Free Concrete Evidence by Rachel Grant

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    Lee was useless. At last she understood how he’d coasted in college for the last seven years: he knew how to look busy without doing any actual work.
    She hit the print button on a cell tower report, quietly crossed the room to stand behind him, and nearly choked on aggravation. The slacker was playing Tetris and had completed 428 rows. Clearly he’d been playing for a long time. She placed her hands on his shoulders, and he jolted, causing his finger to hit the wrong button. In seconds the Tetris cubes piled on top of each other, ending his game.
    Her fingers tightened on his shoulders as she leaned down and said next to his ear, “I was going to ask you to make copies of a cell tower report, but I see you’re busy.” She marched out of the room, expecting—wanting—him to follow and apologize. But he didn’t.
    “Don’t hold your breath,” she muttered as she shoved open the copy-room door. She hit the door too hard, as evidenced by the loud bang, shaking walls, and four men in suits inside the room who stared at her in shock.
    With alarm, she recognized JT Talon standing with Edward Drake, Rob Anderson, and a senior engineer named Arnie Ross. She’d never before seen any of these men in the copy room, let alone trying to work a binding machine.
    “Sorry,” she said, deciding not to turn tail and run or make excuses. Hell, she could end up fired after she talked to Janice today anyway. She grabbed her papers from the shared laser printer and made a beeline for the industrial copier.
    “How’s the Thermo-Con EA coming, Erica?” Rob Anderson asked.
    Crap. She hadn’t sent him an update on the project since Monday afternoon. “Yesterday we went to the National Archives and found a name, Higgins. We just have to figure out how that name is connected to the house.”
    “Thermo-Con?” said a voice she didn’t recognize, which could only be JT.
    She placed her originals in the document feeder, hit the green button, then turned to face the head of the company. “It’s a project for the Menanichoch Tribe.” Remembering the man was one-quarter Menanichoch, she added, “There’s a house on the reservation made out of concrete called Thermo-Con.”
    “I know. I love that crazy house. I’ve been nagging Sam to have it repaired for years.”
    The copy room door opened, and Lee entered. “Erica, did you want me to copy something?” he asked, completely oblivious to the power players in the room.
    “Don’t trouble yourself, Lee. Your Tetris game won’t play itself.”
    JT looked at Lee, and a flicker of amusement entered his eyes. Dread, which had been second only to fear on her current playlist of emotions, surged to the top of the charts. She suddenly knew with horrible certainty that JT’s executive secretary had set up the internship because JT knew Lee. Well.
    “Arnie, Ed, have either of you ever heard of Thermo-Con?” Rob Anderson asked.
    As if she didn’t already feel like crap, now she wanted to smack herself. She’d never thought to ask either man about the historic concrete, but both had been concrete engineers since sometime before the late-Paleolithic era.
    Arnie, a balding man who had to stretch if he wanted to pass for five-foot-two, looked up from the papers he’d been reading, then did a double take when he saw Lee. “Good Lord! It’s Bigfoot!”
    Lee laughed and introduced himself to the elderly concrete engineer, then asked the man again about Thermo-Con. Arnie’s wild silver eyebrows, which could have been drawn by Dr. Seuss, rose toward the ceiling. “Sounds interesting, but no, I haven’t heard of it. How about you, Ed?”
    “No.” Drake checked his watch. “Gentlemen, we’ve only got twenty minutes until the colonel gets here, and the comb binder is clearly broken.”
    JT’s gaze returned to her. “Erica…Kesling, right?”
    “Yes, Mr. Talon.” He knew her last name. Had he learned it from Lee? Or worse, had Sam Riversong told him about their meeting on