against a reinforced concrete support column waiting for the steel garage door to start clanking up with that loud metal on metal screech the maintenance guy never seemed able to fix. Had his ankles crossed in a pose he thought looked extremely cool if anyone happened to notice. Dressed in corporate casual: chinos, a lightweight navy polo shirt, and Top-Siders sans socks. Always fantasized the life depicted in Ralph Lauren ads—to glow with the subtle patina of old money. Instead of leaning against a bare concrete column, he should be leaning against a granite column on his mansion’s front steps and circular flagstone drive.
Why couldn’t he have been born into money? The luck of the draw, he supposed. He’d had the bad fortune to grow up in a working-class neighborhood. Instead of a father with an undertaking business on the first floor of the family home, his dad should’ve come from a family with enough power to keep him out of jail if he piled up the Benz after too many Heinekens with his school buddies.
He should be enjoying the privileges of a Florida winter home and a Nantucket beach house for those times he needed a break from his plush Manhattan co-op and the rushof city life, living off a trust fund with a seven-figure income regardless of whether or not he chose to work at his father’s brokerage. He threw the cigarette into the drain. What the hell was taking Gerhard so long? He’d called from the car, giving an ETA of ten minutes. Meaning he should be here by now. Fucking Seattle traffic.
Parallel rows of concrete columns ran the length of the floor, which made some parking spots a bitch to get into. But the good news was this section was totally isolated from the adjacent larger basement area, making it perfect for transporting bodies. For reasons he never could understand, dead bodies always seemed to spook people.
He heard the motor catch, followed by the metallic grind as the heavy door started up. The distinctive grille of the black Chrysler nosed in. Ditto moved away from the column and waited for Gerhard to park and pop the trunk.
Gerhard stepped out, arched his back, arms stretched above his head. He stayed like that a moment. “Come on, let’s get these taken care of.”
Ditto went to the trunk. “What’s wrong?”
“Customs. They stopped me to check the shipment.”
Ditto looked in the trunk for the suitcase with a discreet DFH Inc. sticker next to the handle, the one that carried the specimens. Lifting it out, he examined the seals and saw the slits. As far as he was concerned, turning those heads into unidentifiable ash couldn’t happen soon enough. Then maybe the crazy recurring vision of Detective what’s her name would stop haunting him.
“What exactly happened?”
“Nothing, really, but it fucking freaked me.” Leo hefted the remaining suitcase from the trunk, closed and locked the lid before following Ditto to the elevator.
“Tell me exactly what happened,” Ditto said, stepping into the cage. He poked the first-floor button. The door closed, and they started up as Gerhard explained in his whiny voice.
When starting Ditto’s Budget Funeral Services, he invested in an Ener-Tek IV Cremation System. He loved that particular model because it had relatively quick throughput, taking only seventy-five minutes or less per body, allowing for up to fifteen cremations in eighteen hours. But hell, no one could be that busy. More importantly, the Smoke-Buster 190 feature eliminated airborne particulates and odor from the cremation process, making it environmentally sound. What’s not to like?
The unit was large, almost ten feet high, eight feet wide, and twelve and a half feet long, and front loaded. Ditto punched a button. The square, recessed front door opened noiselessly, exposing the firebox. What a beauty. It was already fired and ready to go.
Ditto watched Gerhard throw the suitcase on a stainless steel dissection table unsnap the locks open. Inside were four bundles
Why couldn’t he have been born into money? The luck of the draw, he supposed. He’d had the bad fortune to grow up in a working-class neighborhood. Instead of a father with an undertaking business on the first floor of the family home, his dad should’ve come from a family with enough power to keep him out of jail if he piled up the Benz after too many Heinekens with his school buddies.
He should be enjoying the privileges of a Florida winter home and a Nantucket beach house for those times he needed a break from his plush Manhattan co-op and the rushof city life, living off a trust fund with a seven-figure income regardless of whether or not he chose to work at his father’s brokerage. He threw the cigarette into the drain. What the hell was taking Gerhard so long? He’d called from the car, giving an ETA of ten minutes. Meaning he should be here by now. Fucking Seattle traffic.
Parallel rows of concrete columns ran the length of the floor, which made some parking spots a bitch to get into. But the good news was this section was totally isolated from the adjacent larger basement area, making it perfect for transporting bodies. For reasons he never could understand, dead bodies always seemed to spook people.
He heard the motor catch, followed by the metallic grind as the heavy door started up. The distinctive grille of the black Chrysler nosed in. Ditto moved away from the column and waited for Gerhard to park and pop the trunk.
Gerhard stepped out, arched his back, arms stretched above his head. He stayed like that a moment. “Come on, let’s get these taken care of.”
Ditto went to the trunk. “What’s wrong?”
“Customs. They stopped me to check the shipment.”
Ditto looked in the trunk for the suitcase with a discreet DFH Inc. sticker next to the handle, the one that carried the specimens. Lifting it out, he examined the seals and saw the slits. As far as he was concerned, turning those heads into unidentifiable ash couldn’t happen soon enough. Then maybe the crazy recurring vision of Detective what’s her name would stop haunting him.
“What exactly happened?”
“Nothing, really, but it fucking freaked me.” Leo hefted the remaining suitcase from the trunk, closed and locked the lid before following Ditto to the elevator.
“Tell me exactly what happened,” Ditto said, stepping into the cage. He poked the first-floor button. The door closed, and they started up as Gerhard explained in his whiny voice.
When starting Ditto’s Budget Funeral Services, he invested in an Ener-Tek IV Cremation System. He loved that particular model because it had relatively quick throughput, taking only seventy-five minutes or less per body, allowing for up to fifteen cremations in eighteen hours. But hell, no one could be that busy. More importantly, the Smoke-Buster 190 feature eliminated airborne particulates and odor from the cremation process, making it environmentally sound. What’s not to like?
The unit was large, almost ten feet high, eight feet wide, and twelve and a half feet long, and front loaded. Ditto punched a button. The square, recessed front door opened noiselessly, exposing the firebox. What a beauty. It was already fired and ready to go.
Ditto watched Gerhard throw the suitcase on a stainless steel dissection table unsnap the locks open. Inside were four bundles
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