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time.
     
    “Are you sure of this?” The elder Mr. Glassman tapped a manicured nail against the report. “It will hold up in court?”
    “No doubt about it. Everything you need is right there.” Behind her back the fingers of Vicki’s right hand beat a tattoo against her left palm. Every time she faced the elder Mr. Glassman, she found herself standing at parade rest for no reason she could discern. He wasn’t a physically imposing man, nor in any way military in bearing so she supposed it must be force of personality. Although he’d been hardly more than a child at the time, he’d managed to not only survive the death camps of the Holocaust but bring his younger brother Joseph safely through the horror as well.
    He closed the report and sighed deeply. “Harris.” The name put an end to months of petty sabotage, although as he said it, he sounded more weary than angry. “Our thanks for your quick work, Ms. Nelson.” He stood and held out his hand.
    Vicki took it, noting the strength beneath the soft surface.
    “I see your bill is included with the report,” he continued. “We’ll issue a check at the end of the week. I assume you’ll be available for court appearances if necessary?”
    “It’s part of the service,” she assured him. “If you need me, I’ll be there.”
     
    “Yo, baby-doll!” Harris, spending the last of his lunch break outside in the sun with a couple of cronies, heaved himself to his feet as Vicki left the building. “Packin’ it in, eh? Couldn’t cut it.”
    Vicki had every intention of ignoring him.
    “Pity that your tight little ass is gonna be wiggling its way somewhere else.”
    And then again. . . .
    He laughed as he saw her reaction and continued to laugh as she crossed the parking lot to stand in front of him. A jock in his younger days, he had the heavy, bulgy build of a man who’d once been muscular, his Blue Jays T-shirt stretched tight over the beer belly he carried around instead of a waist. He was the kind of laughing bigot that everyone tends to excuse.
    Don’t mind him, it’s just his way.
    Vicki considered those the most dangerous kind but this time he’d gone beyond excuses. He could complain about people not being able to take a joke all the way to court.
    “What’s the matter baby-doll, couldn’t leave without a good-bye kiss.” He turned to be sure the two men still sitting by the building appreciated the joke and so missed the expression on Vicki’s face.
    She’d had a bad night. She was in a bad mood. And she was more than willing to take it out on this racist, sexist son-of-a-bitch. He had a good four inches on her and probably a hundred pounds but she figured she’d have little trouble dusting his ass. Tempting, but no. Although her eyes narrowed and her jaw clenched, years of observing due process held her temper in check. He’s not worth the trouble.
    As she turned to leave, Harris swung around and, grinning broadly, reached out and smacked her on the ass.
    Vicki smiled. Oh what the hell. . . .
    Pivoting, she kicked him less hard than she was able on the outside edge of his left knee. He toppled, bellowing with pain, as if both feet had been cut out from under him. A blow just below his ribs drove the air out of his lungs in an anguished gasp and given that she resisted stomping where it would hurt the most, she treated herself to slamming a well-placed foot into his butt as he drew his knees up to his chest. Then she grinned at his buddies and started home again.
    He could press charges. But she didn’t think he would. He wasn’t hurt and she was willing to bet that by the time he got his breath back he’d already be warping the facts to fit his world view—a world view that would not include the possibility of his being taken down by a woman.
    She also realized that this wouldn’t have been the case if she still carried a badge, police brutality being a rallying cry of his kind.
    You know, she shoved her glasses up her nose and ran