Untameable. Diana Palmer
me,” she said curtly.
He chuckled. “I’ll see if anybody else owes Mac a favor.”
“It sounded like Harold Monroe, but I couldn’t prove it. He was probably just fishing, to see if he could frighten me. And he knew I’d tell you what he said,” she added. She hesitated. “Sir, you really could use someone to watch your back. Monroe may be a certifiable idiot, but he has family connections who aren’t.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Don’t get insulted,” she added when he looked annoyed. “You FBI types always think you’re the biggest, meanest dogs on the block and usually you’re right. I don’t like funerals,” she added firmly.
“Or breaking in new bosses.”
Her eyes twinkled. “Exactly.”
“I’ll do my best to stay alive.” He started out the door and hesitated. “If my brother calls, tell him I want to talk to him. I’ll be back after two.”
“I did notice that, sir,” she added pleasantly, “having noted it on your calendar.”
His jaw clenched.
“Won’t you be late for court?” she asked. “It’s Judge Cummings sitting today, too, isn’t it, and he doesn’t like the FBI.” She smiled angelically. “Do be polite, sir.”
He muttered something under his breath.
“Sir!” she exclaimed. “This is a government office …!”
He was out the door before she could finish the sentence.
BETTY RIMES was constantly amused by Joceline’s ongoing verbal attacks on her boss.
“He could just fire you,” Betty pointed out.
“He wouldn’t dare. There are very few paralegals working outside the judicial system, where would he ever find someone to replace me?” Joceline asked, amused.
“We have a part-time administrative assistant,” she was reminded grimly. “And Phyllis Hicks does offer to make coffee for the boss.”
“I don’t do menial chores,” Joceline reiterated. “It isn’t in my job description.”
Betty sipped her coffee. “Yes, but, dear, she’d work for half what they pay you,” she added worriedly. “It’s a flat economy. So many people are out of work.”
Joceline didn’t let her uneasiness show. She just smiled. “Mr. Blackhawk is used to me and he doesn’t like strangers.”
“That’s true. It’s just that he doesn’t make the major budgetary decisions.”
Joceline stared at her. “What do you know that you’re not telling me?”
Betty bit her lip. “It’s probably nothing …”
“Tell me.”
“I overheard one of the senior agents discussing something Mr. Grier said at lunch.” Garon Grier was now the Special Agent in Charge for the Jacobsville satellite office, and he frequently showed up at the San Antonio office to have lunch with the San Antonio SAC. “Mr. Grier was disturbed at talk that they were going to reduce his office staff, and our own SAC apparently wondered out loud if we could make do with one administrative assistant for the Violent Crimes Squad here, with a part-time assistant.”
Joceline didn’t move. She stared at the other woman with dawning horror. Betty had been with the Bureau for a long time, over ten years, and she had seniority.
“I said it was probably just talk. He might have even been joking. Please don’t worry,” Betty said gently. “Probably they’ll come up with some other idea for saving money by cutting our travel budget. I just didn’t want it to come at you out of the blue. You’re a great paralegal. I know Judge Cummings would snap you up in a second for his office, or the assistant D.A. would for hers.”
That was true. But no matter how good the working conditions, or how great the pay, those offices wouldn’t contain Jon Blackhawk. While that might be a good thing, in some respects, it was devastating in another.
“Joceline, you’re not going to lose your job,” Betty said, her tone reassuring. “The SAC and Mr. Blackhawk would both fight for you.”
They would. She knew that. Despite her insistence on the parameters of her duties, she was good at what she did, and she never slacked or avoided work. There were those unavoidable times when she was late for work …
She looked up at Betty worriedly. “I’ve been late sometimes.”
The older woman was sympathetic. “Everybody knows why,” she said surprisingly.
“What?”
“We know your son has medical problems,” the older woman replied with a smile.
“But I never told anyone,” she stammered. “I mean, Mr. Blackhawk came by when I had to bring Markie to the hospital,” she began.
“And he told all of us,” she said. “He didn’t want anyone assuming that you missed work for some frivolous reason. He’s quite fond of you, in his way. Although watching him react to you is funny. You do put his back up, as they say.”
“Keeps him on his toes.” Joceline laughed. “He really does tend to brood.”
“Oh, coffee!” Phyllis said, smiling. “Can I have some, too?”
“Sure, sit down,” Joceline invited. She noted the younger woman’s clothing; it looked like the sort of thing Cammy Blackhawk would wear. But Phyllis had said her father worked as a police detective and Phyllis was in college part-time. Where would she get the money for expensive clothes? Maybe Joceline was just tired and getting irritated over minor matters.
“We were talking about our workload,” Betty commented.
“It’s so boring,” Phyllis said. “I wish I could be a detective, like my dad, and get to go to crime scenes.”
“You watch too many crime television shows, Phyllis.” Betty chuckled.
Phyllis gave her a blank stare.
“You know, those forensic programs that deal with trace evidence solving big cases,” Joceline said helpfully. “They call it fiction.”
“So many people don’t know the difference.” Betty sighed. “Now juries are so clued up that they argue with attorneys about trace evidence in murder trials. They watch a television show a few times and think they’re qualified to rule on pathological evidence.”
“Yes, it’s nothing like what they show on television,” Phyllis said. “Bodies are so clean and tidy. In real life, the blood is everywhere. It splashes around like paint …” She stopped because they were staring at her silently. “Oh, my dad lets me look at file photos sometimes,” she said quickly. “To teach me how evidence is really gathered.”
“I see,” Betty said, but she was visibly uncomfortable.
“Some of those shows are just a little too graphic for me, especially when my son might walk in and see something that would give him nightmares,” Joceline said with a smile.
“I was never squeamish, even when I was little,” Phyllis scoffed. “That murder case we worked on with Mr. Blackhawk was really fascinating, the one that Jay Copper got arrested for,” she added suddenly. “Aren’t you working with a file about that Hancock man? Digging out information about his past?”
“I’m trying to run down stuff. I got some rap sheets from San Antonio P.D. this morning. They’re on my desk. I haven’t had time to input the information. I may have to sign them out and do it at home.”
“I guess it’s a long rap sheet,” Phyllis said.
“Very.”
“Such