hired golems—walked around carrying trays of drinks or hors d’oeuvres. The zombies sniffed at textured lumps of grayish white matter, then discreetly set the hors d’oeuvres aside when they discovered the snack was, in fact, shaped tofu instead of real brains. Goodfellow had declared the clinic to be a “brain-free zone.” One entire wing of the facility was a lockdown, closely monitored withdrawal ward for addicts, so that zombies could kick the habit.
The doctors and nurses acted as tour guides, taking potential donors as well as likely patients around the facility, showing the beds, the various leatherette selections for skin replacement, the putrefaction-freshening spa, embalming-fluid top-offs, and exercise room, where there would be weekly yoga and Pilates sessions to keep the zombies limber. The staff members were especially proud of their high-throughput ventilation and air-freshening system.
Sheyenne and I signed the guest book, picked up brochures that described how Fresh Corpses was funded by the benevolence of Irwyn Goodfellow (though private donations were cheerfully accepted). Irwyn shook my hand vigorously but was careful not to do any damage; my reattached arm still suffered a few twinges. He seemed to be in his element, thriving on the attention and adulation; doing kind deeds was like a jolt of endorphins to the man. Missy Goodfellow, on the other hand, was noticeably absent.
“Now that I’ve met your sister, Mr. Goodfellow, it’s obvious that generosity doesn’t run in the family,” I said. “Did some angel loan you a halo? How did you get bitten by the philanthropy bug?”
Sheyenne looked at me as if my questions were rude, but Irwyn took no offense. “I wasn’t bitten by a bug . . . rather, I was nearly crushed by a falling piano. I didn’t think people really used pulleys and winches to haul pianos up to fourth-story windows anymore, but there I was, walking down the street, when it came crashing down in one big discordant note. Missed me by only a few inches.”
“And you took that as a sign?” Sheyenne asked.
“No, I saw it as a threat. It wasn’t an accident, you see—I didn’t need to hire a private investigator to figure that out. My father, Oswald Goodfellow, was a high-ranking member of the mob, though more of a distant uncle than an actual godfather. He had plenty of blood on his hands, and money in the accounts, mostly illegal stuff, that formed the foundation of the Smile Syndicate.
“I was being raised to follow in his footsteps, a rotten apple falling not far from the tree. But when he tried to crush a rival’s church bingo racket, the other mobsters decided to send him a message by dropping a piano on the head of his heir apparent. Fortunately for me, it missed.
“My father insisted on getting revenge, but to me it was an epiphany, like a born-again conversion. Falling pianos can do that. From that point on, I wanted nothing to do with the syndicate money, the corruption, the violence. I vowed to do good things with the family fortune. Since my sister and I inherited all the money very shortly thereafter, I could do what I liked with my share.”
“How did your father die?” Sheyenne asked.
“Oh, he died quietly in bed—someone smothered him with a pillow. The killer was never caught . . . it might have been Missy.” He shrugged. “But since she’s family, who am I to point fingers?”
Sheyenne gestured around the zombie rehab facility. “So all this money originally came from criminal activity.”
“And now it’s being put to good use. All shady Smile Syndicate operations are out of my hands and off my conscience—and I am a better person for it. Sometimes it’s hard, but I’m a man dedicated to my charities and my good works. Missy, on the other hand . . . well, at least the company accountants are happy with her. She’s been reaping plenty of profits these days.”
My phone rang, and I excused myself, stepping aside while other visitors spoke to Mrs. Saldana and Irwyn Goodfellow. “Hey, Shamble,” McGoo said. “I had a look at that pawnshop ledger, but can’t find any mention of hearts or souls. Just a lot of junk.”
I blinked. “No record at all? But Snazz told me himself he had sold seven sets already, and we know for a fact that Jerry pawned his heart and soul there.”
“Nothing listed, Scout’s honor.”
The evidence techs had combed the crime scene, dusted for fingerprints, taken all the necessary photographs, gathered and stored any items they considered useful.