Working Stiff (16 page)

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.”

“I’m not unable to provide you with that information. I just don’t yet have all the facts.”

“Excuse me?” Harte’s smile was gone now, and her strong, beautiful face had gone still and expressionless. “Either you know or you don’t, Miss Davis.”

“I’m in a position to get that information for you. It will just take some time. I’m in contact with the supplier.”

“Time is something that I don’t like to spend, not on something as volatile and sensitive as this. Pharmadene has a significant intellectual capital risk at stake, and I can’t afford to fund your fact-finding expedition. Nor can I afford to spend valuable supplies of Returné in hopes that you can one day provide some small return on my investment.” Harte’s eyes were ice-cold, so cold that Bryn didn’t actually register them as being any particular kind of color. “I’m afraid that Mr. McCallister overstepped his authority in green-lighting this project. I’ll have to terminate the funding.”

“Why don’t you say what you mean?” Bryn asked, feeling her fists clench at her sides. “You’re not terminating
money
. You’re terminating
me
. Personally.”

“All right. You’re in a very unfortunate position, Miss Davis, there’s no doubt about that, but this is a business decision. Your life ended in a brutal and unnatural way, but Pharmadene is not a charity, and even if it were, extending your life support indefinitely is something even charities are reluctant to do when no hope exists for recovery. You won’t recover, you know. Ever.”

There was, Bryn realized, no reaching her on any human level. Irene Harte had no emotional buttons to press; her control and the smooth, untroubled way she said these things made it clear that Bryn’s play was over.

So change the game
, Bryn thought. “How much is your leak inside the company costing you?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re losing product. I’ll bet it’s costing you plenty, but that’s not the real problem, is it? If your competitors get their hands on it, they can do some reverse engineering and come out with a cheaper version, undermining your patent opportunities before you really get the drug out there. Right? That’s worth millions. Billions. Bill Gates money.”

Harte still didn’t answer, but Bryn definitely had her attention.

“What’s it worth to you in the boardroom to save the day instead of being the one to fall on your sword? A few millions in bonuses to you, personally? A promotion? I’ll bet you’re at the level that it’s hard to get another step up on the ladder.” No reaction still, but Bryn kept going. She had, she realized, nothing at all to lose. “And how many of the men above you are looking for an excuse to kick you down a rung or two?”

That created a flicker in Harte’s calm, just a second of real emotion, and Bryn felt an immense surge of relief. Not that she’d won, far from it. But she’d actually reached her.

Whether it would matter was a different thing altogether.

It took an obscenely long time for Harte to say anything, but when she finally did, it wasn’t to Bryn at all. The woman turned to stare at McCallister, and said, “Patrick, this was your idea. Will you stand by it?”

“Yes,” he said. Just the one word, as solid as concrete. He didn’t try to explain, or coax, or threaten. He just gave her the certainty of his conviction, and waited.

It took a while, but Harte nodded. “All right. Miss Davis has a point; solving this problem may be worth a minimal investment of time.
May
be. I’ll give you two weeks, fourteen doses, from today. If nothing solid happens in that time, I’ll roll this up, and everyone involved will be rolled up with it. Are you clear on that, Patrick?”

“Yes, ma‘am,” he said. He wasn’t looking at Harte; he was, Bryn realized with a shock, watching her. “Will there be anything else?”

“No.” Harte checked her very expensive diamond-encrusted watch. “I have a dinner engagement. Keep my assistant informed daily on progress.”

She didn’t wait for any good-byes; she strode toward McCallister and the door, and simply assumed that it would swing open for her, and he’d get out of the way.

Which was exactly what happened. McCallister made it look as if it were his idea, which was an excellent trick, Bryn thought. As the two guards quickly left, ghosting Harte’s sharp, staccato footsteps, McCallister stayed behind. Bryn took in a deep breath and sat down in the nearest chair. Suddenly, her legs felt weak, and she thought she might actually pass out. She lowered her head and sucked down deep breaths, but still felt as if she were suffocating.

