His eyebrows arched. She’d rarely been so outspoken about any of the people who came through the office. “He’s very good at private security.”
Her jaw set so tightly that it bulged.
“Out with it,” he ordered.
She shifted restlessly. “He said I should be gagged and locked in a closet.”
He had to stifle a laugh. “May I ask what prompted him to make such a remark?”
Her eyes avoided his. “He was making fun of my shoes.”
He looked down. She was wearing the ballet slippers she usually wore to work, bad for the instep but extremely comfortable—and affordable.
“Some of us can’t manage Neiman Marcus even on a good government salary,” she said, still ruffled months after the remark was made.
“Rourke pops off and thinks he’s being amusing.”
“He’ll get popped off if he makes another such remark to 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,”
