After another fruitless call to the WBIS, Charles placed the phone down in its cradle—the phone company hated like hell when he threw their equipment against the wall, and the management company was even more unhappy about the gouge it tended to leave in the sheetrock—and he kicked the console table, which really wasn’t a smart idea, considering he wasn’t wearing shoes. He hopped on one foot, favoring his injured toe and swearing.
“Qu’est-ce qui ne va pas, mon cher?”
He glared at Max. He’d tell him what was wrong. “Vincent still won’t give me the okay to come back to work.”
“Do you wish for me to speak with him?” That Max thought he could sway a senior special agent like Vincent aggravated the hell out of Charles, mostly because everyone in the WBIS knew Mark Vincent bent for no one.
“
