Empowered

By Tom Spears

Ever wonder what other people think about you? Your work? What you should be focused on?

Colin Jensen is obsessed with these questions.

As the newly appointed President of the Chemicals Division of the TruePhase Instrument Company, Jensen want to know everything -- where the weak spots are, what needs to be fixed, what's wrong with management, and most importantly how the employees feel about their new manager. To find out, Jensen takes a page out of reality television, constructing his own, private version of the show "Undercover Boss."

Jensen's Undercover Boss, however, has no cameras, scripts, or staff. It's just him posing as new shipping department employee Conner Jackson. In the absence of the crew, Jensen finds a veritable cesspool of illegal and immoral activities taking place on the factory floor -- illicit drugs, assault, intimidation, extortion. All of this seems to revolve around union boss, Walt Sharp, and his neanderthal henchman, Lazlo.

Grasping at straws, Jensen sends young analyst Sandy Martin in search of answers to clues he uncovers on the shop floor. The clues leads Sandy to the tip of a conspiracy that could bring the company to its knees. It also puts her squarely in the sights of Sharp and his cohorts.

Jensen must decide how far he's willing to push and how much he's willing to tolerate as things progress from shockingly bad to worse, all during a central Indiana winter blizzard.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Spears
• Release date: Jan 7, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311532893

Tom Spears

Tom Spears earned a Bachelors of Science degree in Engineering from Purdue University, and a Masters in Business Administration from Harvard University. He spent twenty-seven years working for four U.S. based public Corporations. During fifteen of those years he held a title of President or Group President. Tom retired from his last Group President position in 2010 to pursue his interest in writing fiction. He still consults occasionally, having expertise in manufacturing, engineering, pricing, strategy and corporate politics. Tom lives with his wife and six children in Ashland, Nebraska.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Tuesday, January 11 at 7:30 AM

It’s fucking cold in here, Connor Jackson thought as he breathed on numb fingers.

Another cardboard box rolled down the conveyor toward him.

Jackson clumsily reached into the barrel behind him, grabbed several feet of bubble pack, and crammed it into the still open box. After folding the flaps, he applied two strips of tape to the top, then gave it a shove toward Osario, who scanned the barcode on the order paperwork, typed some information into a computer, and eventually added a shipping label.

He was already bored, and he’d only been working in the Chemical division’s warehouse for an hour.

Hey! Watch who you’re bumping, asshole!

Jackson looked up to see two men in a stare-down. One was Lazlo Soto, a hyperactive Hispanic with shifty eyes who strutted around the shop floor like he owned the place. Jackson didn’t recognize the other man. He was a young, spongy guy – a boy, really – and one with an unconvincing don’t mess with me expression on his face.

Can the kid back that attitude up?

One look at Soto’s angular muscles – easily visible through his T-shirt – compared to the kid’s flabby midsection convinced Jackson it wasn’t likely.

An idiot is just about to have his ass kicked, he concluded. Or worse.

Jackson wondered if he should intervene before things got out of hand. But do what, exactly? He wasn’t about to throw himself between them only to become a human punching bag – certain to result in a trip to the emergency room.

Before he could make up his mind, it was too late.

The kid acted first, pushing Soto aggressively. The maneuver moved the short but powerful Hispanic backward all of two steps.

A strange grin spread across Soto’s face, like he was the cat who’d just caught both the mouse and the cheese. He whispered something to his pale opponent. The boy visibly shuddered, but then immediately balled up a fist.

Here it comes.

With blinding speed, Soto’s arm lashed out, hitting the younger man in the sternum. The boy staggered back, and Soto followed up the punch with a backhand across the face. The blow was accompanied by a resounding Crack! Jackson inadvertently winced as he watched shocked surprise light up the kid’s eyes.

That had to hurt. A lot.

Soto moved in closer, fists held up in a boxer’s defensive guard. The kid looked like he was seeing stars. The shorter man ducked down, preparing a brutal one-two combination that would fell the cocky boy, despite the kid’s advantage in height and reach.

The kid had the good sense – or more likely, good luck – to pick that moment to fall backward onto the concrete while clutching his chest, a grimace of pain on his face.

Geet up, asshole, Soto taunted. I weel show you what reel pain ees.

Soto!

Jackson’s head swiveled. He saw Tony Oldfield, the shipping department supervisor and a perfect Danny Devito stand-in – all four feet, eight inches of him – standing in the aisle with legs apart and knees flexed. Oldfield’s mouth was twisted in anger, an expression Jackson was beginning to think was perpetually affixed there. This time, however, he added bulging veins in his neck and cheeks that were turning crimson. If Oldfield hadn’t been so short – and similar in age to Devito, as well – he might have looked slightly intimidating. As it was, his rage was merely comical.

