17
Keith Balon stood by the sink, wiping the coffee spatters from his pants with a tissue.
“That doesn’t help my dear,” Aubrey said. ”Firstly, you rub the coffee even deeper into the fabric; secondly, you will soon have a trouser leg full of scraps of paper.”
“Oh, f**k it,” Keith said. “What do I care about those pants. Okay, um, deputy interim chief, and now?”
Aubrey looked pitifully at her younger colleague’s pants. “Sorry Keith. I’ll make it up to you.”
“Never mind, rather tell us what else you are planning.”
“Hmm. Difficult. At least we know that Caldwell must be here in Riswick. Unless the FBI has been misinformed.”
“They said the man who was attacked had been reported around here.”
“Yeah-ha, didn’t they say he had ties or at least contact with the Gray Wolves?”
“That’s right
