Luckily, that seemed to be the right thing to say. Riley whipped out an impressive résumé, which Bryn studied as Riley described her training (excellent), academic record (also excellent), references (ditto), and goals.
One thing was certain: she was no Fast Freddy, and Bryn loved her on the spot just for that.
Fideli finally showed up during the tour of the premises, but he let Bryn take the lead—just what she didn’t want, but she toughed it out. Riley seemed to have a good grasp of the prep room; she did a fast and thorough inventory of the restocked supplies and suggested a couple of additions, which Bryn added to her notes. All in all, it wasn’t a warm experience, but then, morticians weren’t generally known for their social skills.
Riley seemed perfectly competent, and after a quick consultation with Fideli, Bryn hired her.
Fairview Mortuary was back in business.
If Bryn didn’t feel especially great about that … well, she hoped it didn’t show.
They booked their first client the next morning: mercifully, it was a natural death, a ninety-year-old grandmother of four kids, twelve grandchildren, and twentysomething great-grandchildren. It was a sad experience for the family, naturally, but nothing traumatic. Bryn didn’t think she could deal with trauma anyway, not yet.
Fideli carried the bulk of the work, and was surprisingly good at it; for someone who’d initially seemed so alpha-male-soldier and intimidating, he could really empathize when it counted, or at least give a damn good imitation of it. Riley received the body later that afternoon and started her work, and Bryn was surprised to find that she, too, was efficient and capable.
I’m the only one with a learning curve, Bryn thought. It didn’t make her feel any better. Neither did her daily shot, administered by Fideli in the privacy of her office; it still stung, every time, and she was starting to really hate the sight of a needle.
What alarmed her, though, was that after his usual ritual of bagging up the syringe, he reached in his pocket and took out his little black pyramid device, switched it on, and checked its effectiveness against his phone app, which led her to wonder, again, whether there was a countersurveillance app store somewhere.
Probably.
“Okay, two minutes,” Fideli said, and leaned forward, looking at her with unexpected directness. “Need to give you a heads-up. You’re going to get a visit today from Irene Harte.”
“I don’t know the name.”
“No reason you should. Ms. Harte is a vice president at Pharmadene, in charge of the division that makes our little wonder drug.”
Bryn frowned. “What does she want from me?”
“My guess? She’s going to try to shut all this down. And you.” He didn’t say it, but Bryn understood the subtext instantly—shut down was code for death. “McCallister had to make a situation report, and apparently Ms. Harte didn’t take it too well. So you get a personal inspection. We need you to be on your toes, Bryn. She’s got the power to destroy a lot more than just you.”
“You mean McCallister.”
Fideli nodded. “Patrick put his neck on the line when he brought you back, on my say-so,” he said. “And it’s still on the line, because he didn’t terminate your revival as soon as he knew you weren’t going to be an instant gusher of information. Harte likes results, fast, while McCallister prefers to invest time and get things right. It doesn’t make them buddies.” He glanced at the red indicator on his device, which was flashing a fast warning. “Time to wrap up. Be ready for her, and don’t let her intimidate you.”
Bryn nodded, and he tapped the top of the pyramid and shut off the surveillance jammer. It went back in his pocket, and he resumed talking about funeral arrangements for their new client as if they’d never stopped.
It set Bryn on edge. She was feeling a little odd anyway; maybe it was her imagination (and it probably was), but she felt jittery and warm, and she wanted nothing but to go home and sink into a hot bath with a glass of wine. Spend the evening curled up with Mr. French watching a shamelessly romantic movie. That kind of thing. She forced herself to cut down on the coffee, but that didn’t seem to help.
She thought they’d actually make it to the end of the day without the mysterious Ms. Harte making an appearance, but at ten to five, a whole entourage pulled into the parking lot—a sleek black limousine, flanked by two Pharmadene-issue black sedans. McCallister was driving one of those, and he was the one to open the limo’s back door and offer a hand to the woman getting out.
Even from the perspective of Bryn’s office window, Irene Harte seemed formidable—tall, attractive, with clothes that Bryn could never hope to afford (or pull off) and the body language of someone who went through life absolutely confident of her place in the universe. Which was almost certainly at the center.
Her bodyguards hustled to get ahead of her, open doors, check hallways. She didn’t slow down for them. McCallister trailed her, and Bryn had the impression he was doing the rearguard work. Either that, or he just didn’t care to be too close to Irene Harte.
Her phone rang, making her jump; it was Lucy, announcing—in a doubtful tone of voice—that Bryn had visitors. Bryn was actually pretty proud that her reply sounded calm and steady as she told Lucy to send them in.
She wished Joe Fideli were here, maybe just sitting quietly in the corner, but he was a no-show, probably for good and sensible reasons of self-interest. And I hope our mysterious supplier doesn’t freak out about this. He might, if he were watching; she couldn’t do anything about that.
The first man to open her door—without knocking— was the Fideli type: big, well muscled, with a shaved head. The difference came in the eyes; Fideli’s always seemed to hide a sense that he knew how ridiculous the world was and was secretly amused by it, but this man was deadly serious as he looked around the office, nodded to Bryn, and then stepped out of the way to assume some kind of guard position in the corner. A second guard, identical assessments, parade rest in the opposite corner.
And then Irene Harte strode in.
Bryn’s immediate first impression was that she was in the presence of someone whose face she ought to recognize—a high-powered politician, actress, royalty. Someone who was important. The smile Irene bestowed on her confirmed it—it was warm and professional, but somehow also definitely superior.
Bryn came around the desk as Ms. Harte held out her very well-manicured hand and said, “Miss Davis? Irene Harte, Pharmadene Pharmaceuticals. Very pleased to meet you.”
The handshake that followed was brief and impersonal, and Bryn managed a polite smile and indicated the chair opposite her desk. Ms. Harte ignored the offer to sit, and instead stood there in her six-hundred-dollar pumps and studied Bryn with the impersonal intensity of an accountant reading a spreadsheet. “I understand that you’ve been briefed on the trouble we had with Mr. Fairview and his operations,” Harte said, “and that you are unable to provide us with the identity of the person from whom he was obtaining his … supplies. Is that correct?”
Behind her, Patrick McCallister quietly entered the room, closed the door, and took up a post with his back to it—at parade rest, like the other security men. But as Bryn met his eyes, he gave her a slight nod and what was almost a smile.
Bryn cleared her throat. “No, ma’am, that’s not correct.”
“No?” Harte’s eyebrows climbed in astonished, perfectly shaped arcs. “Please enlighten me.”