Working Stiff

And the name seemed familiar.

Bryn felt a sinking sensation, listening to that whispering breath. She tried again, but got no response to her questions.

She hung up and called Lucy on the intercom. “Lucy, can you look up a contact for a customer for me?”

“Sure. Which one?”

“Sammons, first initial V. I think someone was trying to call from her number and got cut off.”

“We get a lot of hang-ups, you know.”

“I know. But look it up, would you?”

“Just a sec.” Lucy put the phone down, and Bryn listened to keys clicking. “System’s always so slow— Oh, there it is. Sammons, Violetta. She wasn’t a customer, though. She was a client.”

“A client.” The difference, in Fairview terminology, was that customers wrote checks; clients filled coffins. “You’re sure about that?”

“Maybe somebody kept the number switched on? Could have been a relative; she had a husband who made arrangements. She only passed a couple of weeks ago, right before you arrived here. One of Mr. Fairview’s last personal preps, poor man.”

Personal prep. Fairview seemed to do personal prep only on his special clients.

The ones who kept on paying.

She couldn’t talk, Bryn realized. Violetta Sammons was too far gone to talk, but she was trying to ask for help. My God. She’s been without a shot for … how long? Why didn’t her husband try to call us?

The implications made her sick and light-headed. “Thanks. Can you read me the address?”

“Sure.” Lucy recited it, and Bryn wrote it down. “You need anything else?”

“No,” Bryn said. Her knuckles had tightened around the phone. “No, thank you, Lucy.” She hung up and rang Joe’s extension. He didn’t answer at once; when he did, it was clear the call had switched to his cell. “Joe? Where are you?”

“At Atlantic Memorial, waiting on a pickup with Doreen.” Doreen was the latest in this week’s parade of assistants. “She’s still with us.”

“The pickup?”

“Doreen. What’s going on?”

Her throat felt tight with panic. “I had a weird phone call. I think it was someone Fairview … you know. She’s in trouble.”

“All right, give me the address; I’ll send people.”

“No. Joe … Joe, she called me. She needs help. We’ve got supplies, right? I want to give her the shot.”

“Bryn, you can‘t. The syringes are ID coded. You know that.”

“Then come back and go with me.”

“You want me to leave Doreen here alone to do the pickup? Even if I did, I’m a couple of hours away.”

“This can’t wait, Joe. It can’t.”

“She’s not going anywhere, right?”

Her eyes were burning now with unshed tears. She couldn’t explain why she felt so oppressed by this; she couldn’t understand it herself. “She needs help now. I’m going.”

“Tell me where you’re going first.” She read him the address. “Seriously, wait for me. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“I can’t leave her like that.”

He was silent for a second, then said, “You know what you might have to do. She’s probably too far gone to dose.”

“I know,” she said. “I can’t let her suffer, Joe. That’s why I have to go.”

“As long as you know what you’re getting into. I’ll get Pat to meet you there; he’s not far. No arguments, boss. This is how it’s done.” The boss was ironic; Bryn was almost sure. She was no one’s boss, not even her own. He hung up before she could tell him not to call McCallister—not that he would have listened.

She hadn’t spoken directly to McCallister since they’d parted ways in that uncomfortable fashion at the mansion, and she wasn’t looking forward to it now. But mostly what she dreaded was what she was going to find at Violetta Sammons’s house. Where was Violetta’s husband? McCallister will have the shot, she thought. We can do this. We can make it right and figure it out from there.

I have to make it right.

She grabbed her preloaded removal bag from the locker room, added a few things, and took one of the mortuary vans—freshly cleaned out and smelling astringently of bleach. Either I smell like dead people, or I smell like cleaning products. Annie was right: boyfriends were probably out of the question at this point—presuming, of course, that she had any right to think about such real-life issues anymore.

She tried not to think about that, or anything, as she followed the navigation system’s directions to Violetta’s address up in the La Jolla hills. It was in a very posh neighborhood, with big, expansive houses and a breathtaking view. Not Patrick McCallister’s price range, but even the smallest of these properties must have gone for a couple of million.

No wonder Fairview had chosen Sammons for his scam.

Bryn parked the van and got out, carrying her black canvas bag, just as Patrick McCallister’s tinted black sedan closed in behind like a shark. He stepped out, and they looked at each other for a few seconds. His bruised cheek had mostly healed, and his suit looked clean and impeccable, as always.

He had a black bag, too. She didn’t think his held the same things hers did.

“Bryn,” he said, in a very careful, neutral tone. “What’s the emergency?”

“I think she’s one of Fairview’s,” Bryn said. “And I think she’s been without a shot all this time. I couldn’t just … I have to help. I have to. You understand?”

McCallister hesitated, then nodded. “Let me go first.”

“No,” she said. “I have to do this.”

“Not alone,” he said. “We do it together, then.”

That felt better, because she was terrified and trying not to show it. The house looked completely normal, nothing to sound alarms. Bryn rang the doorbell, then tried the front door, but it was locked.

“What now?” she asked. McCallister led her around to the side, to a kitchen door. She tried that one. “It’s locked, too.”

He stepped up and did something with a set of tiny tools—lock picks, she guessed. She expected an alarm, but when the door swung open, she didn’t hear a thing. A house like this, there had to be an alarm….

McCallister stepped inside and checked a keypad next to the door. “It’s off,” he said. “Come in.” He closed and locked it behind her.

She immediately caught the unmistakable smell of decomposition—ripe, sickly sweet, and dense. She wavered, and exchanged a wordless look with him.

“Bryn,” he said. “Let me do this. You don’t need to—”

She shook her head, waited to let her senses adjust, then went forward through a spotlessly kept white tile kitchen, down a hallway. The stench got more intense. She was achingly aware of McCallister sticking close beside her, silent now.

No turning back.

She expected a horror show, but there was nothing in the large, gracious living room, although a big-screen TV was still playing with the sound turned down. There was a glass of what looked like Scotch sitting on a coaster on the coffee table, and a book spread open, facedown, as if someone had put it away for just a moment.

McCallister touched her shoulder and pointed. She followed him out into the marble-tiled foyer. A curving staircase led upstairs.

The smell was worse here, and increased as they ascended. Halfway up, Bryn heard the first hum of insect activity. She hesitated just for a breath on the last step, gathered herself, and stepped over a busy line of ants that marked a trail right to where she had to go.