Cassandra had dinner waiting on the coffee table—the food thoughtfully arranged on real plates, a cold beer, a glass of ice water with a slice of lemon. Even though she had little to work with—a Barbie doll kitchen, a meager budget, frequent carryout—she always managed to present a nice meal. “You are the maestro of turning chicken shit into chicken salad,” he said as he sat next to her.
“A compliment? Breathe in too much formaldehyde today?”
“Nope. Just hit myself with fifty micrograms of fentanyl before I locked up.”
Cassandra turned sharply. “Don’t even joke about that. Hardly a year goes by without a nurse or pharmacist or anesthesia resident getting fired for stealing vials of fentanyl or Demerol.”
“Ampules of IV narcotics are the enriched uranium of the drug trade,” David said. “If I formed an alliance with one of our street-corner entrepreneurs, you and I would be looking at mansions in Scarsdale by year’s end.”
“You’re scaring me, David. I know you have access to the lab’s drug cabinet. Please tell me you’d never do that.”
“Moi?” he said with mock surprise.
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