Dalton Rev thundered into the parking lot of Salt River High, a squat brick building at the top of a grassless hill that looked more like the last stop of the hopeless than a springboard to the college of your choice. His black scooter wove through groups of students waiting for the first bell, muffler growling like a defective chain saw. In Dalton’s line of work it was vital to make a good first impression, especially if by good you meant utterly intimidating.

He parked away from a pool of mud, chained his helmet to the tire, and unzipped his leather jacket. Underneath was a crisp white dress shirt with a black tie. His work uniform. It tended to keep people guessing. And guessing was good. A few extra seconds could mean the difference between being stomped to jelly or not, some steroid case busy wondering, What kind of loser wears a tie with steel-toe boots?

Dalton did.

He was, after all, a professional.

Who’d come to do a job.

That involved a body.

Wrapped in duct tape and hanging from the goalposts at the end of the football field.

People have problems. You can solve them for cash.

Dalton needed to figure out why The Body was at the morgue instead of snoring its way through algebra. Then he’d get paid. But until a big wad of folding green was tucked safely into his boot, he was Salt River’s newest transfer fish.

“Nice tie, asshat!” someone yelled. Kids began to crowd around, hoping for a scene, but Dalton ignored them, turning toward a chrome sandwich truck in the corner of the parking lot. His cropp...