Working Stiff
Page 15

“Corpse,” Lucy said. “Deceased. Gone on to glory. Must have been the dead woman’s sister, I guess.”
“Probably.” Bryn wondered how much Lucy really knew, or guessed, or didn’t want to guess. “What about the other person you saw? Could it have been … a paying customer? Or a client?”
“Clients don’t go walking around.”
“Lucy.”
She didn’t look happy about it, but she finally said, reluctantly, “Maybe one of them looked familiar, too. Bryn, what the hell was going on?”
“Is,” Bryn said softly. “Is going on. I don’t know, but we have to find out. Is the phone still working?”
“I tried the number this morning, and it rang through to voice mail. I changed the message to say that we were closed for repairs.”
“Good thinking. Were there any messages?”
“I’m not supposed to check the messages. Mr. Fairview always liked to do that himself.”
“Lucy,” Bryn said, and smiled. “Come on. You checked them, didn’t you?”
“Well … only because of the accident. There were a couple from hospitals about pickups, but I took care of those.”
“Anything else?”
“Two that were strange,” Lucy said, “but strange calls to a funeral home aren’t exactly breaking news. Half the ones we get are pranks during the day. Can’t imagine how many end up on the voice mail during drinking hours.”
“Can I hear them?”
Lucy pulled out her cell phone and dialed, then handed it over. Bryn listened as the recordings played. The first one was definitely a prank, complete with giggling and drunken college come-ons. She deleted that one. The second, though, was interesting. It came with a long leader of silence, followed by a shaky voice saying, “This call is for Mr. Fairview. I-I need to meet tonight; it’s important. I have the money.” A phone number followed, and Bryn quickly rooted in her purse for paper and pen to write it down.
“What are you going to do?” Lucy asked.
“Find out what he wanted,” Bryn said. “Wait. There’s another one.”
This voice didn’t sound at all shaky. It was a man’s voice, and it sounded hurried and sharp. “You were supposed to meet me,” it said. “Don’t stand me up again. You know where. Tonight, nine.” Nothing else. Bryn would have assumed it was a wrong number normally, but not this time. That’s him, she thought. The supplier. The Pharmadene leak. He hadn’t said his name, or left a number, or even specified a location. Fairview would have known.
But Fairview had taken it to his grave. Still, it was a lead. And if the number could be traced, maybe they’d have a name.
That fast? Bryn felt a surge of unease. If it had been that easy, McCallister wouldn’t have bothered to bring her back at all … and if she presented him with the solution on day two, what was there to keep her alive?
“Anything else?” Lucy asked, clearly interested now. “That one must have just come in. I only heard the prank calls, and that weird one to Mr. Fairview about having the money.”
“Just a wrong number,” Bryn said. She erased the message and handed Lucy’s cell phone back. “Thanks. Listen, why don’t you take the rest of the day off? Nothing we can really do here. Tomorrow, we’ll go in and see what we can salvage. Wear something you can get dirty; I don’t know how much smoke damage there is in there.”
“All right. See you tomorrow, Bryn.”
“Bye.”
Lucy got back in her Cadillac and drove off; Bryn watched her go, then looked around the lot.
Mr. Fairview’s car was still there. He, of all people, would be most likely to have GPS installed in his private vehicle, and GPS kept a record of destinations.
The car was locked, of course. Bryn tried the keys Fideli had given her, but they didn’t work. She peered in through the heavy tinting and saw that sure enough, there was built-in navigation. Perfect. The only problem was getting in. An alarm light was flashing on the dash, and she didn’t want to attract the attention of the construction crew.
If Joe Fideli had been here, he’d probably pop the lock in two seconds, using a harsh look and a bobby pin. She was not the car-theft expert.
But she knew enough to come back later, when nobody was around.
Nothing left to do here, then. She examined the car keys Fideli had given her, then looked at the choices. The lot was mostly empty, except for Fairview’s other parked vans, hearses, and limousines, but tucked over in the far corner, next to Fast Freddy’s sports model, sat a long, sleek Town Car. Bryn unlocked it with the remote and slipped inside. Warm, buttery leather interior. It was an automatic transmission, which was a relief, and when she poked around in the pockets she found that the car was registered to Fairview Mortuary, and she was listed as the principal driver. It was brand-new, apparently.
