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I plastered on a smile and picked up the stack of paper. “Even for the janitors?” I asked gamely, though I knew what the answer would be.
“Absolutely,” he replied. “After all, they go pretty much everywhere.”
“Right.” I tried to see his name on his security badge but it was cocked around, and I couldn’t read it. “You’ve really been a lot of help,” I said, gushing just a little. “What’s your name?”
“Lombardo,” he replied.
“Lombardo…?” I gave a titter that sounded stupid and obnoxious even to me. “That’s your first name?”
His eyes narrowed with a touch of disgust. “No. First name is Steve.”
“Gotcha!” I chirped. “Thanks a million, Steve. I’ll just go and fill these out. Can you answer one more question for me?”
He was really ready to get rid of me, but he sighed and said, “Sure. What is it?”
“Is there any way I can get an interview today? Or maybe just a tour?” I put on my best bubbly attitude. “See, I’m just starting college, and I want to major in biology, and I would so love to do research and stuff and would love to see more of what y’all do here!” Damn, I wished I was cuter. Or bustier. Or both.
His expression didn’t waver one bit as he pulled out yet another paper and practically slapped it onto the desk. “Tours are only given in groups of four or more and have to be scheduled in advance and on the dates indicated on this sheet.” He said it all in a monotone that told me he’d said it about a billion times before. I noticed he didn’t answer the part about the interview.
I looked down at the sheet to see a calendar with a smattering of dates marked out in green, and below that a list of rules and guidelines for tours that included things like “Government-issued ID required for all tour members” and “No cameras or recording equipment of any kind allowed” and “All tour members consent to a search of their property and person.”
“All righty then,” I said, then gathered up the various papers and headed on over to the tables in the corner.
Scowling down at the papers, I settled in to work. So far I was batting zero in my Quest To Break In Without Breaking Laws. I saw Lombardo eyeing me from the desk, so I made sure to pull out a pen and look like I was actually filling the shit out. I figured I’d give it a few more minutes to give the appearance that I was at least making an honest effort, and hopefully some sort of miracle would occur that would allow me to get beyond those security doors. Like, maybe an asteroid hitting the security desk in the lobby. I sighed. At this point that was probably the most likely scenario for me to get past him.
I had a bit of fun making up a name for myself along with all sorts of improbable educational background. Honors programs? Sure! Summers abroad? Hell, yeah! The stack of papers for the background check wanted me to list every job I’d ever worked at, everywhere I’d ever lived, and provide an insane number of references. Needless to say, I lied about every single one of those. Mostly because there was no way in hell I’d be able to remember all the jobs I’d had.
After about half an hour I’d plowed through the whole stack of paper. And, sadly, no asteroid had yet landed on Mr. Steve Lombardo. Gathering up the papers, I made ready to return to the desk and once more try to bluff my way into an interview, when the man I recognized as the head of security walked past me and to the coffee stand. Hard to miss with that square jaw, military-grade haircut, and Secret Service-type suit.
“Morning, Sandra,” he said to the barista. “Medium Americano, please.” He paid then casually scanned the area while he waited for his order. His eyes rested briefly on me, and he gave me a polite nod with no hint of recognition in his eyes. I returned the polite nod with a chin lift of my own, though I had to do everything in my power to keep my face as neutral as possible.
Because, after hearing his voice, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that this was the man who’d held me up at gunpoint and stolen the body of Zeke Lyons.
Chapter 16
I gave the stack of fiction-heavy employment paperwork to Mr. Lombardo, and got the hell out of there, doing my best to not draw any more attention to myself than possible. Head Security Guy hadn’t seemed to recognize me as the chick he’d held up, but I wasn’t going to give him any more opportunity for that little fact to click in.
Besides, I’d already confirmed what I’d suspected: someone in that lab was up to something completely fucked up. And Sofia was either involved or in a shitload of trouble.
I headed straight for the sheriff’s office and the entry marked “Investigations.” I didn’t take any chances and identified myself to the receptionist as “Angel Crawford with the coroner’s office” before asking to see Detective Ben Roth. However, I was told that Detective Roth was out observing an exhumation.
Ding! “Of Zeke Lyons?”
“That’s the one,” she replied.
I thanked her and left. I knew exactly where Zeke was buried. Since no one had come forward to claim his body, he’d been given a pauper’s burial at Riverwood Funeral Home.
Ten minutes later I pulled up at the cemetery. The area set off for the pauper burials was distinct mostly because it lacked any headstones. Riverwood had a contract with the parish to bury any body that remained unclaimed. However, since they didn’t want everyone to get the idea that this would be a great way to get around the cost of having a proper funeral and burial for their loved one, the graves weren’t marked, which meant that if the families wanted a grave they could actually visit, they’d have to pay for a plot. Riverwood kept track of who was buried where using markers and GPS coordinates, which was how they now knew where to dig.
I’d stupidly expected there to be men with shovels, but instead a backhoe was busily excavating earth—which really did make a lot more sense. Standing on the other side of the backhoe was Allen Prejean, looking as sour as ever. He was facing away and didn’t see me, which suited me just fine.
Detective Roth was on this side of the grave, saving me from having to pass by Allen. Ben looked like he hadn’t changed clothes since I’d last seen him—and had probably slept in them as well, to judge by the impressive array of wrinkles that patterned his shirt. As I approached he jerked his head up in a way that made me suspect he’d been dozing standing up, or at least close to it.
It took him a couple of seconds to focus on me. “Oh, god, not you again,” he moaned. “Haven’t you done enough?”
Stunned, I groped for something to say, finally coming up with, “What the fuck, dude?”
He sighed, scrubbed both hands over his face. “Sorry. But you have no idea the shitstorm that’s been going on,” he said, face falling into mournful folds.
