Page 4 of Fiona and the Fixer

This job was important to me. Putting criminals away was important to me. We were horrible partners because I probably cared too much, and he didn’t seem to care at all. He probably wished I got another brain tumor, and I wished his hair plugs got infected.

“Let’s go.”

“I’ll be right behind you.” As in two minutes behind because the last thing I wanted to do was walk in on Trotterand Daddy IT Guy before they were done. Thankfully, Neidermeyer had distracted me, and I tried real hard not to focus back in to find out.

He grunted, probably because his belt buckle was digging in and obstructing the flow of his intestines, and headed down the hall.

I returned my focus to my computer monitor and my little side, non-work project. The list I’d compiled since I got the letter from the radiation center stating there’d been a maintenance issue with the machine during the time I’d had my treatment. I’d been able to use the FBI databases to help build a list of others who’d had radiation there between May first and May seventh. It paid to have this kind of access. While I couldn’t open medical records because of privacy laws, I’d been able to at least get the names of those who had appointments during that time.

There was one woman I specifically wanted to meet because she was the only other one in that timeframe who’d also had gamma knife radiation, not a radiation treatment for something different, like cancer.

Why? Because if I could now hear like the Bionic Woman, then maybe Hannah Highcliff could, too. I needed to know I wasn’t alone with this new secret talent. It made me feel even more alone than usual. It wasn’t like I could tell any of my coworkers. I’d be put on psych leave, which was even worse than a brain tumor.

Over the past three months, I’d been trying to train myself to filter out the constant barrage of noise. In a full office building, I could hear everyone’s phone calls,keyboards clacking, toilets flushing, coffee brewing, and copy machines running. On other floors in the building. I could also hear conversations. At first it gave me horrible headaches, but I’d gotten better at tuning most sounds out. When my name was mentioned anywhere in a two-floor radius, I focused right on in. Especially when my boss and Neidermeyer were talking about my case. Like right now.

“–Whitaker doesn’t need to know about planting the gun,” Trotter said.

I froze, stared at the framed photo of the Washington Monument out in the hallway and listened in on my boss. He and my partner were talking about me.

“Yeah, she’s too fucking by-the-books.” Neidermeyer. “I bet her closet’s organized by color.”

Didn’t everyone do that?

“I need to close more cases,” Trotter added.

I stood, rolled my shoulders back and brushed down the front of my black suit pants, even though they were crisp and clean.

They were waiting for me. I could eavesdrop and walk.

“The director’s on my ass about it,” Trotter continued.

I huffed. Trotter wasn’t a car salesman with a monthly quota.

“As usual, Whitaker’s case is solid but taking forever to build.” That was the closest thing to a compliment I was probably going to get out of Neidermeyer. “Such a rule-following hardass.” Never mind. “Planting a gun will get an arrest by next week. Think it should go in the glove box or in the guy’s gym bag?”

A weapons plant could also get all evidence I collected in my case–solid and legal proof–tossed out if it was discovered. And me, too. Because it would be me that would take the fall.

Her head’s not working rightwould probably be the excuse.

“Good. Get on it. And glove box,” Trotter said.

I smiled at a fellow agent I passed heading down the hall. I had to slow and make small talk since his wife had a baby the week before. Because of it, I missed a little of my boss and partner’s illegal plans.

“Let me know when you know more. In the meantime. Get that gun planted.”

“Yes, sir. Did you catch the end of the Rockies game? Forced RBI.”

They blathered about baseball as I made my way there. They were total dicks. My job was shit now and unless I put in for a transfer, I was stuck under Trotter. And stuck with Neidermeyer. Or they were going to fully toss me under the bus, and I’d lose my badge and my respectability within the field. I’d be blackballed.

I was a good agent with a stellar record. Hell, I was the infamous agent who even brought down her own father. No one else could say that. It was clear from the eavesdropping that my career was probably doomed here. Neidermeyer wanted me gone. Trotter had his own plans and didn’t care who he took out.

I was the agent who’d had the brain tumor. It would beso easy to blame the tumor for me to fuck with a case. To get me fired and my career tanked.

I wouldn’t be able to get a job as a mall security guard.

“Where the hell is Whitaker?” Trotter snapped, clearly done with talking sports.

“Right here,” I said, knocking and pushing his door open, cautious not to touch the doorknob or anything else after his earlier hand job. I had my case files gripped closely to my chest.

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