“Level two.” Guard-Boy-Number-One thumbs the two on the control panel, then, straightening out, he firms his jaw and stares straight ahead, unemotional, untouchable. Unflappable. “We needn’t discuss the matter, Chief. You work, we’ll observe. You’re making this more difficult for yourself than it needs to be.”
“I hear that a lot.” I draw a deep breath and resign myself to my new reality, and while I’m going, I vow never to tell Archer of my four-man security team, or the two-man armed guard crushing me from either side. In the silence but for a soft melody coming from a radio somewhere nearby, I fold my arms and wait for the doors to close. “Is there a reason you work for Mr. Cordoza when you could be a Senior Security Officer down at the local shopping mall? The teenage girls would giggle every time you walked past, and the worst things you’d have to deal with are petty theft and kids puking in the food court.”
Neither speaks. I’m not even sure they’re breathing.
I look left and stare at Guard-Boy-Number-One. Then right, and note Number-Two’s gritted jaw. Turns out, in Doctor Emeri’s absence, I become the George Stanley mouthpiece. “Nothing?”
“We’d prefer to work in silence, Chief Mayet.” Guard-Boy-Number-Two—aka: Rambo’s child—looks straight ahead like he’d rather study himself in the steel reflection than converse with me. “It would be best for us all if you simply did your job and shut up about it.”
“It’s so odd how, typically, I’m the one who demands silence. But these are not normal circumstances, and the words are simply flowing straight off my tongue. Have you worked for Mr. Cordoza for long?”
He clamps his lips shut.
So, I look the other way. “I met Estefan a year or so back, and he had a bunch of his guards there with him. That was a big day for me, though, and I’m already not great with names and faces, so I’m unsure if you were there, too.” I look right. “Is there a high turnover in your line of work? Ya know, considering the danger and whatnot?”
“We were there that day in Mr. Pastore’s home. I’m excellent with names and faces, which is why Mr. Cordoza sent me today.”
“Shucks. If your memory were less functional, I could’ve slipped through and claimed to be someone else. Just a lowly autopsy tech trying to get through her day. I could’ve pointed at someone else and said they were Mayet.”
“Shucks.” Number-Two clicks his tongue, and when we arrive on the second floor and the doors open, he takes a step forward, laying his arm across the sensors and gesturing me through. “Lead the way, Chief. The sooner you do this, the sooner we can leave you be.”
With no other choice, I stride through the doors and make a beeline for the check-in desk, wiggle the mouse to power the screen up, then I enter my login credentials.
I type in my name and ID number, hen-pecking the keys as I enter my passcode.
Decline.
Frowning, I enter my passcode again.
Decline.
“What the f—” Scowling, I select each key slowly, carefully, conscientiously, and when I’m satisfied, I hit enter.
Decline. “It’s not working.”
Skeptical, Number-One comes around the desk, breathing over my neck and reading numbers he’s really not supposed to read.
“Do you mind?—”
“You used a comma instead of a period.” He reaches over my shoulder and pokes the screen. “See?”
“Shit.” Ibackspace, backspace, backspace, and when I arrive at the offending comma, I fix it, redo my passcode, and mentally consider how much it would cost to upgrade our security systems around here to something more sophisticated.
Jericho!
“Is Estefan aware that, while the physical aspect of an autopsy should only take a couple of hours, administration can take weeks? Even months?” I sign my John Doe out and memorize his location for when we step into the next room. Then, I exit the login screen so the next tech who comes along can entertheircredentials.
Stepping around the desk and inadvertently shoulder-checking Number-One, I stalk to the heavy, vacuum-seal door and push it open, revealing a wall of body cubbies, each with a number and a light—when it’s not illuminated, the fridge is empty. When the light shines, the fridge is full. Each door comes with a thermometer that shows the exact temperature inside, and for the sake of convenience, several come with a little plastic pouch, overflowing with toe tags and random pens.
Moving to Agosti’s fridge, I grab the thick steel handle and twist it into its unlocked position. “I want expectations managed appropriately, gentlemen. So if Mr. Cordoza is expecting instantaneous toxicology results—which he won’t get—I’d like to avoid his assumption that I’m lying and the bullet he might be inclined to put in my back. Realistically and honestly, I have cases still pending from March.” Gripping the foot of Agosti’s tray, I yank the whole thing out and keep a discreet eye on the guards in my peripherals. “You.” I point at Number-Two, then I point to a stretcher parked by the far wall. “Bring that over here, please.”
He considers telling me to go fuck myself, I’m certain of it. But he thinks better of his options and follows my order.
“And you.” I meet Number-One’s eyes. “I asked you a question. Does Cordoza understand that miracles aren’t real and toxicology results are not like two-minute noodles? This is not within my control. All I can do is collect the samples and pass them on.”
“Mr. Cordoza is aware of potential timelines.” Number-Two wheels the stretcher across and slides it into place beside Anthony’s tray. Lifting his hands away from the steel, he backs up.
This man has dealt with explosives in the past.
