He looked up at me. His body was motionless. His blue eyes bored into mine without blinking. He was handsome, but blank, so expressionless that I wondered if he'd had a stroke or an accident that had severed all the muscles in his face.

I tried to keep my mien as dead as his. I'm a bottom-line kind of person myself. I like to cut straight to the chase.

He picked up his pen, checking item one, line one on his list. "I'm not clear whom you report to. Perhaps you can fill me in."

Oh, Jesus. "It varies," I said pleasantly. "I'm accountable to Mac Voorhies, but the cases are usually referred by individual claims adjusters." The minute I started speaking, he began to write. I'm an expert (she said modestly) at reading upside down, but he was using a shorthand code of his own. I stopped speaking. He stopped taking notes. I said nothing.

He looked up at me again. "Excuse me. I missed that. Can you describe the procedure on this? The file doesn't seem to indicate."

"Usually, I get a call. Or one of the adjusters might bring a case to my attention. I stop in the office two or three times a week." He managed to write at exactly the rate I spoke. I stopped. His pen came to a halt.

"In addition to meetings?" he asked.

"Meetings?"

"I'm assuming you attend the regularly scheduled office meetings. Budgets. Sales…"

"I've never done that."

He checked his notes, flipping back a page or two. A frown formed, but I could have sworn his confusion was pure theatrics. "I can't seem to find your 206's."

"Really," I said. "That surprises me." I hadn't the faintest idea what a 206 was, but I thought it should be his responsibility since he brought it up.

He passed a form across the desk to me. "Just to refresh your memory," he said.

There were lots of slots to be filled in. Dates, times, corporate numbers, odometer readings; clearly a formal report in which I was supposed to detail every burp and hiccup on the job. I passed the form back to him without comment. I wasn't going to play this game. Screw him.