Chapter 7 #2
“Doctor Mayet,” I snarl, then I look again.
Because maybe it says forty-five dollars.
Or, worse case, four-hundred and fifty dollars.
“You need to fill this script—” I scan the woman’s shirt and stop on her nametag— “Phyllis. And you need to charge it to this—” I slide my card across the desk— “Credit card.”
“I-I can try.” She picks up the plastic and swipes it through the card reader, her cheeks blazing and her fingers trembling. Then she waits… waits… waits for the inevitable beeeeeep of rejection. “Ma’am. It declined.”
“Of course it declined! You typed forty-five and a few zeroes, but you forgot to use the decimal!”
“Chief Mayet.” Harrison clears his throat and steps forward with a different credit card. Then he meets Phyllis’ terrified expression. “Run it again, please.”
“Absolutely not!” I slap his hand away and glower at the poor woman who just wants to get on with her day. “Forty-five thousand dollars is insane! It costs, like… four dollars any other day.”
“W-with insurance. We can’t—”
I snatch up my card and coffee and point a threatening finger at her face.
It’s shameful. Violent. Too much. All the reasons I’m in this situation in the first friggin’ place.
Exploding, “Gah!” I spin on my heels and leave the stupid desk without my Factor, then I barrel back the way I came, bursting onto the sidewalk and hastily scrubbing the itch from my eyes before Harrison and Stovic report this bullshit back to the Malones.
Which is literally their job.
Furious, I march past the hospital and keep on walking toward my office, my muscular shadows a mere six feet behind me.
“Don’t follow me.” I stomp along the hot concrete and cross to the revolving glass door preceding my building.
Except the door isn’t revolving right now, because it’s—fuckkkkk me, six-twenty-seven—so I tap the window to alert my security guard, then I spin back to my other security guards and lift my hand, palm pointing toward them.
“Safe flight, Mr. Stovic. I hope your stay in Copeland has been enjoyable.” I meet Harrison’s neutral gaze.
“I promise Estefan Cordoza is not inside the George Stanley. Nor are his men. You can go do…” I shrug.
“Whatever it is you do on a regular Wednesday morning. Have you eaten yet?” I point across the street.
“Diner over there does nice eggs.” With that parting thought, I rotate on my heels and stride through the now-revolving glass door.
Crossing from humidity and heat into the icy, dry air of what is effectively a giant refrigerator spanning fifteen floors, I meet the George Stanley security guard’s eyes and fake, fake, fake like my life isn’t on fire.
“You can disable the door again now, Jacob. Thank you. The last thing we want is walk-ins.”
“Yes, Chief.”
I move to the elevator and smack the call button, satisfied as the glinting silver doors immediately swoop open, then I step in and select the ninth floor.
Now that the air I breathe is cool and not ninety percent sweat, I bring my coffee up and take a fortifying sip so I can get the first hint of caffeine into my veins…
but because of my carelessness, I scorch the taste buds clear off my tongue.
“Fuck’s sake.” It’s a bad day when my beloved coffee turns on me, too.
Lowering my hand and lifting my head, I broaden my shoulders and cloak myself in the impenetrable, untouchable, bitchy-boss persona I’m so good at, so when the elevator stops on the ninth floor and the doors slide open, I step out a brand-new woman.
Ish.
I emerge onto a floor pulsing with pop music and medical examiners filling every available suite except one.
Mine. The crew works efficiently despite the hour, some tap their feet to the beat playing through the speakers.
Others bounce their shoulders. Doctor Patten, my night-shift counterpart, glances up from her table in suite number two.
Locking eyes with mine, her affable demeanor makes way for mild panic.
She whips the plastic shield off her face and steps around her table, peeling bloodied gloves off her hands and speaking what I know will be something about how she’s stepping out on her autopsy at—God help me, six-thirty-one—all for the recorder’s sake.
She glides through the suite door and shouts, “music off” as she moves. What was a hopping, lively space, turns dead silent, breaking her team of techs out of their focused spells as their eyes come up searching for whatever, whoever, disturbed their peace.
“Sorry, Chief.” Patten fast-steps my way. “We like to get the tunes going around this time to get us through the last couple of hours on shift.”
“It’s fine.” I shove through my office door, but I stop on the threshold and order “music on” for whatever smart device is listening.
Kesha, the chick with the dollar sign in her name, goes back to singing about Mick Jagger, so I release the door and make a beeline for my desk, dropping my bag to the floor so it lands with an undignified splat.
I set my coffee down and jiggle my computer mouse as I pass, but I head to the floor-to-ceiling windows first, almost plastering my forehead to the glass, and glance down to the street.
Harrison stands guard on the sidewalk, somehow not melting while wrapped in a black suit with long sleeves and absolutely no air-conditioning.
I hope he receives hazard pay in these situations.
“Chief Mayet?” Patten steps through my door in her usual black slacks and white lab coat, but over those, she wears a long, plastic, full-body apron smudged in red, and atop her head, the plastic shield lifted the way a welder wears a similar, but entirely different, shield between sparks. “You’re here early. Everything okay?”
“Mmhm.” I turn away from the windows and stride back to my desk, sitting in my comfortable chair and locking my eyes on the computer background like it holds all the world’s secrets.
It’s nothing more than a colorful English-style garden, with wildflowers and hanging baskets. A rusted bicycle. Rolling hills. A rabbit, I think, bounds through the lush growth.
I can’t say I’ve ever truly stopped to look. But doing so now proves legions more pleasant than meeting my staff member’s probing stare.
“Chief Mayet?” She wanders closer, her movements registering in my peripherals. “It’s barely six.”
“Six-thirty-five, actually.” Pink flowers. Blue flowers. Yellow flowers. “I have paperwork to process before I’m officially on at nine. Is there anything urgent you need to discuss, or can we save this for rounds?”
“Er… no.” She stops in the gap between my desk and the chair Aubree typically sits in every other day of the week.
“Nothing urgent on my part. But are… uh…” She doesn’t sit.
Doesn’t touch anything. Doesn’t even move too fast, lest she get blood on the furniture.
“You look like you’ve had a hell of a night, Chief. Did you even sleep?”
Maybe an hour. Maybe thirty minutes. “Mmhm.” Purple flowers.
And in the thick, a sly fox eyeing the bunny.
“I’m still missing an autopsy tech for the rest of this week, so I’m trying to pick up the slack by completing my administrative duties before shift starts.
Get back to your DB.” I dismiss her with a flick of my wrist. “You shouldn’t leave them on the table like that. ”
“But Chief—”
I bring steely, furious eyes up to hers and force the woman back.
“It seems my informal tone has confused you, Doctor Patten. I’ve given you an order.
” I shift my focus to the door and glower.
“Go. And if my staff continues not to follow orders, I suppose I’ll have no choice but to ensure all future interactions remain strictly formal.
I am your chief. Let’s not forget that.”
Schooled, she dips her chin. Stony and appropriately scalded. “Understood. Chief.” She turns on her heels and stalks through my door, striding toward her suite, but not before shouting “music off” once more.
Kesha silences, and the weight sitting heavily on my shoulders is amplified by a thousand. Ten thousand.
“Forty-five thousand dollars,” I snarl, shaking my head and slamming my elbows to my desk. I poke my thumbs against my closed eyelids and groan in the silence.
What the hell am I supposed to do without my Factor?
Die?