Working Stiff

“You know, that’s exactly what my wife tells me, too. Especially when I stay out all night getting shot at.”

Somehow, she doubted that. Fideli, lots more than McCallister, had the makings of someone who understood the meaning of fun without looking it up in the dictionary. “Hey,” she said, following that train of thought, although admittedly with a strange twist, “can you get me a holster for my new, ah, accessory? It’s pretty awkward to carry in my purse.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners, and he walked around to the passenger side of the truck, opened up a lockbox in the bed, and came back with a bag. “Happy birthday,” he said. “If it doesn’t fit, let me know; I’ll return it.”

Inside was a shoulder holster and harness, and she smiled in genuine surprise. “You really think of everything.”

“That’s what they pay me for.” That drained a little of the warmth out of the moment. Fideli turned instead to the main building and made an after-you gesture. “Guess we ought to get started, boss.”

“I guess so,” she said, and walked with him toward the front door, dodging the continuing ant march of construction materials and workers around the front. “What do you know about up-selling?”

Chapter 5

The first thing Bryn did, once she’d checked her office for damage, was pull out the paper on which she’d scrawled the phone number from the voice mail, and dial it. Joe Fideli hadn’t left; he took up a post in the chair across from her, and even though she made significant motions for him to leave, he shook his head and made himself more comfortable with a steaming cup of coffee. He’d gotten her one, too, which was nice. Mr. French was waddling around the room busily sniffing things, which included a close inspection of Fideli’s socks and shoes.

As Bryn dialed, Fideli said, “Put it on speaker.”

She did, and they listened to three rings before the connection clicked in and a shaky voice said, “Hello?”

“Hello,” Bryn replied. “This is Fairview Mortuary. I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Fairview.”

There was a brief silence, and then the man said, “Is he there?”

“No. There’s been … an accident. I’m afraid Mr. Fairview is dead.”

“Oh. Oh, God.” She heard him take a damp, shaking breath. “What am I going to do?”

“Sir—what’s your name?”

“Spiro. Spiro Kanakareides. Look, Mr. Fairview, he was … doing something special for me—do you understand?”

“Yes. Yes, I understand.” Bryn glanced at Joe, who nodded encouragement. “Mr. Kanakareides, why don’t you come in to talk to me? I’m sure that I can help with your problem.”

“You can?”

“Yes, I can.” She tried to sound soothing, professional, and utterly reliable. She must have succeeded, because after a moment he agreed, and hung up the phone.

“Good,” Joe said. “Let me know when he gets here. I’ll have a team ready to take him.”

“Take him where?”

Fideli frowned. “I thought you understood, Bryn. We’re in the cleanup business. We get Fairview’s contacts and his clients. Mr. Kanakareides has to be brought in and debriefed and we have to decide what’s to be done with him.”

“But you’ll probably let him die, right?”

Fideli looked away this time. “Yeah, probably, unless there’s a real good reason to keep him maintained,” he said. “Look, I’m not wild about any of this, but it’s got to be kept inside the company. That’s what we’re here to do: seal the leak, repair the damage. People will get hurt. Can’t be avoided. The good news is that we’ll have all of them within a few days; they can’t be skipping too many shots in a row, and they’ll be contacting us. This isn’t the hard part.”

“Isn’t it?” she asked softly. “He preyed on people who were scared and desperate, and made them even more scared and desperate. And now we’re going to victimize them all over again. That doesn’t bother you?”

“If it did, I’d be in the wrong line of work. Look, I’m as compassionate as I can be, but there have to be limits. These people weren’t supposed to live. They’re only here because Fairview got greedy, not because God came down from on high and granted them a miracle.”

“And what about me? I’m only here because you had a spasm of conscience, right? Now I’m marking time, because you already told me your mysterious supplier was done with us. I’m surplus goods. After the last one of these … these revived checks in for their shot, I’ll be dealt with, too.”

He didn’t deny it. “Theoretically. But in practice, there may be other ways you can be useful to us.”

She laughed, and it sounded empty. “Forgive me if I don’t feel reassured by that. It’s not very theoretical to me.”

“Bryn.” He leaned forward and took her hand in his. “I’m not going to let you down. Pat’s not going to let you down. You can count on that, okay?”

She didn’t believe him—not that he wasn’t sincere at the moment. She did believe that. But Fideli wasn’t a rogue; it wasn’t in his nature. He’d do what he was ordered, even if he didn’t like it. Sooner or later, Patrick McCallister would order Fideli to walk away while she was put in some sterile little room again, to die. And Fideli would feel bad about it, and probably carry guilt for a while, but his life would go on.

And hers would not.

There was absolutely no point in saying all that, she realized. Nothing was going to change her fate.

So Bryn smiled and said, “It’s okay. What do we do now?”

“We get this place running,” Joe said. He seemed relieved that she’d accepted his reassurances. “So let’s get started.”

Going through the files was empty work, but at least it passed the time, and that was all Bryn was doing now … passing time.

Mr. Kanakareides—Spiro—showed up two hours later. She knew only because she was looking out the window, sipping her coffee; he never made it to the building. Joe Fideli had a car there, and two plainclothes security men, and Spiro was intercepted and put in and driven off without a single ripple of alarm. That was how easy it was to end someone’s life, she realized. All it took was being polite and efficient in public, until you didn’t have to be polite anymore.

The phone rang.

Bryn looked at it with dread and misery, and picked up the receiver. “Fairview Mortuary,” she said. “Bryn Davis speaking.” She fully expected it to be another of the desperate revived, and it made her sick to her soul—if she still had one—to think that she had to lure these people into the trap. But she had no choice, and really, they had no choice. Fate. It was a bitch.

But this time, the call wasn’t from one of those people. There was a silence, and then a strangely modulated voice said, “Now I know your name. Good. I’ll be seeing you, Bryn Davis.”

The call ended. Bryn stared down at the phone, frowning and a little creeped out. It could have been a prank call, but it felt … different.

“What’s wrong?”

She looked up to find Joe standing in the doorway, watching her. Full of concern, just like those men had been down in the parking lot, calming down poor Mr. Kanakareides.

“I had a call,” she said. “Caller ID was blocked.”

“Do you think it was one of our revived friends?”

“It didn’t seem like it.”

“Our supplier?”

“Maybe,” she said. “And now he knows who I am.”

Joe hesitated for a second before he said, “Well, that was bound to happen. And it’s what we want.”