“Ms. Rice?” came a pleasant, relaxed voice from a head cautiously popped into her doorway.

“What is it, Wieck?” she asked wearily, barely suppressing the sigh. The man entered with an easy smile that defied the dread deep in his bowels. Surely he knew how much she detested him. He did his work but only just. He wore professional attire, but obviously bought off the rack. His skills were up to par, but bore no Ivy League credentials to back them up.

“Jackson’s called in sick, but not to worry as Garrett’s volunteered to finish the quarterlies.”

“His excuse?”

“Heart attack, ma’am. Third one this year.”

“And you’re telling me because…”

“Oh, I was on my way out anyway, so I said I could pop my head in.” He grinned, the idiot. It was 4 o’clock, and he was announcing his departure.

With a cocked eyebrow she challenged, “And your work, Mr. Wieck?”

“All done, ma’am. Been planning all week to leave early for my son’s little league game. Have a great weekend! I know I will.”

How she hated that man.