The Snarkomter creaks up on 56
"I'm a thief. Not a murderer." Quinn Alexander crossed her arms over the orange jumpsuit and stared at Amos Nickleby.
"I'm not here to argue the point. Whether you killed the gardener or not, the DA has enough evidence to convince a jury that you did."
"How? How can he have evidence if I didn't do it?"
"Your prints are on the gun." Nickelby shrugged and settled back in his chair. "You'll probably only get life imprisonment since it wasn't premeditated. But it was during the commission of a burglary; it'll definitely go down as first degree."
Quinn stared at the table for a moment, then looked at Nickelby. When would she be eligible for parole? Thirty years? Maybe twenty if she kept her nose clean. And at forty eight, she'd still be young enough to track Alan Stanton down and kick his sorry ass.
Nickelby leaned back in his chair. "I can fix it."
Hope swelled in her chest until she ruthlessly beat it down. How the hell could he fix the fact that her lover had set her up? That he'd used her to accomplish his goals and then left her to suffer the consequences?
"I can make it all go away." He slid a set of papers in front of her.
Quinn scanned the document, her eyes stopping at certain words. "Use my knowledge and expertise? What does that mean?"
"We would expect you to use your skills to our advantage."
"My only skill is stealing."
She flipped the sheet over and her eyes stopped at the bottom of the page where there was a line for her signature. The cold knot in her stomach exploded into panic when she recognized the insignia.
"You want me to steal for the CIA?"
yea, and when you're done, Charlie Townsend has an angelic job for you too. This is old old old,
and while there is nothing new under the sun, you've got to give us something fresh to hold on to. I'd probably read on cause I'm a sucker for bad girls who kick ass...but this one is gonna be hard hard sell unless you do something amazing by page ten.