Working Stiff

“I know, but it’s what we have to work with, until he gives you something else.” McCallister hesitated. “Bryn, we’re running close to Harte’s deadline. So far, I have nothing to show for it but two hundred thousand lost and a man down. She’s not going to be happy. I’ll do what I can, but we’re almost out of time.”

What he meant was she was almost out of time. And Bryn knew that. She felt it in every aching muscle. “I’ll keep trying,” she said. “You know that. I want to live.”

He pulled the car over and parked, then reached in his coat pocket and took out a silver tube. As he unshipped the syringe, he said, “Shoulder.” She leaned forward and bared skin for him, hardly even wincing at the needle and afterburn this time. You could, indeed, get used to anything. “Tomorrow, you leave the office for lunch and head to a place called La Scala Ristorante. Be there at one o’clock. There’s parking in the back. Inside the back entrance there’s a men’s bathroom. Go in. I’ll be in the last stall to give you the shot before you sit down to eat.”

“The men’s bathroom.”

“It’s less obvious than my going into the women’s room. You can always say you made a mistake. Act embarrassed enough and anyone watching will buy it. Oh, it helps if you’re on the phone as you walk in. The restrooms aren’t clearly labeled, so it’s a simple mistake.”

“You think of everything.” She sighed, and closed her eyes. She felt deathly tired. “I need to go to the mortuary.” Riley’s words came back to her. People never stop dying. There were no days off, no breaks from death. Every day was someone’s most emotional moment.

“Make it an early day,” he said. “Conserve your strength.”

The car was making turns, and she recognized the neighborhood. They were close to her apartment. Her phone, in silent mode, vibrated again. Annie was trying to get hold of her, probably frantic with worry.

“I wish I could have a normal life,” she said. “Just pretend to have one, anyway.”

McCallister thought for a moment, then said, “Liam did mention he’d like you to come to dinner on Thursday night. He’s making beef Wellington.” Somehow, he managed to make it sound as though it were the butler’s idea, and not his own.

“I see. And will I be dining with Liam?”

“Of course, if I can get him to sit down long enough. Otherwise, you’re stuck with me.” He was looking away as he said it, checking over his shoulder for any sign of trouble. “I’ll tell him you said yes.”

“You may have noticed I didn’t actually say that.”

He turned and looked at her, and all the pretense just … stopped. “Come to dinner,” he said. “You just said you’d like to pretend to have a normal life.”

“Did you phrase it that way to see if the protocol inhibitor is still working?”

That woke a very faint smile. “Partly.”

“All right. Can I bring anything?”

“Anything but your sister,” he said. It sounded heartfelt, and she found herself smiling.

“Wow. You sound as if you’d actually met her.”

“I wouldn’t mind meeting her, except that you already have enough to explain. It would take a lot more to produce a boyfriend with a Bruce Wayne mansion that she’s never heard of before. I’m using hypotheticals, of course.”

“The mansion is hardly hypothetical.”

“I was speaking of the boyfriend part. About our relationship.”

“I wasn’t aware you thought we actually had one.”

That cued him to look away again. “Of course we do. I’m your handler.”

“That doesn’t sound as sexy as it ought to.”

He let out a snort that was remarkably like her dog’s, and the brakes eased the taxi to a stop. “You’re home.”

Bryn made no real effort to get out, other than putting her hand on the handle. She said, “You could have come in to save Joe. You didn’t. I know you had your reasons, but it makes me wonder: what if it’s me next time? You said you wouldn’t let me suffer. I need to count on that.”

“You can,” he said. “Always.”

Bryn stepped out and watched the taxi glide away. Her phone vibrated again, and she let out a tired sigh, jammed her fists in the pockets of her hoodie, and went upstairs to explain things to Annalie.

It didn’t go well.

Chapter 10

She just didn’t have the energy, after the awful night, to deal with Annalie’s questions—valid though they might have been. Bryn abandoned the field, showered, dressed, and stormed off to work with new (if adrenaline- fueled) energy. That lasted through the first consultation with a newly bereaved husband; his wife had celebrated her seventy-fifth birthday and passed away two weeks later of a stroke. He was stoic, but fragile, and Bryn guided him through it with the sad knowledge that he’d probably be a client soon; she could see the resignation in his eyes. He’d lost everything, and he was giving up. Maybe he’d come out of it, but at his age, she doubted it.

After he was gone, and she had time to think, she realized that her head was throbbing and her throat was dry. A visit to the coffee machine helped. Lucy tried to tell her about Joe’s shooting, but Bryn was too tired to keep up a pretense of surprise. Besides, with Lucy’s connections, she’d find out soon enough that Bryn had been there on the scene.

“I was with him,” Bryn said, sipping her coffee. Lucy stopped typing on her computer keyboard and looked up with widened eyes. “He was helping me out, and he got shot for his trouble. I need to go see his wife and kids.”

“I think they’re all at the hospital,” Lucy said. “I was told so, anyway. The nurses say he’s not in any danger, thank the Lord. Shot. My God. And you were right there?”

“Yes,” Bryn said. “I was right there.”

“But what were you—” Lucy checked herself and firmly closed her mouth. “You know what? That’s none of my business, none at all. I’m just happy you’re all right.”

She wasn’t all right, on so many levels, but Bryn just nodded and went back to her office. She could feel Lucy’s curious stare on her back. By the end of the day, everybody—including Riley Block, in her prep room inner sanctum—was going to have the unshakable opinion that she’d been screwing Joe Fideli.

God.

When her phone rang, it was almost a relief. It wasn’t her private line, just the main switchboard, so she answered with the standard greeting—or tried to.

Annalie interrupted her. “We need to talk about what happened, Bryn!”

“No, trust me. We really don’t.”

“You were arrested! You don’t think Mom’s going to hear about that?”

“Only if you tell her.”

“I wouldn’t!” Annie sounded less than convincing, though. “Look, clearly this is not a good time for you to have me hanging around whatever … stuff … you’re into….”

“God, Annie, do you think I’m a drug dealer?” Because that would be gruesomely ironic, all things considered.

Annie chose her words carefully. “I think you may have some kind of a problem you don’t want to acknowledge,” she said. “I mean, damn, you’re working with dead people; it’s no wonder you’d want … some kind of—”

“Oh, so I’m not a drug dealer, just a junkie.”

“I’m not saying that!” Annie took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m taking the next flight back home,” she said. “I’ll leave your key with the apartment manager. And I shredded and flushed your apartment codes. Anything else you want me to do?”

“Walk Mr. French before you go running home to tell Mom what a loser I am,” Bryn said.