After a moment, Morton looked over. “Yes?”
Paul noticed he hadn’t offered a handshake so he nodded. “Paul Madsen. I’m a bronze supporter of Transitions. We met at a fundraiser last year.” Morton nodded back, but showed no recognition. Paul was not surprised. People never remembered him. “I assisted with the auction.” His pitch suddenly came back to him so Paul went right into it. “This is my friend and co-worker Camille Waterson. She admires your accomplishments as employment commissioner, particularly the way you’ve brought business and government together.”
Morton turned to Camille and gave her a warm smile. “It’s nice to meet you. What do you think of the prison reform legislation? I wrote the bill.”
“It doesn’t go far enough.” Camille stepped closer to the commissioner, forcing the silver-haired woman to ease away. “But I’m more interested in the new level of grant money this year for the Gauntlet. Very impressive.”
“AmGo has been a terrific partner. Twenty-five thousand people are now employed as a result of the last two grant competitions.”
“I’d love to work on the Gauntlet if you ever have an opening.” Camille slipped a business card into Morton’s hand.
“Where do you work now?”
“Federal human resources, but I have a background in public relations and broadcasting.”
“I’ll keep you in mind.” The commissioner brought his hands together. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a speech to give.” He abruptly walked away.
Camille touched Paul’s shoulder. “Thank you. I think that went well. See you Monday.”
And his date was over.
Paul found a seat at a table near the back with a small group of women. Three seats were empty and he realized the banquet had not sold out. It was disappointing how few people cared about foster children, especially once they were older. When the kids reached eighteen and the small government checks stopped coming, many foster parents kicked out their charges with no resources and no support. It was brutal treatment for teenagers who already struggled with a lack of life skills. Paul had been lucky. His foster mother had let him stay through college and treated him like a real son. Now he paid Isabel paid back with monthly checks to supplement her social security, which was no longer adjusted for inflation. Paul realized he hadn’t talked to Isabel in a week or so. He would message her tomorrow.
Paul’s alarm went off at 3:30 a.m. He sat up, confused by the lack of light. He remembered his mission and his pulse quickened. He still had little faith he would actually follow through, but he intended to try.
He dressed all in black and grabbed a small screwdriver from the junk drawer in the kitchen. Not sure if he would bother to wear them, Paul tossed his wig and fake mustache into his backpack. He wondered what he was forgetting, what he’d hadn’t planned for. It seemed like such a simple task.
Paul grabbed a coat and hat, told Lilly to behave herself, and took the stairs down to the garage. He’d taken his little Toyota out two days ago to scope out Janel Roberts’ home situation and again earlier that evening to attend the banquet-just in case things went well with Camille. But those were the only two trips he’d made this month. He’d quit driving to work years ago when gas prices topped eight dollars a gallon and had adjusted to the inconvenience.
His anxiety mounted all the way across town. Rain fell in gusty deluges against his windshield, and there was so little traffic he felt conspicuous to be on the road. As soon as he entered the Crestwood neighborhood, a calm sense of determination settled over him. He could do this. He parked on the street near Janel’s house, eyeing her five-year-old Tiguan in the driveway. The neighborhood was so dark and quiet, Paul didn’t bother pulling on his wig. The rain slacked off, giving him further confidence. He called on his long-dead brother for courage and bolted from the car. His plan was to move fast and get it over with, rather than worrying about being quiet or sneaky.
He hurried down the sidewalk and squatted near the Tiguan’s back left tire. After removing the cap, Paul pressed the screwdriver against the stem and let out most of the air. He stepped quickly to the other back tire and sabotaged it as well. He didn’t want Janel to simply throw on a spare and be on her way to work. She needed to be late. She was already on the edge for missing too many workdays and coming in tardy too often. One more late day, plus the sexually-implicit text to her boss would likely put an end to her federal employment. Paul still had to push Rathmore to the top of the hiring process, but he had an idea for that too.
A dog barked loudly next door, startling him. He jumped to his feet and sprinted for his car, even though he’d coached himself not to run because it looked suspicious. As he climbed in, someone yelled at the dog to be quiet. Paul started his car and drove away, thinking he should find a way to help Janel after she got fired.
Chapter 11
“Did you hear?” Camille said, sliding into Paul’s office. “Janel Roberts, the director of planning at HHS, resigned Friday.” His co-worker took a seat and Paul lost sight of her long legs.
His plan had worked! “That’s surprising. Do you know what happened?”
“I don’t, but the rumor is that she’s missed a lot of work.”
“Nobody gets away with that kind of stuff anymore.” Paul shook his head and pushed aside his guilt. Janel would have been fired eventually anyway.
“I wonder who’s on her replacement list.” Camille leaned across his desk like a conspirator.
“You know I can’t tell you.”
She made a face. “That’s okay. We’ll know soon. That’s the one good thing about working in personnel. We get the scoop first.”
“Sometimes it feels like too much information.”
“There’s no such thing.” Camille shook her head playfully and stood. “I wanted to let you know I finished the monthly file purge.”
“Thanks.” Paul wondered if it was too soon to suggest another date. He stood, hoping to find the courage. “How was your weekend?”
“Lovely.” She started to leave, then turned back. “Have you lost weight?”
Paul tried not to beam. “About ten pounds.”
“It looks good.”
“Thanks.” He shifted on his feet. “Would you like to go out for lunch someday this week?” His voiced sounded a little panicked even to him.
“Let me check my schedule.” She smiled and left.
Paul didn’t know what to think. Camille had come into his office for no apparent reason and paid him a compliment, so he was encouraged. But did she really have to check her schedule? Or was she blowing him off?
After work, Paul picked up a second prepaid iCom from a different vendor in the same park. On the bus ride home, he sent a brief text to Rathmore: The position is open. I want the rest of the money by next Tuesday.
He didn’t hear from Rathmore until late the next night. He’d spent the evening reading a new crime fiction novel, but he’d been distracted and worried that neither Camille nor Rathmore had responded to him. At nine he put down his Dock and turned on the big screen for his hour a day of video programming. Isabel always said that any more than that would ruin a person’s mind.
The prepaid iCom beeped and he snatched it up. The text from Rathmore was as brief as the one Paul had sent him: Not until the job is mine.
Paul keyed back: That wasn’t the agreement. I guaranteed the opening and that you would be interviewed. Did they call you?
Rathmore responded: Yes, but I’m not paying the rest until I get hired.
Damn! Paul debated his next move. What leverage did he have? For starters, he knew who Rathmore was and where to find him. He also knew how to get people fired. Adrenaline surged into his chest at the thought. He had power. Paul keyed back: I can also ensure that you’re NOT hired.
He paced the house, waiting for Rathmore to respond. After thirty minutes of distress, Paul settled down to watch a few talk shows in his queue, then got ready for bed. What if Rathmore never paid him the rest of the
