Candidate (Selected Book 4) Read online

  Candidate

  Robin Roseau

  Table of Contents

  A Bad Day

  I was not having a good day. To understand, you need to know three simple facts. I owned a three-bedroom rambler. I had a renter named Blair. And Blair had a dog named Cookie.

  The day began badly. My alarm woke me at the usual time, and I stepped out of bed to find Cookie had left me a, well, a gift at the side of my bed. Cookie was fully house trained, so it wasn't that kind of gift, but it was definitely the sort of gift I didn't enjoy stepping in.

  "Eww" doesn't begin to describe it.

  Dealing with that put me off my entire schedule. I usually began my day early so as to avoid rush hour traffic and arrive at work before the office was full, full of people, full of noise, and full of countless interruptions. But Cookie's little present put me off my entire plan, and thus I was able to experience the joy that is rush hour traffic.

  If ever there were someone likely to go off the deep end during stop and go traffic, it would be me. It hasn't happened yet, but it was only a matter of time. I wasn't high strung in other situations, but there was something about rush hour traffic that hit me harder than I should have let it. And so, instead of arriving at the offices of Westside Foods feeling alive and refreshed, I arrived alive but hardly refreshed.

  I was ready to snap off someone's head.

  Westside Foods was a combination grocery store chain and food distributor. We operated 137 stores throughout the upper midwest and served as the main distributor to a number of independent stores, most of them in small towns throughout our region. I was the executive assistant to Gerri Cambridge, the vice president of Minneapolis/St-Paul metropolitan area stores. I wasn't a secretary. I was Gerri's right hand. She set policy, and then I kept an eye on everyone who reported to her. When Gerri wanted something, she told me, and I saw to it that it happened. We had side-by-side adjoining offices, although hers was the one in the corner and twice the size of mine. I'd worked for Gerri since graduating from college, moving up as she had.

  I arrived at my office and then had to scramble to pull together the reports Gerri wanted every morning. Normally I arrived in plenty of time to go through and organize my email, check the major news venues, and still produce Gerri's report well before she expected it, promptly at 9:00. Instead, I had to skip my usual routine and was still a few minutes late.

  "Bad morning?" Gerri asked as I popped into her office.

  "Yes," I said. "I'm sorry."

  She waved a hand. Gerri was demanding, but reasonable. I handed her the two-page summary and took a seat.

  For most things, Gerri was perfectly happy to handle the details electronically. But for her morning report, she liked paper. "The numbers just feel more real when I'm holding them in my hand," she once told me, then laughed. "You'd think something so abstract wouldn't require a paper copy." But she wanted hard copy, and she got hard copy.

  She frowned at the numbers. Then she looked up at me. "Make an appointment with Len Harris."

  "This afternoon at 2:45," I said. "Gerri, his wife has cancer."

  "I know," she said in a soft voice. "You're going to have to take care of the problems in New Hope yourself."

  I nodded. I'd anticipated that. The New Hope store was having a loss problem. Shoplifting happens, with some stores targeted more heavily than others. But New Hope's numbers were too high, and how does someone make off with frozen turkeys? No, this was most likely employee theft. Len was an area manager for five stores, including New Hope, and it had been his responsibility to deal with this. But no one could blame him for being distracted.

  Still, I hated having to be the bad guy for stuff like this, and I didn't have room in my schedule for it. I was probably going to have to insert an inspector or two if I intended to unearth who was stealing from us so heavily. And because I couldn't rule out the store managers, I had to insert the inspector without going through management to do it.

  Pain in the ass.

  We talked over a few other priorities for the day. Gerri finished with, "Bob needs us both in his office in twenty minutes. He didn't say what it was about."

  I checked the time and nodded. "I have just enough time to get the ball rolling on some of these."

  "Thanks, Andie."

  That's me, Andromeda Hayes. As a kid, I hated it. As an adult, well, I didn't mind having such a unique name. But Andromeda is certainly a mouthful, so most people called me Andie, and I've had a few people who use Ann or Anna. Past girlfriends have tried to extract other portions of the name such as Meda and Rome. I don't recognize them as my name and don't tend to answer to them.

