Now Lawton commanded ERT.
“How’s the brood?” Lawton always asked.
“Brood is growing; Jenny is pregnant.”
Lawton had to stop and think what Cunningham’s wife’s name was. It wasn’t Jenny. And his daughters weren’t even teenagers yet.
“Jenny’s one of the dogs, I assume?”
“The Harlequin bitch, here.” Cunningham pointed at a floppy-eared, spotted dog in the photo. “She got her champion points on the show circuit over the summer and now we’re breeding her.”
“Sounds good.” Come on, get to it.
“Have a seat, Brook.”
“No, thanks.” He braced, arms behind his back, legs straight.
Cunningham’s desk was empty except for a single file folder, the color of puke.