Working Stiff

You lurk in the dark and creep me out, and expect to be fed? Is that it?”

He put his head in his bowl and gave her the melting puppy-dog eyes. Bryn groaned and gave up. She kicked off her shoes and opened the pantry, pulling out the sealed bin of dog food; Mr. French obligingly and politely moved out of the bowl for her to pour, then sniffed the food. He always did that, as if he were in doubt about its quality, but this time, again, it passed doggy muster, and he began digging in with sharp little crunches. She refilled his water bowl, too, and checked the papers in the corner of the apartment. No messes. Mr. French had his standards about that, but now that he’d supped a bit, he looked up and her and wiggled his butt to let her know he was ready. She sighed and reached for the leash, and he padded over with great dignity to be harnessed for the trip outside.

Once his business was finished, it was back to the food bowl for more. Bryn watched him eat, mindlessly soothed by his happiness. Food consumed, Mr. French waddled over and jumped up in her lap, where he leaned against her, a solid little weight of muscle and fur. She petted him and scratched where he liked it and talked to him about nothing in particular, until suddenly tears were streaming down her cheeks and Mr. French was staring up at her with concern on his old-man face and trying to lick the sadness away. She hugged him. He had dog-food breath, and he needed a bath, but it was good, so good, to have someone love her right now.

“I’m sorry, baby,” she said, and kissed him on the top of his furry head. “Was your day better than mine?”

Mr. French barked, just once. He knew when she asked him a question, and although his reasoning skills were a little suspect, she had the feeling that on this one, he’d almost certainly agree.

It felt so good to be home, with her clothes in the closet and her robe hanging on the hook in the bathroom. The shower felt great, and as the hot water beat down on her head, Bryn Davis, dead girl, sat down in the tub and let it carry away all the tears, the sweat, the fear, and the anger. And if she cried a little more, it didn’t bother Mr. French, who did sentry duty curled up on the bath mat until she shut off the water, dried off, and got into her robe. Then he padded his way into the bedroom and hopped up on the unmade bed.

Routines. She’d come so close to never making it back here to this, to the dog, to her life. Maybe it wasn’t much; maybe in Patrick McCallister’s terms this didn’t constitute a useful existence, but she liked it. Her apartment was spare, but nice; she had what she needed, and a few things she wanted.

“But everything’s changed,” she told Mr. French as he curled up on the bed beside her. Her hair was still damp, and she fluffed it as she leaned back against the stacked pillows. “I’m not the same as I was. You know?”

He huffed a little, which she interpreted to mean, Oh, well, nothing stays the same. And as always, the dog was right.

Bryn rested for a while, then checked the clock. It was seven p.m., and the voice on the message had said to meet at nine. The only question was, where?

Time to go back to Fairview and find out.

She blow-dried her hair and dressed in dark jeans and a black sweatshirt, tied her hair back in a ponytail, and rooted around for her most comfortable running shoes. As she strapped them on, Mr. French watched with troubled interest. He whined softly as she stood.

“No, you can’t go,” she said, and patted him on the head. “Tell you what: we’ll go for a run in the morning, okay? You stand guard here.”

He licked his chops and sat down next to the bed, and she felt a surge of love for this one relationship in her life that wasn’t even a little bit complicated.

Then she went to perform some crime.

Driving to Fairview Mortuary at night was a special kind of creepy. Not the drive itself; that wasn’t so bad. But getting out of the car in the growing shadows … not so great. The place looked like a classic Gothic nightmare waiting to happen, from the silent, lightless, ruined building to the undertone of tragedy that still vibrated in the air, like smoke.

She’d just walked over to Lincoln Fairview’s silver Town Car when the last rays of sun faded, and the touch of darkness felt claustrophobic. The tire iron from the extremely clean trunk was in her hand, and as she raised it to smash the driver’s-side window, a voice behind her said, “You sure that’s a good idea?”

Bryn spun around, tire iron held in a death-tight grip, ready to defend herself, but it was only Joe Fideli. She hadn’t spotted his truck anywhere, but Joe himself was now lounging on the fender of her car, arms crossed, looking calm and a little amused.

“Noisy,” he said. “Glass everywhere. Alarms. Even out here, you run the risk of attracting attention; plus someone’s going to report the break-in later.”

Bryn calmed the panicked rush of her heartbeat with slow, steady breaths, fighting the push of adrenaline, and lowered the heavy steel bar. “You followed me.”

“Bryn, my job is to make sure you don’t do anything stupid. So yeah. I followed you. When you leave your house in the middle-class version of ninja clothes, I pay attention. You didn’t look like you were running out for milk and kibble.” He walked over, moved her gently but firmly out of the way, and reached into his coat pocket. He had a set of keys, and when he pressed the button, the Lincoln flashed its lights and the door locks disengaged.

“You’ve got his keys,” she said, and pressed her eyes shut. Of course he had the keys; Fairview’s body had been taken to whatever secured facility Pharmadene had designated, and McCallister and Fideli would have access to everything. “Thanks.”

“No problem. What are we looking for?”

There was no point in pretending she was just indulging in some random destruction. “The GPS,” she said. “There was a voice mail today on the company’s line. It sounded like he stood somebody up last night whom he was planning to meet, and it was rescheduled for tonight. Apparently, Fairview knew where the meeting was to take place….”

“And you figured he’d been there before. Decent call. Let’s see what’s what.” Fideli slid into the driver’s seat, fired up the car, and began checking the computer as Bryn slid in on the passenger side. “Home, strip club, home, strip club …”

“That’s something I really didn’t need to imagine about him.”

“You and me both, sweetheart. Here’s something. He went to an unknown address two weeks ago at eleven o’clock at night.” Fideli pulled out his own phone, entered the coordinates, and studied the results. “It’s a warehouse,” he said. “Currently unoccupied. Good bet that it’s where he was meeting his contact; industrial areas are nice and deserted that time of night, especially ones not being rented. What time was the caller saying to meet?”

“Nine,” Bryn said. She glanced at the dashboard clock. It was eight. “There’s something else—another caller. It sounded like a customer, you know, an illegal one. He left a number to call.”

“We’ll get to that one later,” Fideli said, and fastened his seat belt. “If our supplier is expecting Fairview, I don’t want to disappoint him, so we’ll take this car. Strap in.”

Fairview’s car didn’t drive quite as smoothly as hers, but it was still a lush ride. Bryn didn’t enjoy it, mainly because she still smelled Fairview’s cologne trapped in the upholstery, and couldn’t help but think about how coldly he’d ordered her death. She’d so totally misjudged him, and she’d thought her judgment about those kinds of things was solid.

Thinking about Fairview led her to ask, “Any sign of Freddy?”

“Not yet,” Fideli said. “He’ll turn up. He has to, unless he’s got his own supply of the drug stashed somewhere…. Even then, the nanites degrade fast. Two weeks is the longest you can keep the stuff out in the wild, unless you’ve got nitrogen freezers. He’ll have to get to the supplier to make a deal.”

“Or make a deal with Pharmadene,” she said. “Like I did.”

“True that, but I can’t see McCallister getting all warm and fuzzy about hiring Freddy.”

“McCallister would do whatever gets the job done.”

He sent her an unreadable look and said, “You don’t know him that well.”

They drove in silence for a while longer before Fideli reached the turnoff to the warehouse. “Right,” he said. “Here’s how this will go. You’ve got your weapon?”

“Yes.” It was in the pocket of her sweatshirt—not the best place to keep it, but the only one she had, at the moment. She wasn’t going to go all street-corner and stick it in her jeans waistband. She’d seen too many stupid