Chapter 8
M. Wallace always permitted the day of the WBIS Christmas party to be a pleasant, relaxing occasion. Work, what there was of it, was light, and most of the agents went around the building with a sprig of mistletoe behind their backs, whipping it out to hold above the head of any secretary—or sometimes even another male agent—they came across so they could steal a kiss.
Max dressed in his usual blue scrubs. As he’d told Smitty, he planned to do some research. Lately he’d become intrigued with genetics, and he was attempting to find a test to determine parentage that wouldn’t take as long as what was now available.
As he packed both suits in a garment bag, he whistled Edith Piaf’s “Non, je ne regrette rien.” He paused for a moment, decided no, he regretted nothing, then resumed