Jackson couldn’t tell if the supervisor’s anger was real or an act.

When Jackson looked back at the kid, he was slowly getting to his knees. The punch to the chest had been hard, but not hard enough to crack ribs – not that Soto wasn’t perfectly capable of inflicting a very serious injury. The blow had been a warning – telling the punk he was messing with the big dog.

Soto and Oldfield walked toward each other like two professional wrestlers sizing up their opponent. The idea that Oldfield could face off against the scary Soto was completely crazy, but Jackson gave him points for bravery.

Then he subtracted a few points for testosterone-induced stupidity.

The pair stopped right behind Jackson, who pretended to ignore them as he worked. Jackson distractedly assembled a package waiting at his workstation, straining to overhear the conversation.

What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Oldfield demanded in a quiet but firm voice.

There was no audible answer, just the low rumble of Soto’s gravelly voice. Jackson was just about to turn around to see what was happening when Oldfield spoke again, calmer this time: You just need to chill out, compadre. You’re going to push it too far and end up down in HR. Or under arrest. You’ve got way too much at stake to fuck up like that.

The leettle sheet was deesrespecteen me. I can’t let heem get away wiff dat, Soto said, just loud enough for Jackson to decipher.

Everyone knows you’re the baddest dude on the floor, Laz. You don’t have to prove it every time somebody farts.

Silence, then after a few moments, the man said: I jeest get… carried away sometime.

No problem, man. Now you get on that fork lift and store that skid of Plasti-paks that just came over from the production department.

Jackson heard footsteps receding and chanced a glance over his shoulder, seeing a chastened Soto shuffling away.

What the fuck are you looking at, Jackson?

He jerked his head around to see Tiny Tony glaring up at him with his patented grimace.

Nothing, boss.

Inside, he wondered exactly what just happened.

Why didn’t Oldfield fire Soto on the spot? Or called the police like he threatened?

Keep you mind on your own business, or you’ll find yourself out on your ass before you’ve finished your first day.

Jackson turned back to the boxes, thinking not for the first time since his arrival at TruePhase Chemicals that he’d made a mistake.

A big mistake.

Tuesday, 6:30 AM

Colin Jenson arrived at Tony Oldfield’s office, a rudimentary structure perched on top of a crudely-constructed employee break room – complete with hideous, simulated-wood paneling and an ancient steel desk that had been painted yellow at some point in the distant past. As far as Oldfield was concerned, Colin was there to begin his first day as a provisional employee in the shipping department.

"What’s your name, kid?" Oldfield asked. He didn’t bother looking up from the large stack of papers he was shuffling.

"Jackson. Conner Jackson."

Jackson secretly smiled as he offered this alias. It had been a long time since he’d heard himself referred to as kid. At six one, with prematurely greying temples and miniature crow’s feet growing from the corners of his eyes, he felt he’d long ago passed out of the kid stage. To Oldfield, however, who was well over sixty, everyone under forty probably looked young.

"What can you do?"

"Ummm, some people say I do a mean imitation of John Madden, Jackson said with a lopsided grin. Want to hear it?"

Oldfield looked up with an angry frown.

"Not even a chuckle?" Jackson asked.

The aging supervisor appeared to be considering giving the smart-assed punk’s face a slap, but managed to satisfy himself with a roll of his eyes.

"Can you drive a forklift?"

"No."

"Ever use a barcode scanner?"

"Nope."

"Do you know how to work a computer?"

"I’m actually pretty good with them."

"Why the fuck didn’t you say so?"

"Uh… didn’t think of it, I guess."

"Your computer skills might be useful to us… someday – when you’ve got ten years of seniority," he said, then cackled to himself as if he delivered a hilarious one-liner.

Jackson thought he could hear crickets once Oldfield quieted down. The lack of obliging laughter probably just further pissed off the old guy.

For a moment, the supervisor gazed off into the distance, then said to the wall: Why does Yoyo send me you worthless idiots?

Jackson guessed that Yoyo referred to Yolanda Maddox, the vice president of HR – a nickname that was probably not intended to be kind. He had personally been impressed with the woman when he met her – she was clearly smart and seemed to know the company like the back of her hand. When he’d asked her which department had the biggest problems, she hadn’t hesitated before saying, Shipping.

"I don’t consider myself worthless," Jackson said, now actually feeling a little irritated himself.

