Dead is the New Black by Christine DeMaio-Rice Read Free Book Online Page A

office. It was six in the morning, and she expected to leave a message, but someone picked up without saying hello.
    “I’m not giving interviews.” She recognized Benito’s voice. He must have come in before the receptionist.
    She knew she had less than a second. “I work for Jeremy St. James, and I need to see him. It’s about his business.”
    “What’s your name, young lady?”
    “Laura Carnegie.” Habituated to the inevitable follow-up question, she added, “No relation.”
    “Well, Ms. Carnegie-no-relation, can you tell me what you do for him, what the issue is, and your phone number?”
    She was caught unprepared. She started with the phone number and her position, then started making stuff up. “We have this interfacing on that huge order, and they replaced the UFS-51 with UFN-72. I want to show him the test press.”
    “If you were a second worth your salt, you’d know you can’t swap a stretch with a non-woven,” he bellowed. Well, she had to scrap that. Who knew the fat lawyer was a closet garmento, as well as a personal assistant?
    “Look, we don’t know if he’s coming back, and we have a lot to do for next Friday. I have no idea if we should cancel the show, and I don’t know if anyone else is asking.”
    “I don’t think he cares right now.”
    “Then you don’t know Jeremy St. James.”
    He paused. She heard his breath on the phone and knew it reeked of black coffee. “You know how to get to Rikers?” he asked.
    “No.”
    “Well figure it out, and let me tell you before you do, it may be a wasted trip.”
    The thought of Jeremy in the Bronx was surreal enough. The thought of him in Rikers was chilling. If Central Park was the city’s backyard, Rikers was the haunted house down the block that your mother told you to stay away from.
    She took the L to the F to Queensbridge, where she got on a bus that felt like it went to the end of the earth. Signs in bold sans serif warned against picking up passengers, carrying firearms and explosives. She walked inside, toward the checkpoint, wondering if they called sharp objects shivs or shanks. She saw Tinto Benito at the counter. He pointed to her, and Laura was sure she’d be on the bus home in less than ten minutes.
    She took a deep breath and approached the desk with her head high and her heart pounding.
    “This is Laura Carnegie,” Benito said to the guard, who was seven feet tall at the outside and maybe two hundred pounds and change. Benito winked at her. She decided to shut up and let the lawyer talk. “A relation. I just put her on the list for eight o’clock.”
    “How are you related to the incarcerated?”
    Tinto spoke before she could, “Cousin.”
    Laura felt the heavy pause and clamped her mouth shut so there would be no jabbering on her part. No “my mother’s brother” this or “second twice removed” that. The next words would come from the guard if she had to stand silent like an Indian chief.
    “No cell phones,” the guard stated. “No sharp objects. No credit cards. No firearms or incendiary devices. No bags. No perishables. Lockers are in the waiting room. Please use them.”
    “Okay.” She showed him her driver’s license, gave her fingerprint, signed a list of rules she’d never remember, then went to the waiting room. She expected to see hardened criminals with their hands hanging out of their cells, banging tin cups against the bars, but the waiting room looked like a post office in a bad neighborhood. It was clean, but well-used by loud children and bored adults. Some were dressed as if for a special occasion. Some were dressed to do laundry. Nobody wanted to be there.
    Tinto slid into the seat next to her. “He said to get someone from the office, and I looked like a hero when I said you were on your way. I owe you one.”
    “I thought you were Jeremy’s assistant, with the phone calls about the vacations and all.”
    “Nope.” Tinto leaned back and poked at his cell phone. He apparently had