BEAMON SAID, stepping to his right and setting a large box of doughnuts on his secretary’s desk. She covered the mouthpiece of the phone she was talking into and said, “Sorry, Mark. I wanted to warn you.” Beamon leaned out so he could see through the window of his office. Jacob Layman had planted himself in his chair and was staring Intently into a folder that Beamon had left on his desk. “What’s his mood look like, D.?” Beamon asked as she hung up the phone. “I don’t think it’s good, Mark. He didn’t even look at me when he came in. Just walked over to your desk and sat down.” Beamon sighed and began slowly walking toward his door. “You know, D., I was reading a play by Shakespeare yesterday …” She shook her head sadly. “It’s not Desde- mona.” “Okay, I’ll leave you in charge of the doughnuts,” he said, pointing at the grease-stained box he’d left on her desk. “If I’m not back in an hour, organize a rescue.” “Jake, how’re you doing? What brings you to my neck of the woods?”