"Really? So what can you do?"

"I’ve run manufacturing equipment before."

"And where was that?"

"The butcher shop at Kroger."

He tried to pass it off as another joke, but the story was actually part of his cover. New to Indy. Initially transferred within the grocery chain. But he’d needed a day job, and all they had available was graveyard shift.

"And they’re all fucking comedians, too, Oldfield said, again addressing the walls. Every day is a new adventure around here."

Oldfield looked back at his papers, and Jackson waited. Eventually, the department supervisor tossed the stack of papers in his trash can, stood, and walked over to Jackson, taking a position a foot in front of the taller man and poking him in the chest with two fingers.

"Let’s get this straight right from the start, Jonathan Winters – out here I’m God, and I expect your absolute and unquestioning obedience to my every instruction. You got that?"

Jackson had heard of Winters, a comedian from the 50’s and 60’s, but had never actually seen the guy perform.

Maybe Oldfield was closer to seventy.

"Yeah."

"Good. Get your ass down to the packaging line, find Osario, and have her show you how to pad and close boxes. I’ll be able to tell shortly if you’ve got half a brain."

That was the end of his new employee orientation. At least it wasn’t difficult to understand what Oldfield wanted from him – personal indentured servitude.

He left the office, climbed down the set of rickety stairs, and walked into the break room where several employees were milling around. The vending machines looked like they hadn’t been dusted or restocked for forty years, and the food inside appeared downright dangerous. There were half a dozen beige, plastic-on-metal chairs, most of which didn’t look safe for sitting. The lone plastic table appeared to be a Walmart reject and was covered with carved graffiti.

"Home sweet home," he mumbled to himself. No one seemed to notice.

"Any of you Osario?" he asked.

The employees all continued to ignore him. A few appeared to be preoccupied with their own personal business, which included playing with their phones or talking to themselves. The rest were quietly whispering. Undoubtedly passing along the latest juicy gossip about the new guy and what an idiot he was.

Jeez. It’s just like high school – full of cliques, and nobody willing to talk to an outsider, he thought.

He left the break room and headed out to the packaging line, a long roller-conveyor with half a dozen workstations. The cold air in the work area was a shock after the warmth of the break room.

It’s barely above freezing out here, he thought.

There was a lone woman standing at a computer by the end of the conveyor. She was dressed in an indeterminate number of clothing layers and was pecking at the computer’s keys.

"Can you direct me to Osario?"

The woman continued typing.

Deciding he might just be invisible, or else his co-workers were all deaf, he started to leave.

"You found her," the woman finally said, looking up from the screen.

She was short, probably thin under all those clothes, and about forty, Jackson guessed, although he had never been good at estimating the age of women – a dangerous pastime that he’d never wanted to practice.

Osario had no accent despite her Hispanic looks.

"Tony told me to find you."

"Fresh meat? she asked, then smiled. Where did he want you?"

"Probably on Mars, Jackson replied, but he said padding and closing boxes."

She turned back to the screen. Just let me finish opening today’s production orders….

"Conner is my name. Conner Jackson."

"As far as I’m concerned, your name is Meat," she said, sounding distracted.

She picked at the keys for another minute, then stepped back and glanced his direction, barely acknowledging him.

"This way, she said, motioning him with a hand toward an open workstation. Let me give you a piece of advice."

"Yeah?"

"Mind your own business, Meat. Keep your mouth shut, and stay away from Lazlo Soto. Follow those simple rules, and you’ll survive your first day."

"Which one’s Lazlo?"

"You’ll figure that out when he comes around."

Tuesday, 7:35 AM

After the confrontation, Oldfield disappeared back into his office while Soto drove his forklift into the hinter regions of the warehouse. Within a few seconds, the electricity that had charged the air fizzled, then dissipated. It didn’t take Jackson long to become bored again with stuffing padding materials into boxes and mindlessly dispensing strips of tape. He looked around his workstation and saw the other employees diligently focused on their jobs.

All of them except Osario, that is. The middle-aged department trainer locked eyes with him for a moment, then looked away. Socializing when on the clock was clearly frowned upon at TruePhase Chemicals. Not to mention, Osario hadn’t exactly been cordial at their first meeting.

After all, she was the one who insisted on calling him Meat. He was pretty sure it was no term of endearment.

Of course, it was better than he’d done with the other employees, all of whom basically ignored him.

It was hard to believe he had only been at TruePhase for two days – it certainly seemed like a lot longer. And while he felt he was still absorbing a million bits of data from a thousand different directions, his picture of the company was beginning to coalesce.

