Calculated in Death (In Death #36)(70)

The accident, now that he didn’t hurt like f**k every time he blinked an eyeball, had actually worked out for him. He’d get a big-ass settlement, paid time off, piles of sympathy and attention. In fact, he planned to run some numbers for himself. A big enough settlement, and he might just retire, go live the good life in Hawaii the way he’d intended to do in another six-point-four years.

When he’d first come out of it, he’d been scared. Really piss-pants scared. That maybe he’d die, or maybe they’d find irreversible brain damage with all the tests they’d run. When he stopped being scared of that—or mostly—he’d been scared about the audit. He’d barely started on it before the convention.

Okay, maybe he’d procrastinated some, but there’d been plenty of time. Should have been plenty. And he had the framework for the adjustments, the doctored figures, the clean monthly files he’d kept carefully buried on his home unit.

A couple of days to implement, run an analysis, do a recheck, and boom! Done, clear, and a fat fee wired to his holding account, then wired—by himself—to his numbered, anonymous, and tax-free account in Switzerland.

Still all good, he told himself. Just a few days later to finish it all, and still comfortably ahead of the deadline.

He hadn’t been able to contact Alexander. They hadn’t allowed him a ’link in his room, but then again, he’d been barely able to talk until yesterday. He’d take care of that as soon as he was tucked into his medical suite.

Jim Arnold hobbled over on his skin cast. “How ya doing, partner?”

“Cruising, partner.”

As Jim sat, stuck out his casted leg, he winced a bit. “I can’t wait to get back, get home. The Vegas doc said they’ll probably let me go home after they check me over. Maybe keep me one night, but then spring me. I’m sorry you weren’t as lucky.”

“Yeah.” Parzarri put on a grim face, though he liked the idea of a few days in the hospital, people fussing over him, bringing him food. “I guess I used up my luck at the blackjack table.”

“You were rolling. I wanted to tell you Sly just texted. He’ll meet us at the hospital. I told him he didn’t have to do that, but he texted back he wanted to see us for himself. You know Sly. We’re going to land in a minute. Look, my wife’s meeting me at transpo, but I can ride in with you if you want.”

“Forget it. Go ahead with the wife. Hell, you already stayed on an extra day until they let me travel.”

“Can’t leave a buddy behind. We’ve been through the war together now, partner.”

“You bet.” Parzarri lifted his hand for a high five.

He drifted in and out, comfortable and secure on his gurney as the shuttle made its landing.

Good old New York, he thought. Would he miss it when he settled down with palm trees and ocean views?

He didn’t think so.

Maybe he’d buy a little tiki bar, get somebody else to run it. It would be fun to own a bar, hang out, watch all the half-naked women sipping mai tais or whatever.

Maybe he’d learn how to surf.

Smiling to himself, he kept cruising as they rolled him out of the shuttle, fixed the gate to slide him out. He felt the sudden, wicked cold—closed his eyes and envisioned balmy breezes, sun-washed sand and surf.

“I’ll be right behind you, Chaz.” He opened his eyes briefly, gave Jim a thumbs-up, then saw his associate’s pale face light up. “Hi, honey!” And his Vegas compatriot hobbled away and into the arms of his wife.

“Happy reunion,” Parzarri mumbled as they lifted him into the back of an ambulance. Warm again, he let out a sigh. He heard voices—the in-flight nurse giving a report to the MTs, Jim’s wife babbling, Jim’s happy-I’m-home laugh.

Then the ambulance shifted a little with the weight as the MT levered himself inside, slammed the double doors. With a rumble, they began to move.

“Don’t forget the good drugs.” Parzarri smiled, looked up at the ceiling and thought of women in tiny, tiny bikinis with skin gold from the sun, wet from the sea. “Aloha.”

He felt so warm, his body so heavy. He turned his head, with effort when he felt the straps clamp around his wrists. “What’s that for?”

“Keeps you where you are.”

Puzzled, Parzarri turned his head again, stared into a familiar face. “Hey. What’re you doing? Your boss order security for me?”

“That’s right.”

“’Preciate it.”

“He wants to know if you talked to anybody.”

“Huh?”

The man reached up, turned the clamp on the IV. “Mr. Alexander wants to know if you talked to anybody about the audit, about anything.”

“Jesus, I was in a coma half the time, getting poked and prodded and imaged the rest. Who’m I gonna talk to? I need those drugs, man. It’s starting to hurt.”

“Mr. Alexander wants to know if you have any documents or files.”

“’Course I do. I’m the accountant. I’ve got everything I need to finish the audit. I can do it from the hospital once I get the files and my notebook. He can send Jake for them. He’d know what I need.”

“Mr. Alexander wants to know if you have any documents or files, or any information on his business in any other location?”