  I'm five-foot-three, long, black hair, brown eyes, and fit. I don't take credit for any of them. I have good genes. Thanks, Mom and Dad. Both my parents were athletic, and they instilled in me a joy in getting outside. However, I despise team sports. I liked to bike ride, ski, and swim. When I would tell people that I skied, the next question was typically, "Water or snow?" I liked to say, "Yes". If I told them I snow skied, they would ask "Downhill or cross-country?" And again, I would say, "Yes." I was good at all three, and it was only the last few years that I had passed Mom on a pair of water skis. That was only because she turned 55 years old. When she was 50 and I was 29, she was still better than I was.

  Go, Mom!

  If you did the math, yes, I was 34 years old.

  I returned to my desk and began working on the day's priorities.

  * * * *

  Twenty minutes later found Gerri and me in Bob's office. Robert Smith was the executive vice president of stores for Westside Foods -- Gerri's boss. With him was Bronson Ray, the company controller, and Grady Jensen. Grady worked for Bronson and was a complete asshole. He caused trouble for Gerri and me whenever he could, and he was a bigot besides.

  Meetings with him in attendance were never fun.

  "You've been a bad girl, Gerri," Grady said. He was smirking.

  "Leash your dog, Bronson," Gerri said. "That borders on sexual harassment, and if I ever hear a comment like that from him again, I will take it to HR."

  Grady opened his mouth to make another comment, but Bronson said, "That's enough." Grady closed his mouth, but he was still smiling widely.

  I didn't know what was going on, but if Grady was happy, I knew my bad day was only about to get worse.

  "Let's sit," Bob said, gesturing to his conference table. He brought a manila folder with him. We took seats, Bob on the end, Bronson and Grady on one side, Gerri and me on the other. "We have a problem, Gerri. We'd like you to help clear it up."

  "Of course."

  "Len Harris," Bob said.

  "Yeah," Gerri said. "We need to give him some time. His wife is going through chemo."

  "Is she out of work?"

  Gerri looked to me, and I nodded.

  "Well, he found supplemental income to make up for it," Grady said.

  "A second job?" Gerri asked. Again she turned to me.

  "I don't see how," I explained. "Unless he's been lying to me."

  "I don't think this is the sort of job he'd announce," Bob said. He opened the folder and withdrew the contents. Even from my position, I could see they were expense reports. He arrayed them in front of Gerri. "Is that your signature, Gerri?" Bob asked.

  Gerri looked at the paper, not saying a word, then slid all of them to me. It took me all of three seconds, literally only three seconds, to decide, "These are fake."

  "They are certainly falsified," Grady said. "Good ol' Len has been filing false expense reports, and you've been signing them, Gerri. I don't think I need to worry about you talking to HR about me."

  "That's enough, Grady," said Bronson.

  "These are not
the expense reports I've given to Gerri," I said. "The expense reports come to me. I review them, and then I give them to her. I haven't reviewed these." I looked at the numbers. "And there is no way I would have missed this."

  "So you're in on it," Grady said. "You just heard her, Bob. She admitted a child could see the fraud."

  I looked across the table. "Did you just make a slanderous statement, Grady?" I asked. "I just told you I've never seen these before."

  "You just told us that you review the expense reports before Gerri signs them." He gestured. "She signed them."

  "Fake," I said. "I always handle them the same way. They come to me. I go over them myself with a yellow highlighter in my hand. I highlight the important numbers as I verify them." I lifted one up. "Do you see any yellow highlighter on this paper?" I didn't wait for an answer. "They're fake. These are not the expense reports Gerri signed. Someone falsified her signature."

  At that, Gerri set her hand on my arm. I looked over at her, and she gave me The Look that said, "Let me handle this." She and I had worked together for a long time. We had no end of looks no one else could ever interpret. I nodded fractionally, and Gerri collected the expense reports.

  She turned back to Bob. "I wouldn't have thought Len would do something like this."

