Free Dark Reservations by John Fortunato Page B

way. Cordelli gets it.”
    â€œDale, you were right. I need this. I do. I need it.”
    â€œNo.”
    Joe had one last card to play.
    â€œI’ll rescind my retirement paperwork.”
    That caught Dale’s attention. “You can’t. It’s too late.”
    â€œI called HR.” He hadn’t. “I can. And if you try to fight it, I’ll file an appeal, which could take a good part of a year to settle.”
    Dale picked up his desk phone, probably to check with Human Resources.
    Joe hurried on: “Or … you can let me run with the Edgerton case. Come three months, whatever happens, I leave. No problems. You don’t even have to attend my retirement party.”
    Dale put down the phone. He didn’t say anything for several moments. Then he leaned forward, his words slow, menacing.
    â€œOkay. Run with it. But if you screw with me, I will file those negligence actions against you for the Longman case, retirement or no retirement. You got me?”
    S EPTEMBER 27
    M ONDAY , 10:10 A.M.
    U NIVERSITY OF N EW M EXICO , A LBUQUERQUE , N EW M EXICO
    The yellow Post-it note stuck to Professor Lawrence Trudle’s office door read “Larry, Congratulations. Meeting 10:30 conference room. RW.” Professor Trudle peeled the note off the stained wood, crumpled it, and shoved it in his pocket. He unlocked the door, walked in, and went straight to his credenza, on which sat a four-cup electric teakettle. He dropped his bulging ostrich-skin briefcase, which his wife had given him the previous Christmas, to the floor and extracted a gallon jug of springwater from the bottom cabinet of the same credenza. Then he filled the kettle and turned it on. Next, he opened the top right drawer to his desk and reached all the way to the back, behind the selection of Bigelow teas, and pulled out a Folgers coffee single. He unwrapped the string and placed the small coffee bag in his Who’s Your Mummy? coffee mug. Finished with his morning routine, he dropped into his desk chair to await the click of the kettle, a beautiful sound signaling the water had reached a boil and it was time to sin.
    Professor Trudle was the only Mormon in the University of New Mexico’s Anthropology Department, so one would have thought he wouldn’t worry about his colleagues catching him drinking coffee, giving into the allure of the black nectar, which meant breaking his vow to abstain from caffeine. But one would have been wrong. Professor Trudle preferred to sin in private.
    He removed his glasses and set them down on his desk. He massaged the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, closed his eyes, leaned back, and waited for the click.
    â€œKnock! Knock!” a voice barked.
    Professor Steve Mercado stood at the door, beaming.
    â€œGood morning, Steve.”
    â€œAnd what a fine morning it is, Professor Trudle. Yes indeedy. A fine morning, made even finer by the good news of a grant. Am I the first to congratulate you?”
    Steve walked in and plopped down on one of the chairs used by students during office hours.
    â€œNo. You are the second. I got a warm and friendly posty from our esteemed department head with, as I am sure you are aware, a rather surprising announcement of a meeting. I suspect he wants to share the good news with our fellow faculty. I was just contemplating his true motivation when you so crassly interrupted my somber meditation.”
    â€œI apologize, but your somber meditation looked curiously like napping.” Steve withdrew a pen from his shirt pocket. Holding it lightly between his right thumb and forefinger, he tapped it against his left palm.
    â€œApology accepted. Any idea why Westerberry is having this meeting? And don’t say he wants to celebrate my good news. That’s horse pucky and you know it.”
    â€œWhoa, watch the language. No, I believe it’s to gloat on one of your past misadventures—the Trudle Turkey.”
    On the