I’d made it only halfway to the storage unit when my phone vibrated, and I groaned at the sight of Allen Prejean on the caller ID. I’d forgotten all about the organ bag issue. Obviously, he hadn’t.
“Hey, Allen,” I said, all casual and pleasant-like. “What’s up?”
“I need you to come in.” Firm. Not even a hint of a smile in his voice.
“Oh, man. I sort of have plans with my dad. Y’know, ’cause it’s a holiday?”
“This is important. I need to see you. Now.”
That was his asshole I’m-the-boss voice. Technically, since I wasn’t on call, I could play the holiday card and not go in. But I knew that if I did, he’d make my work life hell when I came back. I sighed. “Sure. I’ll change my plans. See you in an hour? There’s a parade today, and traffic’s going to be a bitch.”
“Get here as soon as you can. I’ll be in the morgue.”
I gave my phone the finger after he disconnected. What a prick. At least I was already up and out, and still had enough time to swing by the storage unit freezer and load up my cooler with the last of my brain stash.
Because no way did I want to deal with Allen Prejean on an empty stomach.
• • •
A sawhorse stood in the middle of the morgue parking lot entrance, bearing a sign that threatened death, doom, destruction, and a hefty towing bill for all unauthorized vehicles in the lot. A must for parade days, when hundreds of cars fought for space within easy walking distance of the parade route. Apparently the sign had the desired effect. The only cars in the lot were Allen’s and a dark
green Chevy Impala parked beneath the overhang at the morgue entrance. I skirted the sawhorse and backed into a space in the second row, then slugged the rest of a brain smoothie. Allen was guaranteed to stress me out, and I really didn’t want to add “ate my boss” to my list of lifetime accomplishments.
I shoved the cooler onto the passenger side floorboard to get it out of direct sun, locked my car and headed for the entrance. I slowed as I neared the Impala, noting government plates and dark-tinted windows in the back. Did the driver have anything to do with why Allen called me in? Curiosity and caution prickled, and I made sure my path to the entrance included a casual stroll alongside the vehicle and around its front. A well-used leather file case sat on the passenger side floorboard, and a stack of papers rested on the seat. But it was the FBI parking pass on the center console that sent my gut plunging.
What if Allen called them about the missing brains? I’d be walking right into an ambush. But that didn’t make sense. Law enforcement wouldn’t sit around and wait for me to come in if they had something on me. And they certainly wouldn’t park in front of the door if they were lying in wait. Jesus, Angel, stop being a paranoid twit! Most likely the visit had to do with Ben’s request for the FBI to process evidence from the murder. Or, possibly, whatever investigation had the feds poking around funeral homes. Neither of those involved me. Not directly anyway.
Inside, the intake area was quiet and empty, but my almost-tanked zombie hearing picked up voices from the direction of the cooler. I eased down the hall then stopped when I was close enough to make out the words.
“Are you looking for something in particular?” Allen.
“Is this all you have?” A woman’s voice rasped as if air had to fight its way through her vocal cords.
The cooler only held two bodies at the moment, and one belonged to the murder victim, Grayson Seeger. There was only so much I could learn by eavesdropping. I needed eyes on this, too. I pulled the cooler door open. Beside Allen was a tall black woman with close-cropped graying hair. A keloid scar ran from the angle of her jaw down across the front of her throat.
I faked a slight startle. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Come on in, Angel,” Allen said then gestured toward the woman. “This is Special Agent Sorsha Aberdeen.” He glanced my way and his eyes widened. An expression of alarm and dread filled his face, as if I had purple boogies hanging out my nose, but a second later he recovered and cleared his throat. “Uh, this is Angel Crawford, morgue assistant.” His eyes darkened with unease as they flicked over me. “She, uh . . . I called her away from the Zombie Fest. She really gets into dressing up for it.”
Huh? I didn’t know what Allen’s game was, but—
Oh. The grey and makeup. Yeah, not exactly the most professional appearance, but at least he was giving the agent a reason for it—or what he thought was the reason. I faked a bright smile. “Anything for you, boss.” Just in case, I very casually wiped a hand beneath my nose. Good. No boogies of any color.
Agent Aberdeen looked me over with sharp eyes. “Angel Crawford,” she said as if trying out the name. “It would be a tremendous help if you could assist me while Mr. Prejean attends to the report I requested.”
“Sure!” I said before Allen could protest. Who knew what juicy info this woman might drop.
Allen glared, though I couldn’t tell if was at the dismissal or my enthusiasm. Probably both. “I’m happy to stay in case you have a question Angel can’t answer,” he said. “Dr. Leblanc performed the autopsy yesterday morning, and compiling the report won’t take long.”
“I’m in a bit of a rush,” Aberdeen said with a whisper of steel behind her polite smile. “I’d greatly appreciate it if you could take care of the report now.”
Allen’s jaw tightened, but it was clear he knew he’d lost the battle. “Not a problem.” He departed, but not before throwing me a firm look of Mess this up, and I’ll make your life hell.
“You’re here about Mr. Seeger?” I asked after the cooler door swung shut. A clear plastic bag containing Seeger’s property rested on top of his body bag alongside a clipboard that held the property list and chain of custody.
“How long have you worked here?” Her eyes lingered on my face in an unsettling way.
“Year and a half.” I smiled. “I know all the procedures, if that’s what you’re worried about.”