Page 91 of Calculated in Death

“They do sell an inferior product.”

“I couldn’t find the fucker on a search through employees, but he’s there. I’m going to pass it to Feeney for a matchup. I’m still betting former cop or military. He’ll pop sooner or later. But the auditor’s priority.”

She rose to dress.

“If I manage to get my own done, and solidify any of yours, I’ll come in to Central to fill you in.”

“Okay with me, but you might want to tag me first. I may be out in the field.”

“I’ll find you.”

When she strapped on her weapon harness, pulled a jacket over it, he stretched out on the sofa with his tablet, and the pudgy cat sprawled over his feet.

If you didn’t know better, she thought, you’d see a man completely at his leisure.

Then again, the way he approached the work, that wasn’t far off.

“Is that how you work?”

“For the next twenty minutes.” He looked up at her, smiled, crooked his finger.

She leaned down, easing in for a kiss.

“I meant to tell you, I’ve arranged an after-premiere party at Around the Park.”

Her eyes went to slits. “You waited to tell me until I’m damn near out the door so I couldn’t complain.”

“Isn’t it a testament to our relationship, how well we know and understand each other?”

“I’ll give you a testament,” she muttered, and started out.

“Mind the exploding babies,” he called after her, and heard her laugh.

•••

Chaz Parzarri felt fine and good. But then he’d flown on the private shuttle, compliments of the insurance company of the shitheads who’d busted him up, and the cab company for their substandard safety features. And he’d flown on the really good drugs the in-flight nurse kept pumping.

They said he’d be laid up a couple more weeks, and he’d need a couple weeks of PT after that—but he was fine and good with that, too. As long as the drugs kept coming.

He had work to do. He could do that from the hospital in the private suite, also courtesy of the insurance companies. The audit wouldn’t take long, and being willing to do it earned him points with his supervisor and with Alexander.

The accident, now that he didn’t hurt like fuck every time he blinked an eyeball, had actually worked out for him. He’d get a big-ass settlement, paid time off, piles of sympathy and attention. In fact, he planned to run some numbers for himself. A big enough settlement, and he might just retire, go live the good life in Hawaii the way he’d intended to do in another six-point-four years.

When he’d first come out of it, he’d been scared. Really piss-pants scared. That maybe he’d die, or maybe they’d find irreversible brain damage with all the tests they’d run. When he stopped being scared of that—or mostly—he’d been scared about the audit. He’d barely started on it before the convention.

Okay, maybe he’d procrastinated some, but there’d been plenty of time. Should have been plenty. And he had the framework for the adjustments, the doctored figures, the clean monthly files he’d kept carefully buried on his home unit.

A couple of days to implement, run an analysis, do a recheck, and boom! Done, clear, and a fat fee wired to his holding account, then wired—by himself—to his numbered, anonymous, and tax-free account in Switzerland.

Still all good, he told himself. Just a few days later to finish it all, and still comfortably ahead of the deadline.

He hadn’t been able to contact Alexander. They hadn’t allowed him a ’link in his room, but then again, he’d been barely able to talk until yesterday. He’d take care of that as soon as he was tucked into his medical suite.

Jim Arnold hobbled over on his skin cast. “How ya doing, partner?”

“Cruising, partner.”

As Jim sat, stuck out his casted leg, he winced a bit. “I can’t wait to get back, get home. The Vegas doc said they’ll probably let me go home after they check me over. Maybe keep me one night, but then spring me. I’m sorry you weren’t as lucky.”