It started up with a purr that was hardly audible at all, but it grew to a low growl as she pulled out of the parking space. The acceleration on it was alarming, and she had to hit the brakes, fast, to avoid overshooting the stop sign at the top of the rise that led to the road. Pulling out into traffic wasn’t just easy; it was scary easy. She’d expected it to be less … powerful.
Somewhere, a phone rang. A cell phone on the seat of the car. She tried to fumble for it, but she didn’t need to; a speaker inside picked up the call and magnified it for her. “Ah … hello?”
“Bryn, it’s McCallister. How are you doing?”
“Doing?”
“Feeling.”
“Fine, I guess.” She looked at the clock on the dashboard. “Uh, I guess I need to come in for a shot?”
“Yes. No later than three p.m. We’ve programmed in Pharmadene as a destination for you on the navigation system. Head this way. I have some things to show you, and something you have to sign for.”
“What?”
“Your gun,” he said. “You did ask for one, didn’t you?”
He didn’t say good-bye, just hung up on her. She glared at the console, then pulled over to the side of the road and punched commands into the nav. Pharmadene was codenamed DOCTOR, she guessed; it was the only destination programmed. Surprisingly, it wasn’t that far away, and even if it had been, the Town Car was a pleasure to drive. There was something amazingly simple and Zen about letting everything fall away and concentrating on the road, the view, the ride.
At least until her phone rang again, and she heard her sister Annalie’s voice say, “Bryn? Bryn, I’m in trouble. Bryn?”
You could live, you could die smothered with a plastic bag, you could get brought back by some sci-fi nightmare robots in your blood, but some things just never, ever changed. “What is it this time, Annie?” Though Bryn could have made book on what the problem was, actually. Annalie’s emergencies were always one of three things: men, money, or a combination of the two. The only good thing was that Annie didn’t drink and didn’t do drugs; that would have made things so much worse.
From the tone of Annie’s frantic voice, Bryn guessed money, and she was right. “I don’t know what happened; I was so careful, but I’m short. I think maybe somebody stole money from my account….”
“How much are you short?”
“Only about a hundred bucks.”
Of course, Annie rarely had more than two hundred in her checking account, ever. Bryn shook her head and said, as she always did, “I’ll send you the money.”
“Uh, today? Because, you know, rent and stuff.”
“Can’t you get Walter to give you an advance?” Walter being her boss, and an old friend.
“He already did,” Annie said. “Uh, last week. I swear, I don’t know how I got so screwed up this time.”
Annalie never did. She was hopeless with money in general, and she skated by on check floats and loans—always had. If she weren’t her sister, and honestly so good at heart, Bryn would have cut her off, but Annie didn’t have a mean bone in her body. She had a job, a steady one, working the bar at Hooligan’s Tavern, and Walter was pretty tolerant of her money problems so long as the till didn’t come up short. Which, curiously, it never did. Annie could add like a fiend when she was on the clock.
“I’ll send it to you today,” Bryn promised. “Overnight mail. Okay?”
“Okay You’re a doll, Brynnie. I love you.”
“Love you, too. Hey, did you hear from Tate?”
“Nothing since the last cryptic e-mail. Guess he’s still in country.” Their brother Tate, only a year older than Annalie, was in Afghanistan now, halfway through his rotation. They all tried to keep track of the casualty lists, just in case, but so far Tate had demonstrated the same trademark luck he’d always had. Drop that boy in the thick of the battle and he’d emerge unscratched.
Nothing like Bryn. She’d managed to get herself killed in a morgue.
“Okay, give Mom and Dad my love, okay?”
“’Kay.”
Short and sweet, that was Annie. She never chatted when she asked for money; Bryn guessed it made her uncomfortable. The next call would be about her latest boyfriend, and what she’d bought with Bryn’s loan, and the latest frantic night at the bar … normal life.
Bryn wondered what the hell she was going to have to say during that conversation. Because her life right now wasn’t exactly … something she could chat about. Family get-togethers were going to be odd and awkward from now on. Mom would be asking about when Bryn was going to give her a grandchild, which had always been a little bit weird, but was now going to hurt, a lot, for reasons Bryn couldn’t possibly explain. Her oldest sister would be full of advice about that, most likely; she was the fertile one. Bryn never saw George or Kyle, which was a relief; Kyle was a criminal, and George was an asshole, despite being her brother. Bryn felt closest to Annalie, for all her screwups, and Tate, for all his absences.