John recited the names of three doctors and gave her the phone numbers. There were more doctors—he’d done quite a bit of shopping around—but he stopped there since prescription shopping was illegal in most states.
John leaned back in his chair. “If you guys are after my ass, you should have called me in here about my performance or attendance instead of this drug test thing. Considering my history with BCI and the Cleveland Division of Police, termination based on a urinalysis could be tricky.” He lowered his voice. “People hate it when the good guy gets the shaft. I don’t think you need that kind of negative PR. Hell, if this were to go to litigation . . .” He shrugged.
McNinch looked alarmed. “John, no one’s after your ass.”
“We don’t expect this to go to litigation,” Bogart added.
John didn’t believe either of them.
Rummel set a leather-bound notebook on the table and sat. “Is there a correlation between the drugs and your attendance?”
John couldn’t help it; he laughed. But with his career in the toilet, his life already down the drain, there wasn’t anything remotely funny about any of this. Except for maybe Rummel’s ridiculous mustache.
The deputy superintendent shot Bogart a look. She passed him a sheet of paper. Rummel set the papers down without looking at them. “You’ve missed ten days of work this year and it’s only January.”
“I had the flu.”
“For ten days?”
“It was bad.”
In his peripheral vision, John saw Bogart roll her eyes.
Rummel frowned. “John, you’re bound by the employee handbook just like everyone else.”
Bogart chimed in. “You’ll need to provide us with a note from your doctor.”
“I went to a clinic.”
“An invoice will do,” she said. “For documentation.”
John scanned their faces, his heart rate kicking up. Two years ago he’d had high hopes for the field agent position with BCI. He’d hoped a new job in a new city would provide him a fresh start. He’d hoped it would save him from the black hole that had sucked him down since the fiasco in Cleveland. Or maybe save him from himself. BCI was a top-notch agency. The field agent position was a far cry from working narcotics. His duties were more diverse. He spent less time on the street. There was less stress. The people were decent. Well, except for Rummel.
But like a hiker with a backpack full of stones, John had brought his problems to Columbus with him. The rage. The grief. The outrage at the unfairness of life. His reputation and the stigma. Once in Columbus, cut off from what few friends he had left, he became even more isolated. The fresh start he’d hoped for became a whole new nightmare rife with all the trimmings. Different doctors. Same problems. Same drugs. Same bottle of Chivas. The new job became a new failure. The names had changed, but the move hadn’t changed a thing.
Now, the brass at BCI wanted him gone, and at the age of forty-two, John was facing early retirement. Or maybe a security officer position at the local Kroger. But John wasn’t ready to call it quits. The sad truth was there wasn’t much out there for a former detective with a psych sheet, a reputation as a rogue cop, and the work record of a stoned college student. The grand jury in Cleveland might have returned a no bill, but the stigma would follow him the rest of his life.
Rummel gazed steadily at John. “Have you considered early retirement? Taking into account your service with the Cleveland Division of Police, we could wrangle you a deal.”
John knew he should jump at the opportunity. Shoot the horse and put it out of its misery. But God, he didn’t want to give up on his career. If he did that he might as well be dead. Even that option had crossed his mind a time or two, but he didn’t have the guts.
“What kind of deal?” he asked.
Rummel came forward in his chair, his rodent eyes gleaming. “In case you’re not reading between the lines here, John, this is not a request.”
“Take the deal,” McNinch said quietly.
“It’s more than fair,” Bogart put in. “Full bennies. Company car.”
John’s temper writhed. Contempt for these people was like a serpent beneath his skin, twisting, ready to slither out and strike. “Fair probably isn’t quite the right word, is it?”
“We know what you’ve been through,” Bogart soothed.
“I seriously doubt it.” John said the words through teeth clenched so tightly his jaws ached.
“We sympathize with your . . . situation.” This from Rummel.
John looked at him, wondering how many times the man had said those hollow words to other agents who’d lost partners or loved ones. Insincere son of a bitch; he was probably enjoying this. He envisioned himself lunging over the table, grabbing the other man’s collar and slamming his face into the rosewood surface until his nose was a bloody pulp. He could feel his pulse throbbing at his temples. The blood roaring in his ears.
Silently, he counted to ten, the way Doc Pop-a-pill had instructed. It didn’t help. “I’ll take it under advisement,” he ground out.