"Are you all right, Ms. Blake?" Lionel Bayard asked.
The voice startled me. "Yeah, I'm fine."
"You don't look well."
"I don't like to fly," I said.
He gave a weak smile. I don't think I was inspiring confidence in Lionel Bayard, lawyer and flunkie of Beadle, Beadle, Stirling, and Lowenstein. Lionel Bayard was a small, neat man with a tiny blond mustache that looked like it was as much facial hair as he would ever get. His triangular jaw was as smooth as my own. Maybe the mustache was glued on. His brown suit with a thin yellow tweed fit his body like a well-tailored glove. His thin tie was brown-and-yellow striped with a gold tie tack. The tie tack was monogrammed. His slender leather briefcase was monogrammed as well. Everything matched, down to his gold-tasseled loafers.
Larry twisted in his seat. He was sitting beside the pilot. "You're really afraid of flying?" I could see his lips move, but all the sound came out of my headset; without them we'd never have been able to talk over the noise. He sounded amused.
"Yes, Larry, I'm really afraid of flying." I hoped sarcasm traveled the headsets as clearly as amusement did.
Larry laughed. Evidently, sarcasm traveled. Larry looked freshly scrubbed. He was dressed in his other blue suit, his white shirt--which was one of three he owned--and his second-best tie. His best tie had blood all over it. He was still in college, working weekends for us until he graduated. His short hair was the color of a surprised carrot. He was freckled and about my height, short, with pale blue eyes. He looked like a grown-up Opie.
Bayard was working hard at not frowning at me. The effort showed enough that he shouldn't have bothered. "Are you sure you're up to this assignment?"
I met his brown eyes. "You better hope I am, Mr. Bayard, because I'm all you got."
"I am aware of your specialized skills, Ms. Blake. I spent the last twelve hours contacting every animating firm in the United States. Phillipa Freestone of the Resurrection Company told me she couldn't do what we wanted, that the only person in the country who might be able to do it was Anita Blake. élan Vital in New Orleans told us the same thing. They mentioned John Burke but weren't confident that he could do all we wanted. We must have all the dead raised or it's useless to us."
"Did my boss explain to you that I am not a hundred percent sure that I can do it?"
Bayard blinked at me. "Mr. Vaughn seemed very confident that you could do what we asked."
"Bert can be as confident as he wants. He doesn't have to raise this mess."
"I realize the earthmoving equipment has complicated your task, Ms. Blake, but we did not do it deliberately."
I let that go. I'd seen the pictures. They'd tried to cover it up. If the construction crew hadn't been local with some Bouvier sympathizers, they'd have plowed up the boneyard, poured some concrete, and voilá, no evidence.
"Whatever. I'll do what I can with what you've left me."
"Would it have been that much easier if you had been brought in before the graves were disturbed?"
"Yeah."
He sighed. It vibrated through the headphones. "Then my apologies."
I shrugged. "Unless you did it personally, you're not the one who owes me an apology."
He shifted a little in his seat. "I did not order the digging. Mr. Stirling is on site."
"The Mr. Stirling?" I asked.
Bayard didn't seem to get the humor. "Yes, that Mr. Stirling." Or maybe he really expected me to know the name.
"You always have a senior partner looking over your shoulder?"
He used one finger to adjust his gold-framed glasses. It looked like an old gesture from a time before new glasses and designer suits. "With this much money at stake, Mr. Stirling thought he should be in the area in case there were more problems."
"More problems?" I asked.
He blinked at me rapidly, like a well-groomed rabbit. "The Bouvier matter."
He was lying. "What else is going wrong with your little project?"
"Whatever do you mean, Ms. Blake?" His manicured fingers smoothed down his tie.