Working Stiff
Page 19

Bryn found the lock release, opened the door, and slithered out to the ground. She scrambled over and put herself behind the engine block, the safest place, as the Lincoln shuddered under the impact of more bullets.
She heard more shots, measured and of a different pitch, coming from the rear of the car, and looked over to see Joe Fideli crouched there as he returned fire. There was a screech of tires, and their attacker pulled out after one last burst of bullets that rang and echoed against the concrete.
Then the car was gone, speeding for the exit.
“Bryn?”
“I’m okay,” she said. “Are you?”
“Fine.” Fideli sounded frustrated as he changed clips on his gun, chambered a round, and holstered the gun. He took out his phone and dialed. “Pat? You got him?” Pat? McCallister? Bryn waited tensely, and Fideli turned away and talked in too low of a voice to be overheard. She stood up on shaky legs. It finally occurred to her that she hadn’t even drawn her gun. Hadn’t fired a single round at the fleeing car. Stupid.
It seemed to take forever, but Fideli hung up and came back to her. He didn’t look happy.
“What happened?” Bryn asked.
“We had the exits from the industrial park covered, but he dumped the car at the next lot over. He may have had another car stashed, or gone on foot. We don’t know where he went from there. There are a lot of trucks coming and going from the other warehouses; he could be hitchhiking on any one of them, and we can’t stop and search them without triggering a lot of questions. He could also have gone on foot; it’s an easy run across the park area over there, and there’s a mall on the other side.”
“What about the car? Can you trace it?”
“Stolen less than two hours ago from a bar,” he said. “Our friend isn’t taking any chances, even at a supposedly friendly meeting. I think he’s a little paranoid.”
“You’re not paranoid if they’re out to get you.”
“True,” Fideli said, as a dark sedan pulled into the lot, and two Pharmadene security men, in the traditional blazers, got out and walked toward them. “Nothing we can do tonight. Let’s get you home. I’ll see you at work tomorrow. Oh, and Bryn?”
“What?”
He smiled and winked at her. “Good effort. But next time, tell me about your stealthy plans first. Not that I wouldn’t be onto them, but it’s nice if we can talk about it.”
The next day, Bryn dressed in a practical gray pantsuit with a shell-pink blouse, minimal makeup and jewelry, and sensible flat shoes to go out to see the progress at Fairview. She took Mr. French with her, because hey, as the boss, she could. Besides, he loved the car, and sticking his head out the window. His doggy joy lightened her mood considerably.
Joe Fideli was already in the parking lot when she arrived, leaning against the hood of his big truck. He nodded to her, and smiled when he saw Mr. French padding along at her heels. “Is it bring-a-friend-to-work day?” he asked.
“He’s not my friend. I never saw him before,” she said, as the dog sat down next to her, regarding Joe with suspicious dark eyes. He growled a little. Joe growled back, which seemed to settle the matter to Mr. French’s satisfaction. “Did you get any sleep at all?”
“Enough. Besides, I didn’t want to be late for work,” he said.
“Any progress on our gun-happy friend from last night?”
“Nothing. We’re pulling security footage all over the place, but right now it looks like he’s a ghost. And I’m guessing he won’t be back in touch for a while.”
That sounded ominous. “What … what does that mean for me?”
“I don’t know.” At least he was honest about it. “For now, we just continue with the plan. You’ve still got a lead on one of the revived. We can work that. Pat’s keeping last night’s little fiasco under wraps for now from the higher ups; his guys won’t talk. There’s got to be another angle we can work.”
She hoped so, because suddenly it felt like her time— already short—was rapidly running out.
Fideli tried to sound positive. “Never mind all that. I’ve got your shot for the day; probably ought to take care of that about noon. My team has cleared the office area for entry, and they tell me they should be finished with the repairs on the prep room and that end of the building soon. You can plan for the grand reopening.”
“Maybe we should rent one of those giant inflatable advertising things,” she said.
“Gorilla?”
“Dracula,” she said. “With the coffin.”
“You might want to go with something a little more subtle.”
“You’re no fun.”
“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.