Page 5 of Fiona and the Fixer

Neidermeyer was settled in one of the office chairs with a full man spread. Trotter stood behind his desk, hands on hips. Hands I wondered if he’d washed after–

“Right. What’ve you got on your case?”

I studied the two. They were shadier than a beach umbrella. I was going down. It was only a matter of time.

Taking a deep breath, I offered a quick rundown on the latest.

Trotter nodded like a slow mo bobblehead doll as I recounted the latest wiretaps.

“It’s slow going and your idea about planting a gun would certainly move things along.”

Yeah, I said that.

Neidermeyer sat up as if cattle prodded. Started sputtering.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Trotter asked, eyes wide.

I shrugged. “I’d say a gym bag is the better choice for a plant because it’ll be easier to access.”

The duo stared at me, unblinking. Neidermeyer’s beadygaze narrowed. I didn’t miss the sweat dotting his upper lip. “Where’d you hear that?”

I shrugged. “You two should plan a little quieter.”

“Miss Goody Two Shoes snooping at doors now?” Neidermeyer wondered.

“Oh, so you really are going to plant a gun.”

“I didn’t say that.”

I nodded once. “Yes, you did. Plus, you just implied it as well.”

“How long were you out there?”

“I wasn’t. Ask Rogers. I got delayed talking with him by the break room. He’s got a new baby girl. Name’s Emma. I hope you two signed the card that’s been going around.”

Trotter’s eyes flicked left and right, coming up with a different possibility. “You bugged my office?”

I tapped a finger to my chin. I hadn’t considered that angle, but ha! Oh, this was fun. I liked seeing these two nervous. They should be. “Hmm. You should call up IT and have someone do a sweep. Maybe… Brian?”

Trotter’s face went from the color of oatmeal to that of an eight-year-old girl’s bubble gum pink bedroom. Then his eyes narrowed and went cold. “Neidermeyer, get out,” he snapped, but didn’t take his gaze off me.

For a second, Neidermeyer was surprisedhewas the one to be kicked out. He stood, then lumbered out while giving me a death glare. Whatever. He was about as important as an overweight mall Santa the week after Christmas.

“Shut the door behind you,” Trotter called. “You got a bug in here?” he repeated once we were alone.

I gave him a wide eyed stare, as if the idea was preposterous, when in fact reality was. “Me? I work for the FBI. Why would I need to bug my boss’s office?”

“You know–”

“How to do my job? That you’ve had it in for me since you got here?” I’d been in this field office longer than him.

“You have a chip on your shoulder.”

That was something I’d heard before. Bitchy was another. I wasn’t even going to go into gender politics, but it sucked.

“I’m not going down for an illegal plant you and Neidermeyer are planning on my case.”

“Not everything has to be done by the book. Sometimes it’s done with a handshake.”

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