  "Gerri, is that your signature?" Bob asked.

  "No," I said.

  "Andie," Gerri said, her hand back on my arm but still looking at Bob. "Len's been swapping them after Andie looks at them, hasn't he?"

  "I knew it!" said Grady.

  "Shut up, Grady," Bob snarled. "What my daughter sees in you, I don't know." He turned back to Gerri. "Len is in the custody of the Hennepin County Sheriff's deputies. We are prosecuting."

  "Oh god," I said quietly. "His family."

  "He should have thought about that," Bob said. "Gerri, I need your resignation." He had a second manila folder and slid it to her.

  Gerri's lips tightened, but she didn't say a word. She opened the folder and scanned the contents. "Two year's severance. Five year's non-compete. A renewed non-disclose. An agreement not to pursue charges." She read everything again then looked up at Bob. "Who is taking my position?"

  "I am!" Grady said. He looked at me. "I'm going to enjoy having you under me."

  "No way in hell," I said.

  "You can always give your two weeks' notice," Grady suggested.

  Bob stared at Grady for a moment then turned his gaze to me. "Andie?"

  "I'm not working for him," I said, pointing. I nodded towards the papers in front of Gerri. "I'll take that deal or my next stop is HR to file a sexual harassment complaint for his most recent comment, and I've been documenting all his others for three years."

  "She's only a secretary," Grady said.

  Gerri ignored him but turned to me. "Are you sure, Andie? Maybe there's somewhere else."

  I shook my head.

  "I'm not giving her a two year severance," Bob said. "Branson?"

  "One week per year of service," he suggested.

  "And you indicate her position was eliminated," Gerri added, looking at Branson. The two locked gazes for a moment, then he nodded agreement. Gerri turned to me. "It's the best you're going to get. If you need to file for unemployment, you'll qualify."

  Inside, I was dying. I'd worked hard for this company. I nodded slowly. "Fine," I said.

  "I'll sign these once we've seen Andie's paperwork," Gerri said. "With your signature, Bob."

  "Use my computer," Bob said to Branson, gesturing to his desk. Branson moved to sit behind Bob's desk.

  "Gerri," Bob said.

  "I don't think I should comment on this," Gerri interrupted. "There is an ongoing investigation, and my lawyer isn't present."

  I didn't say a word, either.

  It only took Branson a minute or two. He returned to the table with several sheets of paper, fresh off the printer, handing them to Bob. Bob looked them over and proceeded to sign them before sliding them all to me.

  "It's a package deal, Andie," he said. "You sign everything or you can either resign or look for a position elsewhere in the company."

  I read through them. They weren't that different than Gerri's, although of course, the numbers were different. I got to the non-compete. "I'm 34 years old, and you're telling me I can't work in the industry for five years?"

  "You could quit instead," Grady suggested. "I'm sure you'd land on your feet somewhere. It's not like you're leaving under a cloud of suspicion or anything."

  "Your skills translate to a job in any industry," Gerri said.

  I thought about it, nodded, and picked up a pen. Gerri signed her copies.

  "Security is waiting to escort you out," Bob said.

  And like that, I was unemployed.

  * * * *

  By 10:30, I was home, stunned. During the freeway drive home, a car in front of me kicked up a piece of gravel, which proceeded to hit my windshield and leave a ding in it.

  Could this day get any worse?

  I shouldn't tempt fate. I really should know that.

  I sat down in the kitchen, staring into a cup of coffee, and asked myself what I was going to do now. I'd never looked for a job in my life. They'd been handed to me. In high school, a friend of my Dad's offered me a job. He owned a variety of businesses, including several fast food franchises, and so I'd accepted the typical high school job. I flipped burgers. In college, I'd been on work study. And Gerri had been a friend of one of my professors. I hadn't even realized I was on a job interview the day I met Professor Peters and her friend, but at the end of lunch, Gerri asked me if I wanted a job after graduation.

  But I had 16 weeks of paid vacation -- 3 weeks of actual vacation the company owed me plus 13 more for my severance package. I could take a few days off.

