“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.”