That picture wasn’t pretty.

When he had shown up at his office Monday morning, he had been full of big dreams and expectations. Colin Jensen had been a big deal at the Concord Equipment division of Danaher Corporation – a fact that frequently had been confirmed in the words of his boss, peers, and subordinates. TruePhase Chemicals represented the next logical step in what was shaping up into a nearly perfect career.

When he announced he had landed the job of President of the crown jewel division of TruePhase Instruments Corporation, no one at Concord Equipment seemed surprised.

Either that, or maybe they were all extremely happy to see him go.

He couldn’t discount that possibility. Colin hadn’t exactly been the most popular manager running around Concord. Respected – yes. Feared – possibly. Loved – not so much. In addition, his personal friendship with Division President Filip Lassen had generated plenty of envy.

In the final analysis, however, he preferred to think his Danaher departure had been mourned, even if he might harbor a few doubts.

The forklift rumbled by, and Jackson glanced over a shoulder to see Lazlo Soto had returned, bringing a skid of materials to the packaging line. One thing for sure – Soto must be fired once he’d finished this little ‘undercover boss’ charade.

Given the man’s potential for violence, the sooner the better.

Monday, 8:00 AM

Colin’s first day at the TruePhase Instrument Company began with a surprise.

Before reporting to his office, he dropped into corporate headquarters – across a wide parking lot from the Chemical division’s administrative offices and part of a sprawling campus of office buildings and production facilities on the north side of Indianapolis. The purpose of the visit was to discuss goals and expectations with his new boss, CEO Sam O’Keefe.

Colin waltzed through the main doors and headed for the elevator, nearly running into Cheryl Masterson, one of the senior execs that had interviewed him a few weeks ago. She was smartly dressed in a navy skirt-suit and cream-colored blouse and wearing heels in which he couldn’t imagine walking.

"Good morning," she said, sounding as surprised at seeing him as he was in finding a familiar face that didn’t belong to O’Keefe.

"Morning, Colin said. Know the way to the boss’ office?"

He was actually certain where to go, but was a bit flustered by the chance meeting and didn’t know what else to say.

"First day, huh?" Masterson said, smiling.

"Does it show?"

She looked him up and down, apparently noting non-existent wrinkles in his freshly pressed suit.

"Don’t be nervous. He doesn’t bite, she said. At least not often."

Colin chuckled, obligingly.

"It’s upstairs on five. Turn left once you get off the elevator."

"Thanks."

Masterson continued on her way. Colin noticed her shaking her head as she went, probably judging him to be an overly-eager idiot.

He had been in O’Keefe’s office twice before, both times during the interview grind, so he wasn’t shocked by the Spartan furnishings. O’Keefe’s desk looked like a walnut refugee rescued from the back of a used furniture warehouse. It was unfashionably dark, flimsy, and had a number of obvious nicks and scratches. The other furniture in his office was a hodgepodge of items scavenged from who knew where – all of them also showing significant wear. The walls, unlike any other senior executive’s office he’d ever been in, were completely bare.

Sam O’Keefe appeared to be the kind of CEO who was determined to leave no permanent imprint on the company. Most of the contents of his office would likely be removed and burned by his successor. Overall, the place had a vague, rundown, 1950’s industrial feel to it.

He walked past O’Keefe’s empty secretarial station – the CEO had let his last assistant go a month earlier and still hadn’t replaced her, or at least that was his explanation. As a result, Colin entered O’Keefe’s inner sanctum unannounced.

"Colin! the CEO said, his eyes round with astonishment. Is this your first day? I’m happy to see you’ve finally arrived."

Sam O’Keefe was hardly a chief executive cast from the classic mold, looking more like a plant manager on the downslope of his career. The open-collared shirt, baggy khakis, and cowboy boots did nothing to dispel the impression. O’Keefe was short, ruddy, and a bit frail-looking, but even with those less than desirable characteristics, there was still an intensity Colin couldn’t help but notice. Despite a few eccentricities, O’Keefe was not a man to underestimate – in fact, the offbeat appearance might be intentional, a ploy to put potential opponents at ease… before they were crushed, that is.

There was a smile of pleasure plastered on O’Keefe’s face, and that, more than any words the man could have spoken, made the young Danaher wunderkind feel completely welcome.

"It’s a pleasure, sir," Colin replied.

Normally, Colin wouldn’t address anyone as sir, but with O’Keefe, it just seemed… proper.

