Death Warmed Over - By Kevin J. Anderson Page 0,57

No zombies allowed. No unnaturals of any kind. Security reasons.”

“My partner and I have business with Mr. Jekyll,” Robin said. “I am the attorney representing Mrs. Jekyll in their divorce, and we have some questions for her husband. His attorney may wish to be present.”

With a flustered sigh, the massive receptionist punched an extension on the phone, spoke gruffly, frowned. He hung up. “Wait here.” A moment later, the locked security door buzzed and clicked, then swung open by itself (on hydraulics—nothing to do with ghosts or haunted houses). “End of the hall. Big office. Can’t miss it.”

As we walked down the hall to Jekyll’s office, I could hear a stereo playing sparkly 1970s pop music, either the Carpenters or the Captain and Tennille. In my experience, most villains prefer dramatic classical music or Wagnerian opera. Maybe Harvey Jekyll liked to be in a happy mood.

As soon as we stepped through the door, Jekyll climbed to his feet. “What’s this about you being Miranda’s attorney?”

He was a small, pale-skinned man with a large head, even larger eyes (which reminded me of the zombie puppies in Alvin’s painting), and no hair. All in all, the type of person who might keep a plain gold ring that he liked to call Precious. His scalp wrinkled like a shriveled apple when he raised his eyebrows. Goblin mothers probably warned their teenaged sons that if they masturbated too much, they would end up looking like Harvey Jekyll.

I was afraid Robin had let the cat out of the bag, but she didn’t seem perturbed. “You filed for divorce, Mr. Jekyll, and your wife has retained my services to protect her interests in the settlement. You have been duly informed. I sent repeated inquiries and notices—at least sixteen—to your counsel by registered mail. I have the delivery confirmations.” She looked around the room. “Are you sure you don’t want your attorney present?”

He snorted. “If my lawyer was worth anything, the divorce would already be final.” Ignoring Robin as if scraping gum off his shoe, Jekyll swung his gaze over to me. He leaned forward, noting the repaired bullet hole in my forehead. “You don’t look much the worse for wear after being shot, Mr. Chambeaux.”

“Amazing what morticians can do these days, but I’m still only fit for the scratch-and-dent sale.” I tapped my brow, feeling the putty that Bruno had so skillfully applied. “Maybe you have an idea who shot me? Some personal involvement perhaps?”

The little man’s face screwed itself into a scowl. “You’ve already cost this company enough money—both of you. I wouldn’t squander the price of a bullet. You were a pain in the backside while alive, Mr. Chambeaux, and now you continue to harass me after you’re dead? I don’t take kindly to anyone slinging mud on my family name.”

I shrugged. “I have nothing against your family name. It’s you I don’t like.”

He had had enough banter. “Now, is there some reason you both came here, or were you just trying to ruffle my feathers?” He scratched his bald scalp. “I assure you, I have none to ruffle. And no secrets to hide.”

Robin said, “Why do you refuse to allow unnaturals into your factory, Mr. Jekyll? Your sign out front claims that you’re an Equal Opportunity Employer. How is an unnatural supposed to apply for a job at JLPN if he’s not allowed on the premises?” I noted the glint in her eyes, sure she was weighing the possibilities of a discrimination lawsuit.

Jekyll pinched his lips together. “The statutes governing nondiscriminatory hiring practices define the acceptable labor pool as human. The rules do not cover unnaturals. I don’t have to let them on my property.”

“And yet your product line caters to unnaturals,” I said. “A strange business choice if you dislike them so much.”

He sniffed. “I have nothing against the unnaturals, but I am concerned about corporate espionage. It’s only a matter of time before some monster entrepreneur decides to get into this highly lucrative market, and I have to protect JLPN trade secrets.”

I realized that Jekyll probably did have good reason to fear the competition. A line of necroceutical products manufactured by an unnatural instead of a human would have an obvious advantage among the customer base.

On the office stereo, the Captain and Tennille finished singing “Muskrat Love,” and now the Carpenters were “On Top of the World.” I had a sneaking suspicion Barry Manilow would be up next.

Next to the stereo sat a strange device that looked like a bullhorn mounted