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“It’s not there.”
“I know I put it there this morning.” She stood up.
Peter pointed a stubby finger at his office. “Show me.”
“All right,” she answered, brushing past him.
When she walked by Joey’s desk, he threw her a sly smile, and she rolled her eyes. She and Joey had become instant friends when she’d joined the investigative unit at HUD eight months before. He’d been a lifesaver in helping Angie navigate through all the forms and rules pertaining to Section 8 housing assistance. Joey had been a HUD investigator for nine years, and he was an expert on recipient fraud issues as well as landlord violations of the fair housing laws.
She walked into Peter’s office and scanned the folders, papers, and notebooks littering the top of his desk, trying to spot her case file.
Peter crossed the room, wriggled his overstuffed body into the too-small desk chair, and looked up at her. His hair was brown with silver strands and not too much on the top. As was usual, his locks stuck out in every direction, and Angie silently sworeagainthat she was going to bring in a tube of Brylcreem and place it on his desk in hopes he’d get the hint, but she doubted he would. The buttons on his pale green dress shirt stretched precariously across his large belly, and he clasped his hands and rested them on top of the desk.
“So where is it?” he asked.
Angie shifted her gaze from the rotund man to the clutter.
“I put it next to the phone.”
Grunting, he leaned over and shoved several papers aside.
Seeing the red label on the folder, she pointed. “There it is.”
Peter glanced up, then thumbed through the file. After several seconds, he raised his head. “Did you need something?”
Confused, she shook her headno.
“Then you better get over to Madera Crossing. We’ve been getting too many complaints from that place.”
“Most of them are about the landlord, who is a piece of work.”
“A lot of them are.” He laughed hard, then broke out into a coughing fit.
Watching his chubby face turn red, Angie rushed over to the silver-plated decanter on his desk, poured him a glass of water, and handed it to him.
He took several gulps, then nodded at her. “Thanks. If you think you need backup, take Joey or Damon with you.”
“I’m just going over to ask a few questions. I should be fine.”
He looked back down at the case file, and she slipped out of his office.
“Lemme guess—he accused you of not turning in your report,” Joey said. But before she could reply, he added, “And you did, but he couldn’t find it because of all the shit on his desk.”
She laughed. “Youhavebeen here a long time. You know him so well.”
Joey beamed. “That’s a scary thought.”
“I’m trying to concentrate here, people,” Damon said.
“Sorry.” Angie looked at Joey, and they both snickered.
Hands down, Damon Bellows was the office grump. Bitterness seemed to be his middle name, and if any of the other investigators were in a good mood or having a bit of fun, Damon made sure to douse all that joviality with his scathing comments and withering looks. Some of Angie’s colleagues claimed that Damon was perpetually sour because he kept getting passed over for a promotion, but she didn’t really buy into that. The man was a misanthrope, plain and simple, which made his line of work—investigations—perplexing to her. She thought he’d be better suited to work in the Data and Research department, where he wouldn’t have to come in contact with anything but numbers and the written word.
Breaking into her thoughts, Joey asked, “Where are you heading?”
“Madera Crossing. I’m following up on an anonymous tip that one of the residents is working more hours than she reported and has a boyfriend living with her who also works.”
“Need me to tag along?”