"So son, I can see you’re here and rarin’ to go, O’Keefe said, making a fist and waving it around in rah-rah fashion. He smiled again. Any questions?"

"Just a couple, sir. Can you tell me what you expect me to accomplish over the next quarter?"

O’Keefe rubbed his hands together and beamed, as if he’d been waiting years for someone to ask him this exact question.

"Don’t screw anything up. Simple as that. The Chemicals division is the goose that lays the golden eggs ‘round here, and I don’t want you takin’ any risks with my goose," O’Keefe said.

He appeared to be pleased with his cleverness, and Colin responded with a short, obligatory laugh.

"I think I get it – you want me to take my time and learn the business. No radical changes right away. Right?"

"I don’t want you to make any changes at all – at least not without talking to me first. Your division may be only twenty percent of the company’s sales, but it earns more than half of our profits. We can’t afford to miss a beat. Think of yourself as a caretaker, at least for now. Keep track of any improvement ideas you have, and in a few months – maybe a year – we can put a plan together."

That didn’t sound very exciting. Or particularly challenging. Colin had come to TruePhase to make his mark as a general manager. Taking a year to lay out a plan would make a mark, just not one that would impress anybody.

Colin knew from his interview with Harold Kirklin of Clay Capital, the current owners of TruePhase, that the company would be sold sometime in the next couple of years. In the run-up to a sale, Clay would be focused on maximizing cash flow in order to generate the highest possible sales price. O’Keefe took his orders from Kirklin.

Enough said.

Undoubtedly, O’Keefe and the rest of the senior team – Colin included, once he figured out how the company’s executive bonus system worked – would have plenty of financial incentive to do exactly what he was now being instructed to do. And since his division carried the water when it came to generating profits, he ought to be cut in for a substantial share of any excess wealth created by the transaction. With a giant payday on the distant horizon, nobody would be in favor of rocking the boat.

Still, being a caretaker wasn’t what he’d signed up for, nor was it what O’Keefe had hinted at during the interview.

Even if he didn’t like it, what could he do? Quit and hope Filip Lassen would take him back at Concord Equipment? That wasn’t likely to happen given the way he’d ended things.

For now, the best course of action was probably to go along with O’Keefe – until Colin could propose a couple of killer projects to which even an ultra-conservative CEO couldn’t say no.

"I’ll keep steering a straight course, sir."

"That’s the spirit. Call me if anythin’ comes up."

He said, Call me, but his body language said something closer to, Get the hell out of here, and don’t bother me.

Colin left the office expecting to have limited future interaction with his peculiar new boss.

Which would be completely okay from his perspective.

Chapter 2

Monday, January 10 at 8:30 AM

The walk from O’Keefe’s office to the Chemical division administrative building – affectionately known, Colin had recently learned, as The Pit – was only a few hundred yards, but it seemed like ten miles in the cold winter air. The grim weather was only part of the feeling – the distance grew because of the nervousness he felt at finally taking the helm in his first general management assignment. It would be the biggest test of his career.

Unlike the corporate headquarters building, Colin had never entered The Pit during the recruitment process – all his interviews had taken place elsewhere. Ostensibly, O’Keefe didn’t want the divisional staff passing judgment on every candidate to walk in the door. Although Colin thought the explanation sounded a bit strange, he hadn’t questioned it. Getting a closer look at The Pit, however, another explanation suggested itself -- the place was so tired-looking, it might scare off a top-notch candidate.

The brick, three-story Pit had most likely started off as a small warehouse, one where offices had taken root in one corner of the structure and eventually spread to the rest of the space like weeds across a fertile flowerbed. It was clearly old and showed the signs – peeling paint, rusted window frames, and ancient air conditioners hanging out of every window.

As he approached, he noticed that once, likely several years ago, the exterior brick had been painted over in reddish-brown, undoubtedly to hide some kind of defect. Now the paint was shedding onto the surrounding concrete, leaving long, ugly, red streaks that reminded Colin of bloodstains.

The sign above the main entrance that read TruePhase Chemicals Division was the only thing that looked like it came from this decade. As he passed through glass outer and inner doors Colin wondered if it should instead say, Abandon hope all ye who enter here.

Inside was a smallish lobby with halls exiting to the left, right, and straight ahead. He looked around quickly, realizing the exterior of The Pit was certainly its worst side. The lobby was tiled in gray slate partially covered by a multi-colored rug that looked like someone’s geometric nightmare. Artistic, but not to his taste. Positioned in the middle of the room was a wooden desk, and behind it was a middle-aged woman wearing heavy-rimmed glasses and a telephone headset. There was almost enough black plastic to make it look like she was wearing some kind of safety helmet. The woman was a little plump and a lot pinched.

