Free The Fixer by T. E. Woods Page B

rules. Am I clear?”
    His jaw quivered as he nodded his head.
    “I’m leaving now, Walter.” The Fixer glanced up to the rafters. “I imagine you have some cleaning up to do.”
     
     

Chapter Eleven
    “Why am I getting these numbers now, Carl?” Meredith Thornton threw the data printout onto her desk. She wasn’t concerned about containing her anger. “We’re a Level One-A research institution. Four straight years of increased funding. I’m the university president, for God’s sake. And I’m finding this out now ? After the mid-term funding season?”
    Carl Snelling took a step back. Meredith loathed her Executive Provost’s spinelessness.
    “Answer me, Carl.” She toyed with the long rope of pearls draped from her neck. “When did you first learn this?”
    Carl shuffled through the duplicate printout he held. “Is it really that bad, President Thornton? This economy leads to cuts everywhere. I heard rumors NIH wasn’t funding anything below the upper three percent.” He leaned toward her and whispered. “I’ve got a little birdie at Johns Hopkins who tells me even their grant funding has been slashed.”
    Meredith had no interest in Snelling’s gossip. Her own house was on fire. “Thirty-one percent below last cycle?” She pushed a wayward strand of ash blond hair behind her ear. “Nearly fifty million dollars. You tell me, Carl. Is it really that bad?”
    Meredith paced her office and punctuated her steps with icy stares.
    “How many research assistants will we lose? How many graduate students or support staff? My God, a loss like this could cost us faculty members.” She marched straight toward him and enjoyed his subtle flinch. “These people have families, Carl.” She stood two inches from his nose. “Anyone wondering if this kind of loss is ‘really that bad’ doesn’t deserve to be standing in an executive office.”
    Carl’s voice faltered. “I’m sorry, President Thornton. I didn’t realize the funding shortfall would be this great.” His lower lip quivered. “What would you like me to do now?”
    Meredith’s withering gaze suggested he was a gumball ring trying to pass as a diamond. “That question is about three months late, Carl. I’m tired of fixing your failures.” She pivoted on a black suede pump and punched a button on her phone. “Angela, can you get me Bradley Wells, please? Use his private number.”
    Her stomach lurched as her Executive Provost slithered out of the room.
     
     

Chapter Twelve
    “Is there some reason we’re not at Smitty’s?” Jim De Villa slid into the leather banquette and admired the sailboats moored outside Richard’s On The Bay’s expansive windows. “I can hear my credit card being declined already.”
    “Drinks are on me.” Mort took his place across from his friend. “Today’s too special for a cop bar.”
    Jim’s face wrinkled before he shook his head in recognition. “Sorry, Buddy. November eleventh. Remember how she used to call it ‘railroad tracks’?”
    Mort smiled. “Eleven-Eleven. I wasn’t in any shape to mark the day last year.”
    “I’m honored to be included,” Jim said. “Things getting better?”
    Mort shrugged. “Most days I can’t believe she’s gone. I expect to pick up the phone and hear her chewing me out for working late. Maybe see her sitting in the dining room paying bills when I get home.” He signaled for the waitress. “But I haven’t smashed anything in six months.”
    “I’m calling that progress.” Jim smiled at the blonde taking his order. “Whiskey and a beer, please. Something local, in a bottle.”
    Mort ordered scotch rocks.
    “How’s Robbie adjusting?” Jim helped himself to the salted cashews on the table. “Must be tough, him being so far away.”
    “He’s got Claire and the girls.”
    “He working on anything interesting?”
    Mort nodded. “Branching away from insider trading and fraud. Remember Gordon Halloway? Robbie’s working a hunch the asshole was