giving Beamon the somewhat imaginary title of ASAC-Flagstaff would make him a laughingstock. And as an added benefit, it would separate Beamon from his old cohort Laura Vilechi before he could bring her over to the dark side.
Unfortunately, the expansion of the office was going to cost taxpayers hundreds of thousands of dollars and leave quite a few agents who ownedhomes in Phoenix with a long and utterly pointless commute. Welcome to the FBI.
“Think we should rename the office Jericho, D.?” Beamon said, ignoring the door to his outer office and walking through a gap in the newly framed wall.
His secretary stood and followed him as he passed by her and went straight for the coffeemaker next to his desk.
“You need one, D.?” Beamon asked, dumping a couple of teaspoons of sugar into his cup.
“No thanks. How went the golf game?”
Beamon flopped into the worn leather chair behind his desk. “Jake shot like a four hundred or something,”
His secretary grimaced.
“And that was for twelve holes. I took off before they teed up the thirteenth.”
“You know what they say, Mark. The best-laid plans …”
He threw his hands up in a gesture of frustration and grabbed the neatly folded newspaper off his desk.
“Two things, Mark. First, you still need to review and sign off on this year’s pro forma budget. It’s past due.”
Beamon pretended not to hear. He hadn’t yet built up the willpower to wade through that ocean of paper.
“Second, Chet Michaels has been walking by every five minutes or so for the last hour. He looks like he’s going to burst. Should I send him in?”
“Ten minutes, D. Hold him off for ten minutes.Give me a chance to at least skim the newspaper and get a little caffeine into my system. And I promise I’ll go through your budget at home tonight.”
She nodded and started back for her desk.
“Hey, D.?”
She stopped and turned back toward him, her sharp, youthful features melting into a sly smile.
Since Beamon’s first day in Flagstaff, his secretary had steadfastly refused to tell him her given first name, preferring to be called by her first initial. Of course, he could have looked in her personnel file, but what would be the fun of that?
“I was listening to this Johnny Cash song on the way to work today …”
She shook her head sadly. “Good try, Mark. But it’s not Delia.”
“The old saying is wrong,” Beamon said, poking an index finger into the open newspaper spread across his desk. “Kill all the journalists.”
From his position at the door to the office, Chet Michaels took it that his boss’s sacred and absolutely inviolable ten minutes were up.
“Look at this headline,” Beamon said. ‘“FBI Baffled by Double Murder/Kidnapping.’ Shit.”
“You aren’t?” Michaels said as he sat down in one of the three chairs lined up in front of Beamon’s desk.
“There are a few things that baffle me, Chet. Serial killers? Occasionally. Women? More often than not.” Beamon looked down at the stained concrete floor of his office. “Why they ripped up my old carpet when the new one isn’t due for another couple of weeks? Definitely haven’t figured that one out.But kidnappings? No way. At worst I’m briefly perplexed.”
Michaels laced his hands across his stomach and leaned back in his chair. “Well, they were probably talking about me, then. If you’ve got this thing figured out, I could really use some help.”
Beamon spun the paper around so Michaels could see it and slapped his palm on a picture of Jennifer Davis. “Voilà.”
“What?”
“What do you mean, ‘What?’ She did it.” Michaels’ bright red eyebrows rose. “The little girl?”
“Honestly, Chet. Sometimes your lack of cynicism disgusts me. Answer me this: Why do people kidnap?”
“I dunno. Lots of reasons, I guess.”
“No. There are only three. Financial benefit, blackmail, or you want the kid. Of course, each of those categories has a subheading or
Unfortunately, the expansion of the office was going to cost taxpayers hundreds of thousands of dollars and leave quite a few agents who ownedhomes in Phoenix with a long and utterly pointless commute. Welcome to the FBI.
“Think we should rename the office Jericho, D.?” Beamon said, ignoring the door to his outer office and walking through a gap in the newly framed wall.
His secretary stood and followed him as he passed by her and went straight for the coffeemaker next to his desk.
“You need one, D.?” Beamon asked, dumping a couple of teaspoons of sugar into his cup.
“No thanks. How went the golf game?”
Beamon flopped into the worn leather chair behind his desk. “Jake shot like a four hundred or something,”
His secretary grimaced.
“And that was for twelve holes. I took off before they teed up the thirteenth.”
“You know what they say, Mark. The best-laid plans …”
He threw his hands up in a gesture of frustration and grabbed the neatly folded newspaper off his desk.
“Two things, Mark. First, you still need to review and sign off on this year’s pro forma budget. It’s past due.”
Beamon pretended not to hear. He hadn’t yet built up the willpower to wade through that ocean of paper.
“Second, Chet Michaels has been walking by every five minutes or so for the last hour. He looks like he’s going to burst. Should I send him in?”
“Ten minutes, D. Hold him off for ten minutes.Give me a chance to at least skim the newspaper and get a little caffeine into my system. And I promise I’ll go through your budget at home tonight.”
She nodded and started back for her desk.
“Hey, D.?”
She stopped and turned back toward him, her sharp, youthful features melting into a sly smile.
Since Beamon’s first day in Flagstaff, his secretary had steadfastly refused to tell him her given first name, preferring to be called by her first initial. Of course, he could have looked in her personnel file, but what would be the fun of that?
“I was listening to this Johnny Cash song on the way to work today …”
She shook her head sadly. “Good try, Mark. But it’s not Delia.”
“The old saying is wrong,” Beamon said, poking an index finger into the open newspaper spread across his desk. “Kill all the journalists.”
From his position at the door to the office, Chet Michaels took it that his boss’s sacred and absolutely inviolable ten minutes were up.
“Look at this headline,” Beamon said. ‘“FBI Baffled by Double Murder/Kidnapping.’ Shit.”
“You aren’t?” Michaels said as he sat down in one of the three chairs lined up in front of Beamon’s desk.
“There are a few things that baffle me, Chet. Serial killers? Occasionally. Women? More often than not.” Beamon looked down at the stained concrete floor of his office. “Why they ripped up my old carpet when the new one isn’t due for another couple of weeks? Definitely haven’t figured that one out.But kidnappings? No way. At worst I’m briefly perplexed.”
Michaels laced his hands across his stomach and leaned back in his chair. “Well, they were probably talking about me, then. If you’ve got this thing figured out, I could really use some help.”
Beamon spun the paper around so Michaels could see it and slapped his palm on a picture of Jennifer Davis. “Voilà.”
“What?”
“What do you mean, ‘What?’ She did it.” Michaels’ bright red eyebrows rose. “The little girl?”
“Honestly, Chet. Sometimes your lack of cynicism disgusts me. Answer me this: Why do people kidnap?”
“I dunno. Lots of reasons, I guess.”
“No. There are only three. Financial benefit, blackmail, or you want the kid. Of course, each of those categories has a subheading or
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