Sheils barked and thumped his desk. Brannon sat opposite him back at his office. They were supposed to be getting dinner, but once he told Sheils about the Fleetwoods hiring a private investigator, dinner was suspended. “I should have seen it coming,” Sheils complained. “He suckered us all with his generosity.” “Technically, the Fleetwoods hired the PI, not Rooker.” “Yes, but my money says Rooker is paying the bills.” “He is,” Brannon conceded. “Son of a bitch.” Professional pride fueled his annoyance. Rooker had coerced the Fleetwoods into taking on a private investigator. What did that say about the FBI and him? It said they weren’t up to the job. And if he were being honest, who could blame them? How many times had the Piper slipped through his fingers? Peter Fleetwood had even been snatched out from under his protection. The Fleetwoods were entitled to bring someone on board. He sighed. “Who’d they hire?” “Friedkin International Investigations.” Sheils knew John Friedkin by reputation.
