Richey shook his head. “The Priority was alone for the night. His wife was out. I broke in and made the switch earlier. He takes his meds at 7:00P.M. every day. He should have been dead by 9:00.”
“Then why not take the time and be sure?”
“It was an error on my part.”
“That it was. For Victor’s benefit, being new here, I’ll finish the report. Last night I had Frank revisit Priority Number 3 from May’s list. Death was induced by toxic gas poisoning, which accomplished the processing.”
He rose and stepped across to the bar.
“Milo, I thought you understood the Rules under which we operate.”
“I do,” Richey said. “It’s my first mistake in two years.”
He poured himself a glass of mineral water, adding a couple of ice cubes from the refrigerator beneath. “Frank, for Victor’s benefit, please explain theproperprocedure.”
Barnard turned to Jacks. “The file establishes the criterion for processing. If no criteria are established, then death is at our discretion. Of course, it has to be undetectable and raise no suspicions. That’s why we pre-work a Priority to learn lifestyle and habits. A lot of the information we need can be found in company records, or in the records of companies under Southern Republic’s control. We have access to a wide variety of bank, medical, and insurancerecords. Most times, it’s the pre-work that will reveal the most appropriate method to be used for processing. Usually, it’s a chemical inducement. We have plenty of agents that cause instant death and leave no residue. Most generate biological failures. A derivative of acetomorphine is our most common compound. It induces heart failure with no residue. Berylanhydride does the same to kidneys. Chlorohydrate to the lungs. And all of those metabolize away as they work.
“Accidental deaths are risky. But they’re used when necessary to be consistent with the processing criterion. Mr. De Florio encourages variations. We don’t want to draw attention by establishing a pattern. To ensure diversification, all processing decisions, including the actual means of death, have to be cleared prior to implementation. Once processed, death must be verified and then promptly reported.”
“Please repeat the last part,” he said.
“Death must be verified, then reported.”
“And why is that?” he asked.
“Because the risk of detection is increased beyond acceptable limits if more than one attempt at processing is needed.”
He drained the mineral water in one swallow, banging the glass on the marble bar top. “Like here. The risk of detection at last night’s second encounter was great. Frank had to get in and out of the convalescent center without being noticed. Thankfully, the Priority was housed in a facility that we control.” He paused. “At the first encounter we have the advantage of planning, surprise, and expertise. A second encounter, even though nothing may suggest foul play, narrows our area of operation and confines the field. It takes away options. In short, we lose the advantage.”
No one said anything.
“And there’s another point. In the case we’re discussing now, the Priority survived the first encounter and had to be treated medically, which adds to our cost since now those additional medical expenses will have to be paid by the company because of our mistake. That’s unacceptable. This is a cost-savings program, notcost-generating. The bottom line is clear. We have to get it right the first time, period.”
“I understand, Mr. De Florio,” Richey said. “I assure you I won’t make that mistake again.”
De Florio reached down beneath the counter and gripped the pistol. He brought up, aimed, and fired. The bullet passed right by Victor Jacks, who seemed momentarily startled. A rivulet of blood instantly streamed from a hole in the left side of Milo Richey’s head. The bullet exited out the right, splattering blood onto the sofa. Richey’s head cocked to one side, the body settling into the cushion, eyes frozen wide in death.
“No, you won’t make that mistake again,” he said, lowering the sound-suppressed pistol and returning it under the bar.
No one moved. He assumed Frank Barnard had expected it and Jacks, as the rookie, was surely professional enough to understand.
He motioned to the coffee table.
“The top two files are yours, Frank, and the bottom is for Victor. It will be your debut. They’re self-explanatory. Please act immediately. And I don’t want to have this discussion again.”
DAY THREE
THURSDAY, JUNE 8
8:05A.M.
ASHLEYREED CLIMBED INTO THE MAIL VAN AND DROVE OUT OF THEparking lot, heading for her daily route. She’d been a letter carrier for fifteen years, starting back when she was called a mailman, to her indignation. The job paid great and came with the advantage of getting her home before four o’clock so she could be there when Lori Anne climbed down off the school bus. The benefits helped too. Medical insurance relieved the worry of doctor bills, and the retirement plan was first-rate. The only thing about the job she didn’t particularly care for was the uniform. A dull blue and tight fitting, but at least it forced her to keep to a diet, along with regular exercise. Overall, her life was good. No appreciable debt. Excellent job. A wonderful daughter. Lots of friends. A perfect life.
Except for Brent Walker.
He’d first been a problem in high school, becoming more of one years later, the memories of him constantly interfering with her three marriages.
If she hadn’t changed her name after each divorce, she would now be Kristen Ashley Reed Mathis Simmons Evans. But thanks to an express provision in the third divorce decree, she again became simply Ashley Reed. Never had she used Kristen. Too formal. She preferred her middle name. Lori Anne carried a different last name. Manley Simmons, Husband Number 2, was a goodman from a local family, but the marriage failed after only three years. He paid a modest amount of child support, all his idea since she’d asked for none, and he stayed perpetually behind—but she never pressed the point legally. Husband Number 3 hadn’t fared much better, only two years from courthouse ceremony to divorce. Another good man from a good family. And her first marriage, to Kyle Mathis, was so short and unmemorable that she still generally regarded herself as having only been married twice.
