FIFTEEN
The elevator doors opened, and Frank Oliver stepped out confidently, followed by two police offices, and paraded through the reception area. From the look on his face, he was one unhappy camper. Ignoring the black man and Paul Mustang in the conference room just ahead of him, he turned to his left and headed down the hall to his corner office. A short, sandy-haired man stood in the doorway, leaning against the closed door, talking to his secretary. His secretary who should be working and not talking, especially not to the enemy.
“Elaine!” he said sternly. “Don’t you have work to do?”
Elaine’s head swiveled sharply at the sound of his voice. She blushed at being called down in front of the police detective.
“Well,” she said hesitantly, “with all that’s gone on this morning, I –”
