That was Ericson— organized, direct, determined, and just a little bit belligerent.
"Hold it," Ericson told me.
I stopped outside of her office, as I always did, while she went inside and turned off, then unplugged her computer and the small radio on her desk.
Ericson is used to the kind of mayhem that happens whenever I get around machinery. After she was done, I went on in.
I sat down and slurped more coffee. She slid up onto the edge of her desk, looking down at me, her blue eyes narrowed.
She was dressed no less casually on a Saturday than she was on a workday—dark slacks, a dark blouse, set off by her golden hair, and bright silver necklace and earrings.
Very stylish. I, in my rumpled sweats and T-shirt, black duster, and mussed hair, felt very slouchy.
"All right, Ryan," she said.
"What have you got for me."
