Murder in the Magic City, G.P. Sorrells [primary phonics books .TXT] 📗

could form any sort of opinion necessary to continue on if it turned out that something existed beyond life as he knew it.

Without hesitating, Micah opened the door and stepped inside. The air inside was stale. It felt quite a lot like the state of being it represented. A quick survey of the waiting room produced a stack of business cards placed next to a brochure stand. Micah picked up one card and looked it over.

Our Dearly Departed Funeral Parlor

Serving you in your most trying time.

136 Sw 22nd Street

Hialeah, Florida

Marco Fedorov, Owner

They set the text over a safe, floral design and the whole thing screamed of something put together quick and cheap. Curiously, the phone number had been printed on the back of the card. Micah shrugged his shoulders at the oddity and tapped a bell resting nearby on the counter. He immediately picked up a brochure and perused it, his aim to avoid suspicion. He could hear voices in the distance, but the subject of their conversation was indiscernible. The door opened a moment later, and a plump, older gentleman stepped out. The man said something to whoever he had been conversing with in the back room before letting the door rest in its frame. He approached the counter unhurriedly, a noticeable limp impeding his progress.

“How can I help you today, sir?” Though he tried to hide it, the man’s accent was unmistakably Russian. Or, at least, Eastern European. He had a calm sensibility about him, but the look on his face told Micah it had been one hell of a day.

“My father died recently,” Micah said. He forced a tear out, but acting wasn’t his strong suit. In the end, it looked as though he may have been dealing with seasonal allergies. “I’ve been thinking about it, about what he would want, and I, I think I want to have him cremated. Is that something you guys do?”

“Yes, and no. We set everything up here, sign the paperwork, but they do the actual process downtown. We have a crematorium for that process.”

“Interesting,” Micah said, hands on his waist in mock surprise. “I guess I just sort of figured you could do it all here with how big this place is.”

“Mostly storage in the back. Caskets, urns, you understand.”

“Of course.”

“City didn’t like my idea of one stop shop,” Marco said. He flashed an uneasy smile that suggested small talk was something he’d rather do without. In his line of work, it was a necessary evil, but he longed for the day when he could just sort out one corpse and move onto the next without wasting a moment dealing with the families of the deceased.

“Probably just trying to get more money out of you.”

Marco laughed. “Exactly. Bunch of crooks. So, you want me to get paperwork?”

“Sure thing.”

***

The sun had drifted far below the horizon, its embers existing as nothing more than a fleeting memory, by the time Micah rolled up to the crematorium. Tucked away within a complex of warehouses, the building of interest had been easy to spot. They placed a similar logo to the one on the business card across a large sign above the front doors. The sign itself was in subpar condition, plagued by years of use in the harsh weather of the Sunshine State, though it remained mostly legible.

Micah walked up to the door and pulled lightly on the handle. No resistance. He stepped inside and saw a collection of small offices, one of which still had the lights on. He walked over to the door labeled Jackson Bloom, Manager, and knocked.

“Yes?” Bloom didn’t look up. It was almost as if he had been expecting company. A thought Micah found a tad unsettling.

“Does Marco of Our Dearly Departed do business here?”

“Yes, he does. Has he…”

Before Bloom could finish posing his question, Micah rushed him. His pistol out, he pulled back his arm and brought it forward forcefully, introducing Bloom’s temple to the grip of the firearm. The surprised man crumpled to the floor.

Micah stepped over Bloom’s body and picked a nearby phone off the receiver. Our Dearly Departed Funeral Parlor was written below the number two on the speed dial. He pressed the button and waited for an answer.

“Our Dearly Departed, how can we help you?”

“Mister Bloom wanted me to call you to see if you could make it down here today. There’s, uh, been an incident.”

“Ah, Christ. Ok, I’ll be there shortly.”

The phone clicked, and Micah bolted into action. It wouldn’t take much time for Marco to make it to the crematorium if he were operating with the slightest bit of urgency. That meant Micah had limited time to prepare. He picked up Bloom’s body and walked over toward the furnace. He stopped when he saw a group of wooden caskets nearby.

Box number one had a dead body inside. It appeared to have been prepped and ready to go, but placed off to the side for safekeeping. Micah skipped a couple boxes before opening a fourth and placing Bloom’s body inside. He didn’t seal it, but left it open only by a crack. He walked back to the office when he heard the front door open. Hurriedly, he hid behind some nearby boxes and listened.

“Hey, Jack, where you at?” The voice was unmistakable. Micah’s ruse had worked. Marco rummaged through the offices, the delay in sounds making it appear he had opened each door and leaned down, hoping to find his compatriot huddled under a desk. “Jack!”

Marco walked past Micah, unaware that he was no longer alone. He cupped his hands around, ready to belt out the name of his coworker once more. The only sound that escaped was a grunt as he fell to the floor. Micah picked the man up, straining slightly under the weight, and walked back over to the furnace. If he were being honest with himself, he felt bad for Marco. An immigrant who had truly lived the American Dream,