Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 77292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
And Mad Maddox has one mission. Get to the coroner as quickly as possible. Speed limit be damned.
It’s the middle of the night. No one’s going to pull me over in the middle of the night. The cops who are on duty this time of night are focusing on our city’s many murderers and rapists.
Alissa swallows. “So you said this man did your father’s autopsy?”
“Correct.”
“Bill, you said his name was.”
“Bill Lassard, yeah.”
“And he’s a…friend of the family?”
“I guess you could say that, yeah.”
Bill isn’t a family friend. At least not in the way Alissa means. He’s the city’s head coroner, and he rubbed elbows with my dad during his term as mayor.
But Alissa doesn’t know about my dad. And now certainly isn’t the time to tell that story.
“And you’re sure we can trust him?”
I rub at the back of my neck. “Fuck, Alissa. I can’t know for sure after all we’ve been through. But Bill Lassard is great at what he does, and he never asks too many questions. He’s not a member of Aces, so he has no connection to Rouge as far as I know. He’s our best bet. Speaking of which”—I reach into my pocket and grab my cell phone, speaking into its receiver—“Hey Siri, call Bill Lassard’s cell.”
It doesn’t ring at all. Just goes straight to his voicemail.
“You’ve reached Bill Lassard. Sorry to miss your call. Please leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
Alissa sighs. “Sounds like we may have to wait until morning. He probably has his phone on sleep mode.”
“You can break through Do Not Disturb if you make two calls back-to-back.” I tap the phone again.
This time it rings. Three times, four times.
And then the voicemail message again.
“Maddox, I think—”
“No. One more time.”
I make the call once more, letting it ring once, twice—
A groggy voice comes through the other end. “Christ, Maddox, do you know what time it is?”
“Bill. Thank God you answered. Listen, I know it’s late, but I have an emergency. Something I need you to look at as soon as possible. How close are you to the morgue downtown?”
“I live right around the corner, but—”
“I wouldn’t be calling if it weren’t an emergency. Please. I’m five minutes away from there myself. Can you meet us there?”
“Shit.” He yawns through the phone. “Are you sure it can’t wait until morning?”
“A hundred percent. Cannot wait.”
“What the hell. I suppose I owe you.”
I wrinkle my forehead. What the fuck does Bill owe me for? I haven’t seen him since he handed me the report for my dad’s autopsy.
Maybe Dad did him some favors during his term as mayor that Bill was never able to pay back.
Shit. What kind of favors would a mayor be doing a coroner? Was Dad into some bad shit?
He had all those sex scandals after his so-called HOUSE bill ruined his entire political career, but that was the worst of what came to light as his approval ratings took a nosedive.
Was there more?
And fuck… Does that mean I can’t trust Bill?
I rub my forehead. I don’t know what to think anymore.
Why the fuck is this my job?
I guess normally the spouse of the deceased takes care of funeral arrangements, but Dad unloaded Mom a few months before he died. I’m his legal next of kin.
But given Dad’s position, you’d think the City of Chicago would be making his arrangements.
Then again, he plunged half the city into unemployment and homelessness in his last year, so maybe they didn’t feel particularly obligated to shell out for his posthumous expenses.
His estate is covering the cost of everything, but I’m the one who has to deal with all the little details. Pick out a coffin, arrange a burial, even decide which suit he’ll spend eternity in.
Probably that Armani suit he hated so much, the one he wore the night of my eighteenth birthday. That would be some fucking justice.
I got a call from Bill Lassard, the city coroner, asking me to come in and identify the body.
Such a fucking joke. Any person in this city could identify Henry Hathaway’s body. His face has been plastered all over protestors’ signs and unflattering political cartoons the last few years. Even after he lost the election, and even after his death, his face has become synonymous with political corruption and government overreach.
Bill Lassard meets me at the door. He’s a skinny guy, balding, wearing a suit two sizes too big and giant round glasses. A wiry goatee frames the lower half of his face. He reaches out a hand.
“Maddox Hathaway, I presume?”
“The First Disgrace himself,” I mutter.
That was what the newspapers called me after my birthday party. After I shunned the Hathaway political dynasty in front of all of Dad’s then-allies.
When Dad’s reputation went south, it took on a whole new meaning.