McNinch sighed. “You didn’t pass the drug test, John.”

“I’m on medication. You know that.” It was the truth; he had prescriptions. Several, in fact. Too goddamn many if he wanted to be honest about it. He didn’t feel inclined to be honest.

Ruth Bogart spoke for the first time. “Why didn’t you write it down on the form when you gave your urine sample?”

John shot her a dark look. “Because the drugs I take are nobody’s goddamn business.”

Bogart’s face reddened through her Estée Lauder makeup.

McNinch shifted uncomfortably. “Look, John, can your doctor verify the script?” he asked reasonably. The peacekeeper. The man in the middle. The man who used to be just like John until too much paperwork turned him into another fat guy in a suit who didn’t count for shit.

“I’m sure he can.” Another lie, but it would buy him some time. John figured it was the best he could hope for at this juncture.

Bogart piped up again, angry now because John had embarrassed her in front of her colleagues. “I’ll need the name and number of your physician.”

“Which one? I have several.”

“The one who prescribed the pills.”

“They’ve all prescribed pills.”

Bogart shook her head. “Give me the names, John.”

He could tell by her expression she’d wanted to call him asshole, but she didn’t have the balls. Ruth Bogart was far too politically correct to say what she really thought. She’d wait until your back was turned, then sink the knife in good and deep.

John recited the names of three doctors and gave her the phone numbers. There were more doctors—he’d done quite a bit of shopping around—but he stopped there since prescription shopping was illegal in most states.

John leaned back in his chair. “If you guys are after my ass, you should have called me in here about my performance or attendance instead of this drug test thing. Considering my history with BCI and the Cleveland Division of Police, termination based on a urinalysis could be tricky.” He lowered his voice. “People hate it when the good guy gets the shaft. I don’t think you need that kind of negative PR. Hell, if this were to go to litigation . . .” He shrugged.

McNinch looked alarmed. “John, no one’s after your ass.”

“We don’t expect this to go to litigation,” Bogart added.

John didn’t believe either of them.

Rummel set a leather-bound notebook on the table and sat. “Is there a correlation between the drugs and your attendance?”

John couldn’t help it; he laughed. But with his career in the toilet, his life already down the drain, there wasn’t anything remotely funny about any of this. Except for maybe Rummel’s ridiculous mustache.

The deputy superintendent shot Bogart a look. She passed him a sheet of paper. Rummel set the papers down without looking at them. “You’ve missed ten days of work this year and it’s only January.”

“I had the flu.”

“For ten days?”