Seated at the conference table with her requisite Kasper suit and Starbucks mug, Human Resources Director Ruth Bogart paged through a brown expandable file. A file that was too thick from too many forms being shoved into it, and worn from too many bureaucratic fingers paging through. A file John was pretty sure had his name printed on the label.
He should have been worried for his job. At the very least he should have been concerned that he was about to lose his salary and health insurance. Not to mention bear witness to the end of a law enforcement career that had taken him twenty years to build.
The problem was, John didn’t give a damn. In fact, he didn’t give a good damn about a whole hell of a lot these days. Self-destructive, he knew; not a first for that, either. But at the moment all he felt was mild annoyance that he’d been pulled away from his cranberry muffin and dark roast.
“You wanted to see me?” he said to no one in particular.
“Have a seat.” Denny McNinch motioned toward one of four sleek leather chairs surrounding the table. He was a large man who wore his suits too tight and never removed his jacket, probably because his armpits were invariably wet with sweat. John wondered if he knew that the field agents and administrative assistants called him Swamp Ass behind his back.
Two years ago, when John had first come on board with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation, Denny had been a field agent. He’d been a weight lifter and could run a five-minute mile with a fifty-pound pack strapped to his back. He’d been a decent marksman and a black belt in karate. Nobody fucked with Denny McNinch. Back in the day, he’d been a real ass-kicker. Then he’d begun the arduous climb up the political ladder. Somewhere along the way he’d become more figurehead than principal. He stopped shooting. Stopped running. Too much deskwork turned brawn to flab, respect from his peers to mild disdain. John didn’t have any sympathy; Denny had made his choices. There were worse fates for a man.
Rummel, on the other hand, was a paper-pusher from the word go. He was small in stature with a wiry build and a Hitleresque mustache that had made more than one field agent crack a smile at an inappropriate moment. But it was usually the last time they smiled at Jason Rummel. Rummel made up for his physical shortcomings by being a mean son of a bitch. A real corporate sociopath. The man with the hatchet. At fifty, he was at the top of the Bureau’s political food chain. He was a predator with big fangs and sharp claws and a proclivity for using both. He fucked up careers for the sheer entertainment value.
As John pulled out a chair, he figured he was about to be on the receiving end of those claws. “What’s the occasion?” he asked. “Someone’s birthday?”
McNinch took the chair beside him without speaking, without making eye contact. Not a good sign. None of this was.
“Don’t be a smart-ass,” he muttered.
Rummel chose to stand. The short man striving to be tall. He walked to the table and looked down at John. “Agent Tomasetti, you’ve had a remarkable law enforcement career.”
“Remarkable isn’t the adjective most people use,” John said.
“You came to BCI with the highest of recommendations.”
“A day I’ll bet you’ve regretted ever since.”
Rummel smiled. “That’s not true.”
John scanned the three faces. “Look, I think everyone in this room knows you didn’t call me in here to slap me on the back and tell me how remarkable I am.”
McNinch sighed. “You didn’t pass the drug test, John.”
“I’m on medication. You know that.” It was the truth; he had prescriptions. Several, in fact. Too goddamn many if he wanted to be honest about it. He didn’t feel inclined to be honest.
Ruth Bogart spoke for the first time. “Why didn’t you write it down on the form when you gave your urine sample?”
John shot her a dark look. “Because the drugs I take are nobody’s goddamn business.”
Bogart’s face reddened through her Estée Lauder makeup.
McNinch shifted uncomfortably. “Look, John, can your doctor verify the script?” he asked reasonably. The peacekeeper. The man in the middle. The man who used to be just like John until too much paperwork turned him into another fat guy in a suit who didn’t count for shit.
“I’m sure he can.” Another lie, but it would buy him some time. John figured it was the best he could hope for at this juncture.
Bogart piped up again, angry now because John had embarrassed her in front of her colleagues. “I’ll need the name and number of your physician.”
“Which one? I have several.”
“The one who prescribed the pills.”
“They’ve all prescribed pills.”
Bogart shook her head. “Give me the names, John.”
He could tell by her expression she’d wanted to call him asshole, but she didn’t have the balls. Ruth Bogart was far too politically correct to say what she really thought. She’d wait until your back was turned, then sink the knife in good and deep.