She decided it best that I see a specialist.

I hedged.

“A specialist.” Sometimes naming a thing robs it of its power. Not this time. “To run even more tests.”

“It’s what specialists do,” she said.

“Sleep apnea, MRIs, rectal exam, or what?”

“Sure, honey. Whatever sweetens the deal.”

I took a breath to protest.

“Save it,” she said. “I can finagle a referral to a clinic in New Paltz. A friend of mine runs it. Give you the once-over and then we can decide whether you have a few more years or if we should pick out a nice comfy hospice.”

“Exactly what kind of clinic? I have a strong suspicion the doorways are strung with beads. Crystals, hemp, rolling clouds of incense, doctors in ceremonial robes . . .”

“The people at General are missing something. I don’t trust them.”

That made two of us.

“All right, dear. Let me give it some consideration.” Still juking and jiving.

“Your body is a ticking bomb. One of these days there won’t be a one-of-these-days.”

“The Eternal Footman went to fetch my coat,” I said.

She snickered.

CHAPTER FIVE

Taken at face value, the case of Adeyemi’s dead nephew couldn’t get any simpler. Sean Pruitt, glorified loss prevention agent, met his fate on an otherwise routine evening in the depths of the soon-to-be-abandoned Jeffers Large Particle Collider. He suffered catastrophic blunt force trauma as a result of falling in excess of one hundred and eighty feet down Maintenance Shaft 40. One detail missing from the report was any real chart of Pruitt’s final movements. He signed in for his evening shift and at some point in the wee hours cruised out to Shaft 40 and leaped. The wife claimed he suffered depression, although his action took her by surprise. Coworkers were asked perfunctory questions, but no real interviews occurred. Sloppy policework, indicative of clock punchers working backward from a foregone conclusion.

Even accounting for wading into bureaucratic sloth, I’d earn a princely sum for going through the motions and confirming the ME’s findings. The fact it was a closed case meant zero entanglement with the police; always a plus. The problem? In my erstwhile romantic pining to tread the path of a hardboiled PI, I hadn’t envisioned taking on elite business concerns or ruthless politicians. I knew what dons could do. CEOs and senators can do worse. Smacking around small-time crooks, tailing cheating spouses, and tracking down low-rent scofflaws was always my intended bread and butter. Perhaps dealing with the occasional stiff. I’d done plenty of tracking, tailing, and smacking over the past couple of years. Just not vigorously enough to make myself whole.

Catch the second? Easy money is seldom by any means easy. The man paying me was a wolf among sheep. Adeyemi’s instincts whispered that something was amiss. I paid grudging heed. He’d climbed his mountain the hard way and made every right choice along the path. That took more than stubbornness or dumb luck. His avuncular cruelty was another of nature’s not-so-subtle warning signs. This one said WATCH YOUR ASS.