: she was no Fast Freddy, and Bryn loved her on the spot just for that.
Fideli finally showed up during the tour of the premises, but he let Bryn take the lead—just what she didn’t want, but she toughed it out. Riley seemed to have a good grasp of the prep room; she did a fast and thorough inventory of the restocked supplies and suggested a couple of additions, which Bryn added to her notes. All in all, it wasn’t a warm experience, but then, morticians weren’t generally known for their social skills.
Riley seemed perfectly competent, and after a quick consultation with Fideli, Bryn hired her.
Fairview Mortuary was back in business.
If Bryn didn’t feel especially great about that … well, she hoped it didn’t show.
They booked their first client the next morning: mercifully, it was a natural death, a ninety-year-old grandmother of four kids, twelve grandchildren, and twentysomething great-grandchildren. It was a sad experience for the family, naturally, but nothing traumatic. Bryn didn’t think she could deal with trauma anyway, not yet.
Fideli carried the bulk of the work, and was surprisingly good at it; for someone who’d initially seemed so alpha-male-soldier and intimidating, he could really empathize when it counted, or at least give a damn good imitation of it. Riley received the body later that afternoon and started her work, and Bryn was surprised to find that she, too, was efficient and capable.
I’m the only one with a learning curve
, Bryn thought. It didn’t make her feel any better. Neither did her daily shot, administered by Fideli in the privacy of her office; it still stung, every time, and she was starting to really hate the sight of a needle.
What alarmed her, though, was that after his usual ritual of bagging up the syringe, he reached in his pocket and took out his little black pyramid device, switched it on, and checked its effectiveness against his phone app, which led her to wonder, again, whether there was a countersurveillance app store somewhere.
Probably.
“Okay, two minutes,” Fideli said, and leaned forward, looking at her with unexpected directness. “Need to give you a heads-up. You’re going to get a visit today from Irene Harte.”
“I don’t know the name.”
“No reason you should. Ms. Harte is a vice president at Pharmadene, in charge of the division that makes our little wonder drug.”
Bryn frowned. “What does she want from me?”
“My guess? She’s going to try to shut all this down. And you.” He didn’t say it, but Bryn understood the subtext instantly—
shut down
was code for
death
. “McCallister had to make a situation report, and apparently Ms. Harte didn’t take it too well. So you get a personal inspection. We need you to be on your toes, Bryn. She’s got the power to destroy a lot more than just you.”
“You mean McCallister.”