Page 23 of The Wrong Side of the Law

Chapter Seven

Gabriel

One more Friday at the office.

No, scratch that. One more Friday evening at the office. This far past sunset, it’s been dark outside for hours.

Maybe I should just give up, let Whitehall have his way. Let him keep his comfy chair on the fourth floor. If it’s this much hassle to run just the Narcotics Unit, which is relatively well-funded and well-staffed, how much worse would it be at the State Attorney’s level, adding in all the other units? Child Abuse, Domestic Crimes, Organized Crime, Human Trafficking, Sex Crimes… What sane man wants to put himself through all this crap just to go after an even bigger job for not a lot more money?

And that’s before we even get to the elections.

I sigh, looking out the window at the lights of Point Lookout. Houses and apartment buildings are brightly lit. Headlights and taillights glow line the streets. Cars are carrying people home, taking them to their families and friends. In the distance, lights even spot the vast darkness of the Atlantic Ocean: cargo ships, bound for Port Everglades or Jacksonville; the Navy, sailing out of Mayport.

And I’m sitting at this desk dealing with admin bullshit and office politics. And it’s even by my own choice.

A sudden blast of regret washes over me. I chose this. I could have had the home and family, but I chose this instead.

A distant, faint clatter in the hallway intrudes on the maudlin crap. A wheel? And with it, the sharp click of shoes on the polished concrete floors. It’s not quite nine o’clock yet. The janitors don’t usually come this early. Maybe they’re trying to get home to their families, too?

The worn-out wheels stop outside my office, but the footsteps continue into the receptionist’s area, though muffled by the thin industrial-grade carpeting.

“Knock-knock,” a voice says.

It’s Emily Wilson.

“Come in, Miss Wilson.”

The pretty redhead steps inside my office, carrying a single file folder.

“Well, that’s a lighter load than you had last time I saw you,” I say, forcing a smile. “Or did you leave the rest of it in the wheelbarrow in the hallway?”

“Wheelbarrow, sir?” Her voice is neutral, her eyes cool.

“I heard… I don’t know,” I say. “It sounded like a cart or something in the hallway. Before you came in.”

“Oh,” she says. “The mop bucket.”

“I’m sorry, what now? A mop bucket?” Is this the setup for a joke or something? Or, given her financial situation, there’s another possibility. “If you’re having to moonlight as a janitor, I mean, we can probably get you a raise.”

“No, thank you, but that’s okay. I just wanted to make sure that you heard me coming,” she says. “I didn’t want to startle you. Again.”

Ouch. She’s still neutral, but then so is Sweden. Neutral, and very, very cold.

“I… appreciate that. I think.”

I wait for her to say something, but she doesn’t.

I sigh. I really didn’t handle things in the best possible way the other day. Tired and startled is no way to begin any sort of conversation that you want to end well.

“What can I do for you?”

“The cases you wanted me to look at,” she says, holding up her manila folder. “I briefed each one of them. Made notes about potential issues, and any areas where you might find some extra publicity.”

Emily sounds detached, bored. Indifferent. Scanning my desk and finding no place to put it, she says “Hm. I guess I’d better just leave this on Karin’s desk.”

“No, just give it to me,” I tell her, suddenly irritated by the woman’s detached coldness. Okay, fine. I get it. I reacted badly the other day. I was in a shit mood and you startled me. But seriously, get over it already. And, really: think about things for a second. Do you really want to act like this toward your boss? You’re skirting right on the very edge of insolence.

“Will that be all?” she asks, once the file is in my hand. She’s already turning to leave, hardly even giving me a chance to respond.

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