Chapter 65

Slamming his locker shut, Vic spun the combination lock and tore the Post-It off the door. Then he headed for the time clock. But instead of stopping, he walked right by it—if Morrison wanted to eat into Vic’s personal time, Vic sure as hell wanted to be paid for it. He’d clock out after stopping by the bossman’s office.

Morrison’s door was ajar, the light on inside the room. Vic knocked and eased the door open enough to duck his head around it. Morrison sat hunched over a stack of paperwork, elbows on the desk in front of him, the heels of his hands pressed hard against his closed eyes. His thin glasses sat to one side, discarded. A lit cigarette was pinched between the first two fingers of his right hand, an inch of ash dangling from its tip, dangerously close to breaking off onto Morrison’s balding pate.

Clearing his throat to announce his presence, Vic asked, “You wanted to see me?”