She nodded to him once he cleared the door, and although she was obviously embroiled in a phone conversation on the headset, she was speaking in a whisper.

Personal call, he thought.

"Hold on a minute, she whispered into the phone, then looked directly at Colin and spoke in a conversational voice. Can I help you?"

"Where can I find Tracy Whitfield?" he asked.

"Oh, you must be Mister Jensen, she said. It’s so good to meet you finally."

She shoved a hand at him, which he dutifully shook.

"Stacy, I’ll call you right back, she said into the phone, then pressed a button on the headset. So, first day?"

"Yep. Just finished my introductory meeting at corporate."

"What do you think so far?"

"Uh, well it’s kind of early to be making any judgments just yet."

"Oh, of course."

The woman stood there blankly for a moment, continuing to pump Colin’s hand. Finally, she seemed to remember herself. Tracy, right?

"That’s right."

"She’s on the third floor. You can take the elevator – I think they fixed it – or the stairs. Both of them are straight ahead in the middle of the building. When you get to three, turn right and then right again. Tracy is just past the Board Room on your left."

He turned to go, then realized every new employee he met today and for the next few weeks would judge him based on short encounters just like this. Friend, boss, and mentor Filip Lassen must have told him a thousand times: First impressions count.

"May I ask your name?"

"Joanie."

"Joanie, it’s been a pleasure to meet you, and I’m sure we’ll have plenty of opportunities to talk later," he said, treating her to a big smile.

She smiled back, and he realized he had won one small victory in what would likely be a long battle.

When you’re the new boss and an outsider, it can be a challenge to persuade people that you’re a decent guy, he thought.

He walked through the lobby to what he realized must be the center of the building. The elevator, while not completely antique, looked a bit dodgy. Besides, it had an out of order sign hanging on it.

Well, that settles that, he thought.

The stairs were reached through a heavy steel door that scraped the floor slightly as he jerked it open. Bounding up the steps, he emerged on the third floor, panting. Here he found a small landing, which was even more nicely appointed than the main lobby. He turned right, leaving the elevator landing, turned right again, and saw a long hallway ahead of him. If he was correct, this hall encircled the entire floor in a giant loop, with the elevator and stairs positioned at its center.

After only a dozen strides, he passed a glassed-in conference room. The large oak table and high-backed, leather, swivel chairs told him this was the Board Room Joanie had mentioned. Inside he saw a partially disassembled, paneled wall with a large screen peeking out from behind it. A technician was in the process of pulling one of the panels back in front of the screen. Colin had seen a system like this at Danaher, where the wall opened up to reveal the screen for projecting Powerpoint presentations.

It seemed a bit excessive for a company the size of TruePhase.

Colin continued past the Board Room and found himself at a secretarial station. There was a large-breasted, young woman sitting behind a computer with gorgeous skin and pretty, long, brunette hair, which she wore down. She was dressed in a deep-plunging red dress which accentuated her curves.

Stunning specimen, he thought, then added: Please be Tracy Whitfield.

He chastised himself – she was great eye candy, but what he really needed was an administrative assistant who knew the organization. And someone he could trust. Besides, there was no quicker way for an executive to get in trouble than to start fooling around with a subordinate – trouble both at work and at home. It was another one of Lassen’s lessons.

He shook his head in a cartoonish fashion, trying to get his mind back in the game.

She looked up at him, probably distracted by his antics, then quickly looked away.

"You must be Colin Jensen," she said, beating him to the punch.

"That’s right. And you must be Tracy."

Tracy smiled weakly, stood up, and shook his hand. Her palm was soft and smooth, and the nails were perfectly manicured. Then he tried to convince himself these had been completely objective observations.

"How long have you had this job?" Colin asked, after a moment’s hesitation.

"Let me see… almost six years now."

"So you must know everybody working in the Chemicals division?"

"Not in a biblical sense," she laughed, an annoying twitter, then blushed slightly.

He laughed along but then felt a little uncomfortable with the coy flirting.

"And you’ve worked for the last couple of incumbents in my job."

"There have only been two."

"David DiGennaro and…."

He paused, waiting for her to fill in the blank. She cast a sidelong glance his direction.

"Let me show you around your new office," Tracy said, ignoring his question and instead leading him through the doorway by the side of the her workstation.

He followed obediently, setting down his leather briefcase just inside the door and allowing Tracy to take him on