Catch Her If You Can by Merline Lovelace Page B

into a spare part for a Ford F-150 that would whisk Charlie Spade out of my life again.
    “I ran a preliminary test on the device to see if it merited a full field evaluation,” Rocky informed us both. “The results were disappointing.”
    “Yeah?” Charlie worked his Big Red and turned the cube over and over in his hands. “Disappointing how?”
    Struggling to explain in a way he—and I—would understand, Rocky held up a wand-type device.
    “The signals from this control unit travel only a short distance. We would have to boost their power considerably to make the Amorphic Cube viable for battlefield conditions.”
    “Hey, maybe I could help with that. I’m pretty good at fiddling around with video game controls.”
    Hastily, I intervened. “That isn’t a game unit. It’s a highly sophisticated device submitted for evaluation by the Department of Defense.”
    “Yeah, but I tried this trick I know on one of my game controls when it started to die on me. All I had to do to power up the signal was . . .”
    “Listen to me, Charlie,” I said sternly. “We don’t do ‘tricks.’ We’re required to adhere to strict test protocols.”
    Rocky’s brows soared. Ignoring his look of utter amazement at hearing me echo the strictures he’d preached at me so often, I asked him to step into my office for a minute.
    “I need you to interpret some of the language in your draft report on Snoopy SNFIR.”
    I’ve made some serious errors in judgment in my life. Hitting the Tunnel of Love Drive Thru wedding chapel with Charlie Spade was one. Leaving him alone with that little gadget was another.
    He’s dumb, but not stupid. He also has a lively sense of curiosity. And, as he’d pointed out, he’s really good with video games. So I should have anticipated that he would jimmy open the cube’s control unit, insert a tiny strip of silver-backed chewing gum paper, and plug the unit into an electrical outlet.
    What neither of us anticipated were the sparks that spewed from the socket mere moments later.
    “Holy crap!”
    His startled shout brought my entire team on the run. To our dismay, we discovered that Charlie’s homemade booster had ignited an electrical fire that now raced up our ’30s-era wiring.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    I grabbed the closest extinguisher and aimed foam at the sparking flames. Noel ripped some fiberboard away with his bare hands so the suppressant could get to the shorting wires. Rocky and Charlie scrambled to shove the furniture aside. Our combined efforts kept the papers and assorted objects in Rocky’s cubicle from incinerating. Unfortunately, we weren’t quick enough to keep the overhead sprinklers from going off.
    We got the flames out before the fire department responded, but when I surveyed all those waterlogged computers, I had to forcibly restrain myself from doing something very un-officerish. Like indulging in a healthy bout of hysterics. Or slinking out the back door. Or deflecting the evil looks aimed at me by the other occupants of the building by reminding them that the wiring had probably come in with Prohibition.
    That’s the thing about being in charge, though. No hysteria or slinking or finger-pointing allowed. You have to suck it up and take full responsibility for the actions of your people. Or in this case, your ex-husband.
    Thank God I’d followed proper procedures and checked Charlie in at the security checkpoint. And had one of the team members escort him in and out of our area. And made sure he hadn’t had access to sensitive information. The Farmer Farnsworths of the world generally use off-the-shelf components to create their masterpieces, but how they assemble the components is proprietary information. Even with those safeguards, I cringed at the thought of explaining Charlie to the deputy post commander. And—big gulp!—Dr. J.
    I cringed even more when I remembered the excruciating process I went through after the fire out at the test site some months ago. I’d had to