McCallister’s warm hand touched her shoulder lightly. “Breathe,” he said, and she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to bottle up the black genie of panic that was expanding inside her. She was shuddering now, as the alarm that had been flooding her veins began to subside, and she felt absurdly cold and nauseated. Something warm settled over her shoulders, and when she clutched for it with shaking hands, she realized it was McCallister’s suit coat.

Bryn looked up and saw him crouched down level with her, making needless adjustments to the jacket he’d draped over her. He wore a shoulder holster, one that appeared to be a match to what she had, and there was not a wrinkle or stain on his perfect white shirt. Even now, he looked calm, composed, absolutely in control of himself and everything around him.

Bryn said, “She just said she’d kill you, too, didn’t she?”

And McCallister shrugged, such a small movement that she almost missed it. “I doubt she’d actually try, and if she did, she certainly wouldn’t succeed. You made a good pitch,” he said. “And we’ve got two weeks. It’s something.”

“She’s going to
kill you
. And Joe.”

“Not a chance, and she won’t try to kill anybody if we find the answers, Bryn. Including you.”

“But—”

McCallister cut her off. “We got ourselves in it, and I’m not sorry we made the choices we did. Don’t be afraid for us. Concentrate on what you were brought here to do. Relax. Breathe.”

She did, big, slow, trembling breaths that she dragged in through her nose, blew out through her mouth, until her heartbeat slowed and her nausea began to subside.

As he started to get up, she said, “Thank you, Mr. McCallister.” And she meant it—not for dragging her back into this—God, no—but for not throwing her to the wolves when he could have. When he
should
have. He was in it with her now, all the way to his neck. And not just him—Joe Fideli, a family man, too.
Not my fault
. No, it wasn’t, but that didn’t matter anymore. They’d all go down together.

Perversely, that made her feel better. Maybe it was just having someone, anyone, at her back.

McCallister smiled, just a little, and there was a ghost of something warm in his eyes. He was surprisingly nice when he smiled. “Don’t thank me yet,” he said. She started to take off the coat, but he put his hands over hers, stilling them. “Keep it until you really feel better. I’ll be down the hall, talking to Joe. Take your time, Bryn.”

She watched him leave, and felt a frown grooving its way across her forehead. McCallister didn’t actually
care
, did he? He couldn’t. Not possible. And, of course, she had no reason to care about
him
, either. Absolutely none.

But she did. Hugging his jacket close, she felt the warmth not just of the fabric, but of his body, and when she held the collar closer to her nose she caught a ghost of his cologne, rich and dark. Like his eyes.

But she kept the coat on for far longer than she needed to, in the end, and when McCallister asked her if she wanted a drink, after dropping off her dog, she found herself saying yes.

I should have known it wasn’t a date
, she thought, as McCallister pushed her cosmo across to her, along with a thumb drive, and said, “I need you to study all of the material on this, and see if you spot anything out of the ordinary.” At least, that was what she thought he said. He was drowned out by someone’s drunken horse laugh at the next table.

She reached for the cosmo, not the portable storage device. “Why? What is it?” She had to raise her voice to be heard, because the bar was loud, trendy, and full of yelling and thumping music. He’d chosen the highest-volume pickup joint within easy driving distance. At first, she’d thought it had been some sort of odd date thing, but no. McCallister was never off duty, really. He was just using old-school noise canceling to discourage surveillance.

The taste of the cosmo, sour-sweet, lingered in her mouth like a kiss as McCallister pushed the drive closer. Their fingers brushed when she reached for it, and she glanced up into his face for one quick instant. Lights flashed in her eyes, blinding her, and then the moment was over and he was sitting back, as remote as ever.

“It’s surveillance we’ve compiled on Fairview,” he said. “Video, phone taps, e-mails, chat logs—”

“Mr. Fairview
chatted
? Online?” She honestly would have bet he couldn’t manage a computer at all.

He raised his eyebrows. “Brace yourself for that, if you still had any illusions about his character; it’s not pretty. We’ve also included his known associates. We’ve been through it, but you’ve got a better chance of spotting something we didn’t.”

She nodded and slipped the drive into her purse’s zippered pocket, and toyed with her drink for a moment before downing a courage gulp. Then she said, “You had a choice, didn’t you? Which of us who died in the prep room to revive?”