Fitzpatrick looked sharply at Noah. “Not you.”
“I didn’t go last year, and—”
“Sir, this is an excellent networking opportunity with the Mayor.”
“We’ve discussed this. I have enough work without extra PR. Use the chiefs with significant others.”
“I can buy you a date. Who on the staff is single?” Fitzpatrick asked Francis.
Francis took out a different book. “Safyre in HR. Press may take issue with their seventeen-year age difference, though.”
“They won’t. He’s a man. If she’s legal, they’ll say he’s settling down after sowing wild oats. Then again, if he shows up with a date, it will complicate maintaining the appearance of availability for the January magazine cover.”
“He said he’s not going,” a weary voice said from the door. Leslie McClunis leaned on the door frame in uniform, partially supported by a cane. “Strange you didn’t ask me to spend three hundred and fifty dollars. Too scared of my gentle hubby?”
Fitzpatrick huffed. “Guess you aren’t retiring after all.”
It was no secret that McClunis and Fitzpatrick despised each other. McClunis couldn’t care less for politics and appearance, while it was all Fitzpatrick talked about. “Rumors of my retirement are highly exaggerated. I’ll retire when I’m dead.”
Fitzpatrick conceded the field. “Francis can go over the rest of the paperwork. See you at the Ball.”
McClunis hobbled in and took Fitzpatrick’s seat next to the abruptly abandoned assistant. “Who is this?”
“Francis Witte; I’m one of HR Director Fitzpatrick’s assistants.”
“How many assistants does she have?”
“Four,” Francis answered primly. She was dressed in the latest fashion, probably around the age of twenty-five. If Noah remembered correctly, Fitzpatrick recruited her last year out of University of Chicago’s fashion program. McClunis’s next observation was aimed at Noah. “Where’s my Battalion 2 aide?”
“In Bat 9, making sure everything’s in order before Haskell takes time off,” Noah admitted.
“Babies. Ridiculous. In my time, we gave birth on the job and put our turnouts back on. Get rid of one of Fitzpatrick’s assistants and keep one for yourself? Francis, could you break down a door with an axe?”
Francis didn’t open her mouth.
“Come on,” McClunis teased. “Did Fitzpatrick brainwash you? Spiked your Kool-Aid?”
“I’ve never held an axe,” Francis said. “Can you organize a party for two thousand people?”
Noah started to cough, and Leslie glared at him. “Most the parties I go to are on fire.”
“Stop badgering her. You hit her, and she hit back. You’d think someone married to Trevor Hampton would be more social.”
“He likes me because I’m not social. The opposite of everything he ever had before. Lean and mean.” McClunis bared her teeth. “And fucking bored.”
Poor Francis winced. It was disrespectful to speak to the Chief in that way, but McClunis was off-duty, and what could he do to her? Fire her?
“How long has it been?” he asked.
“Got smashed back in August, got to rehab by October, and I got cleared to walk this week. I threatened Trevor if he didn’t let me out of the house.”
“You almost died. Give it time.”
“I’ve had time. My body hurts, but my brain works fine.” McClunis unknowingly threw Noah’s words back at him. “I don’t warm the fucking bench.”
This time, Francis didn’t twitch. Considering how Noah knew Fitzpatrick treated her assistants, McClunis was comparatively nice.
“What do you want?” Noah said.