  Cookie was sitting on the floor, looking up at me, hoping I would share whatever it was I was eating. I looked down at her. She thumped her tail against the floor several times, her big, brown eyes working their magic on me.

  I think perhaps that was the first time I appreciated my roommate's dog.

  "I think I know what we both need, Cookie."

  Her tail thumped a few more times. I knew what she thought she needed, but I was also pretty sure she'd be okay with my plan.

  I headed for my bedroom, Cookie following me. On arrival, she promptly jumped up on my bed, which I hated, but before I could yell at her to get down, she plopped onto her stomach, her chin on her paws, and she looked at me through long, doggy lashes.

  I didn't have the heart -- or energy -- to make her get down.

  I changed into running clothes. I didn't actually go running that often. Let me alter that statement. I never went running. I biked. But I wasn't in the mood for a bike ride, and I couldn't take Cookie if I did. So I changed into running clothes then said the magic phrase.

  "Cookie, want to go for a walk?"

  Cookie was very good at expressing herself.

  I'd never taken a dog for a walk before. I never had one growing up. Oh, I knew the principles. You grabbed the leash and attached it to the collar. That was easy. Then you stepped outside and told the dog to heel.

  Well, that didn't work.

  I've seen people take dogs for walks -- and runs. The dog follows along, glued to its master's left ankle.

  Clearly Cookie didn't know the drill. She stayed glued to the end of the tightly extended leash, rushing from this point to that point, sniffing wildly before she was off in another direction, yanking my arm from the socket over and over.

  "Heel, Cookie!" I said firmly. "Heel!"

  Damned dog. Damned idiot human. What was I thinking?

  And since when do girl dogs lift their leg to pee? Seriously?

  I'd planned a long walk, but Cookie changed my mind. We walked three blocks in one direction, took two lefts, and walked back. Long before we returned home, Cookie was panting heavily, and my shoulder felt like it was going to need physical therapy.

  Well, there was twenty minutes of
my unwanted vacation gone.

  I decided to clean.

  * * * *

  Lunch came and went. Cookie drooled all over my leg and the floor. I refused to reward such behavior.

  I roamed the house for a while and decided my bedroom needed fresh paint. I found all my painting tools, identified what I might need that I didn't have, and then drove to the paint store.

  An hour later I was back home.

  An hour after that, I was almost done moving all the furniture into the spare bedroom. Cookie was in the back yard; I had gotten tired of her getting in my way as I moved back and forth, dragging furniture.

  And the doorbell rang. I ignored it. It rang again about thirty seconds later, and again, twenty seconds after that.

  "Damn it!" I yelled. "Fine."

  I peeked out the side window. There were two people on my doorstep, a man and a woman. They were wearing some sort of uniform, and I wondered if I was going to need a lawyer after all.

  "Damn it," I muttered.

  I stepped to the door but blocked it with my foot as I opened it.

  "What can I do for you?"

  "Andromeda Hayes?" said the woman.

  "Yes. What can I do for you?"

  "May we come in, Ms. Hayes?"

  "I don't think so. What is this about? Did someone die?"

  "Nothing like that, Ms. Hayes," she replied. "We have a delivery for you." The man waved an official looking envelope. He had a computer tablet in his other hand. "We must verify your identity and then wait while you familiarize yourself with the contents."

  I stared at the envelope. "Is that some sort of court summons?"

  The two eyed each other, and then the woman said, "May we come in? It's blustery out here."

  "Are you cops?"

  "No, Ms. Hayes," said the man. "We're from The Bureau of Extraterrestrial Affairs."

  "Excuse me?" I said. "What do you want?"

  "We need to verify your identity," the woman said. "Then you will read the letter. We will verify you understand the contents. May we come in, Ms. Hayes?"

  "I.D.," I said. I didn't have to ask twice. They both withdrew leather folders from inside their jackets, opened them, and held them out for me to see. On one side was a badge. The other side held a plastic identification. They looked just as official as when I'd been Tested six years ago. "Wait here," I said. "I'm going to get my cell phone."