In The Bleak Midwinter: A Special Agent Constance Mandalay Novel by M. R. Sellars Page B

curious grunt that issued from the
sheriff was accompanied by the popping creak of springs as he
shifted in the wheeled desk chair he currently occupied. After
staring silently at his visitor for an extended measure of
heartbeats, he pursed his lips thoughtfully, then rocked back in a
slow arc before finally allowing himself to slump the last few
inches and fall heavily against the backrest.
    FBI Special Agent Constance Mandalay stood on
the opposite side of his desk, her credentials held forth,
displayed in a well-practiced manner. The portly, uniformed man
opposite her didn’t seem particularly interested in the badge and
ID, but she wasn’t going to put them away just yet, even though she
had identified herself verbally upon entering. She simply held his
gaze, intent on establishing her authority as a federal
officer.
    Audibly matted against the tense quiet of the
room, the chair popped and let out a dull twang as it settled under
the sheriff’s now cantilevered weight. Constance wondered to
herself if one of the springs had finally surrendered for all
eternity. It wasn’t that the sheriff was morbidly obese or anything
of that sort, but he definitely looked like he had done hard time
at the dinner table. However, the real reason for the thought was
that the piece of furniture looked like a broken relic from the
post World War II 1940’s. Of course, when you got right down to
outward appearances, so did the man sitting in it.
    Sheriff Addison Carmichael let out a second
harrumph, then raised an eyebrow and drew in a deep breath as he
twiddled a pencil between his fingers. After a moment, he absently
drummed it on the duct-taped arm of the heavy-framed chair while
using his free hand to groom the gray-white thicket that lined his
upper lip. Finally, forcing a long sigh out through his nose, he
tossed the freshly sharpened #2 onto the stack of papers filling
his blotter and then gave the petite FBI agent a shallow nod.
    “Go on and put your badge away, honey,” he
drawled. “I already know damn well what they look like.”
    Constance quickly slid her index finger to
the side and flipped the worn leather case shut, then slipped it
into the inner pocket of her blazer.
    “Sheriff Carmichael, I’m sure you know...”
she started.
    He interrupted. “Skip.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Skip,” he repeated. “Everybody around here
just calls me Skip. Always have. If you’re gonna work with me, you
might as well too.”
    “I see,” Constance replied with a nod. “Well,
Skip, as I was...”
    “Where’s Agent Drew?” Sheriff Carmichael
asked, speaking over the top of her once again.
    “Agent Drew was reassigned,” she answered
after an annoyed pause. “In fact, he’s no longer with the bureau’s
Saint Louis office.”
    “Yeah, guess I’m not surprised. They send me
a different Fed every year.”
    “Actually, you were supposed to be meeting
with Agent Johnson, but he came down with the flu.”
    “Well, he would’ve been a new one too.” He
shook his head. “So you pulled the short straw this time, eh?”
    “I was assigned to this case if that’s what
you mean. Is that a problem?”
    “Dunno,” he grunted. “Is it?”
    “It shouldn’t be.”
    He huffed. “I actually kinda liked Drew. He
had a sense of humor.”
    “As I said, Agent Drew has been reassigned.
Besides, my SAC thought a fresh set of eyes might be in order.”
    “Yeah,” he sighed. “They always do. That’s
exactly what Drew said when he showed up the first time. And Agent
Keene before him... I could go on. You make number five, ya’know
that?”
    “Yes, I do.”
    “So now, as usual, I’ve gotta waste my time
bringing you up to speed.”
    “Not necessarily. I’ve read the file.”
    “And so did the four in front of you, sugar.
Let me ask you this: Did you learn anything with all that
reading?”
    Constance bristled slightly at the
condescending sobriquet but allowed it to slide for the time
being. “I’ll admit, the file is a