Perfectly Dead by Michael A. Stackpole

Chapter 4

As she stepped from the elevator, it occurred to Miracle that, in her short association with Fyn, she'd never really seen him dressed casually—t-shirt and jeans casual anyway. This proved to be no exception. He wore a light black windbreaker over a dark blue polo shirt, and had an UnderArmor shirt beneath that. The polo shirt had not been tucked in. He is carrying his gun at the small of his back, or in a shoulder holster beneath the windbreaker. He did have on jeans, and black, steel-toed boots. She had no doubt his belt-buckle doubled as a knife, that he had another tucked into the top of one of his boots, and had a clasp-knife tucked inside a pocket.

In fact, the only thing that made him look at all touristy was a woven, straw fedora with a black cloth band. He'd bought it in the gift-shop and it made him look like a golfer. The wrap-around, Under Armor sunglasses looked sporty enough to be appropriate. She was tempted to snap a picture of him just to show the rest of the team. Fyn would tolerate it, wouldn't get mad, but he would, somehow, get even. She didn't really want to explore that possibility.

Mansfield smiled as she joined them. "You'll fit in. Where are we going?"

She consulted the file on Connor Moran. "Employment record shows him working at a sports bar—Wolfley's Neighborhood Grill at Desert Ridge?"

"Bit of a ways, but not terribly far by Phoenix standards. Shall I drive?"

"Your town." Miracle followed the two of them from the hotel, noticing how each man remained watchful, heads high, alert as if a firefight could break out at any moment. While no longer in the military, neither man had abandoned their training. That made sense for Fyn, but for Mansfield? Could someone like Bloodstone need a bodyguard?

Mansfield led them to a black, Jaguar XJL. He hit the remote button. "Which of you rides shotgun?"

"You take it, Fyn. You have longer legs."

Fyn smiled and held open the rear passenger door for her. Miracle slid in on leather seats and waited for Fyn to back his seat up before strapping in. The doors closed with a satisfyingly solid thump, and the engines subtle roar sent a little thrill through the vehicle.

Miracle took another look at Moran's file. "Bloodstone said he knew the victim. Did you, Mr. Mansfield?"

"Call me Jack, or Mansfield, none of this mister crap." Mansfield pulled out onto Scottsdale Road. "I didn't know him, more than to recognize him. Doctor Bloodstone knew him from before I even showed up on the scene. Seemed a decent sort. Couldn't have been stupid. Doctor Bloodstone only tolerates that in inverse proportion to the checks clients write him."

"So Moran was a client?"

"They talked from time to time, but I never saw money coming from Moran. He flat didn't have any."

Moran's file confirmed that idea. Though he was a Patriot by dint of his mother's family, his people had seen none of the financial successes that most folks assumed blessed all Patriots. That wasn't to say his people hadn't worked hard. They had, but economic booms and busts had broken their fortunes and cost them businesses. The fact that Moran had tried to make a go of it in the tough world of publishing was a testament to his resilience.

Fyn looked at the driver. "What is it that Bloodstone actually does?"

"I've worked for him since late 2008, and I'm still not 100% sure." Mansfield laughed as he swung right onto Indian Bend. "His clients come to him for guidance. It's life coaching, I guess, though he was doing it before that term ever got invented. And a lot of his clients have developed nutso beliefs—they follow gurus. He tends to refocus them. That has cost a couple of guys some high-profile supporters, and they're not too pleased about all that."