LITMIR.BIZ

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good for eight hours,” Younger said.

      “Guh,” Ben said.

      We toured the freezer, the storage room, the freight elevator. The crematorium was in a separate building out back. The burying ground and all-purpose chapel was a few blocks east.

      “Keys to the back door?” I asked.

      “Pop and Jag and Carrie and I. Though I assume anyone could duplicate them.”

      “What about the elevator?”

      “Locked at night.”

      “Chuh,” Ben said.

      “Rest room?” I asked.

      “Hallway, second door on the right,” Younger said. Ben took off, sprinting.

      I held out my hands apologetically, what can you do?

      “Good help is hard to find,” Younger said.

      Back in his office I said, “I’d like to put the building under physical surveillance. That means staying overnight. Most of these people work Monday to Friday?”

      “Except Vonda, our part-time embalmer, and Kurt the dispatcher. And my father and I.”

      “I’m going to disconnect the red LEDs from the camera,” I said. “I want you to tell everyone just before closing, tonight and tomorrow and the next, that the camera isn’t working and that the system will be down for the next few days. Remind them to lock up.”

      “I could tell them there have been vandals in the area, which is why we’re upgrading security. I could even advise them to take all their valuables home.”

      “You could mention it,” I said, “but don’t overdo the theatrics. We don’t want this to look like a trap. Best to just add a few words to the bottom of a memo or post it in the break room.”

      “Understood,” Younger said. “You’ll be here tonight?”

      “After closing.”

      “I’ll inform Pop.”

      I stood up. “I’ll let myself out.”

      Ben was leaning on the hood of the Camry, vest off, shirt unbuttoned, a touch of sick around his mouth.

      “Can you bring the car back for seven tomorrow?” I asked him as I unlocked the trunk.

      “You’re really going to stay there overnight?”

      “Looks that way.”

      In a nylon tech bag in the trunk I keep a laptop and a pair of battery-operated wireless cameras. I also keep an overnight bag. Depending on the situation, I sometimes bring a gun.

      I opened the suitcase, pulled out enough clothes so I could fit the tech bag inside, and covered it with a toiletries kit. Ben looked like he needed some encouragement.

      “You get used to it,” I said. “It’s like if you lived near a rendering plant. You stop minding after a while.”

      “How long is a while?”

      “It’s less of a shock every time.”

      “When’d you see your first?” Ben asked.

      “August, year before I graduated high school. Victim died of exsanguination, meaning he bled out from a neck wound.” Adding the inevitable, “My grandfather.”

      “Oh,” Ben said. “Hey. Sorry.”

      “You didn’t kill him.”

      I took out the suitcase and closed the trunk. “I’ve got two hours to kill. Drop me at the Wendy’s just up the street.” Then, to lighten the mood, I added, “You know the sound maggots make when they’re gnawing on soft tissue?”

      “No.”

      I simulated it.

      Ben doubled over and puked straight into the gutter.

      Later, in the silence and darkness of the office, with the cameras up and trained to cover the perimeter of the embalming room, I sat back in the sumptuous leather chair in the Kroons’ sumptuous office and dialed the number for Aries Security and Investigations.

      “May I ask who’s calling?” the office manager said.

      “Bill Billings. I’m phoning on the recommendation of Constable Gavin Fisk. Would it be possible to speak to Mr. McEachern, please?”

      “Just a moment, sir.”

      The dominant sounds in the still evening were the hum of the freezer in the adjacent room and the whir of the laptop’s hard drive. No movement in the embalming room.

      “Roy McEachern speaking. Mr. Billings, is it? What can I do for you?”

      I said, “You could have the courtesy to return a fucking phone call.”

      “Is that Michael Drayton?” McEachern laughed, staccato bursts that taxed the phone’s speaker. “Well, Mike, you got through. I have to hand it to you.”

      “You blocked my caller ID?”

      “We had several offensive crank calls from that number.”

      “What a pity. That robot who answers your phone must be quite distressed.”

      “We could go back and forth all night,” McEachern said. “My time’s too valuable, I don’t know about yours.”

      “I’ve inherited an ex-client of yours named Cliff Szabo.”

      More of McEachern’s easy laughter. “Mike Drayton and Cliff Szabo — a match made in heaven right there. Did he try to pay you with ten percent of his business?”

      Ignoring him I said, “He was your client from April till August.”

      “Off and on, depending on when he felt like paying us. When he laid that ten percent scheme on me I told him I’d love to work for free, pal. Just convince my ex-wife and two kids in college. All seriousness, Mike, don’t allow a client to gyp you out of dough just because he’s got a sad story. Sad stories are free.”

      “I’d like an overview of what Aries did for Mr. Szabo. Who you interviewed, what information you gathered.”

      “All in the report we prepared for him.”

      “Which he left in your office.”

      “After tossing it at me.”

      “He was distraught.”

      “Sure,” McEachern said, “but not about his poor little kid, about paying us the nine grand he owed us.”

      “He’d like his copy of the report.”

      “That ship has sailed.”

      “I’d appreciate it.”

      “You I like even less than him,” McEachern said. “Only reason I haven’t told you to go fuck yourself yet is on account of your grandfather. Tell you what, though. Szabo comes up with the nine he still owes us, I’ll c.c. you all the copies you want.”

      “Any media coverage he gets he’ll be speaking about the investigation,” I said. “You want me to recommend he tells the CBC that you took his money and were no help to him?”

      “You really think you’d come out ahead in a PR war, Mike?”

      I took a breath through my nostrils and held it until I could pick out the Pine Sol and the death-smell and the lingering aftershave of Thomas Kroon the Younger.

      I said, “How about for a few minutes you not be a prick and email me the report so we can maybe find this kid?”

      “Fuck yourself, Mike.”

      Click.

      IV

      Enola

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