March Madness 3

"We have the same name," Lindie Nicholson said.

"Not quite," Wyatt said to the young woman in his small office. "Same basic pronunciation, different spelling. Mine is spelled N-i-c-h-e-l-s-e-n."

"You mean we're not related?" She turned down her sensuous mouth in a faux frown.

He knew she was jerking his chain. "Afraid not."

Twenty-nine year old Wyatt Nichelsen worked for state government as a parole and probation agent. Lindie Nicholson was on his caseload, one of about fifty people that he supervised. She had reported as scheduled and sat across from Wayne's steel, gunmetal desk in his eight by eight foot cubicle. Before today, twenty-two year old Lindie was little more than a name on a case folder, on probation for shoplifting from a boutique. Today she was reporting for the first time. Wayne eyed her with caution, for he knew how manipulative some of these attractive female offenders could be. Lindie could be one of them, one of those bad chicks that employ subtle (and sometimes not so subtle) means to get around their agents. Getting personal was a common method to manipulate, and Lindie's name game could well be her way of doing that.

Of course, he couldn't be sure; they had just met. What he did know and tried to overlook was how cute she was—not just cute but adorable, petit, with blue-gray eyes and light brown hair that swept back on the sides and dropped to the middle of her back. No doubt, she knew it and no doubt she knew he knew it. It didn't help that she sat there attired in shorts with her legs crossed, showing ample cleavage for good measure.

"Okay, well, I like your first name, too. Wyatt, as in Earp."

He folded his hands on the desk. "Wyatt, as in Agent Nichelsen," he corrected. "It's time we get on with business. Are you with me?"

She nodded. "Fire away."

He did, reading to her the rules of her one-year probation, which included reporting once per month and paying $40.00 restitution. She was also to stay out of Something Else, the boutique she tried to rip off. "Any questions?"

"You'll be coming to my apartment, you said."

"Right."

"Do you know when?"

"We make random visits."

"All dressed up like that?" She eyed his blue, pinstripe suit over a white shirt and striped tie.

"Probably not. Why?"

"Just curious. My dad has a suit like that. Classy."

"Okay. Anything else?"

She shook her head, then got up to leave. "It was nice meeting you, Agent Nichelsen. "You won't have any trouble with me."

He smiled. "Glad to hear it. I've got too many knuckleheads as is." He marked her card with her next report date.

She flashed him a warm smile as she daintily waved her hand goodbye.

Wyatt hoped that she'd make good on what she said: no trouble. He knew about knuckleheads. He was a seasoned agent who'd been with the agency since graduating from college. He'd seen offenders come and go, including his share of hot women. This Lindie, he had to admit, was one of them, one that could test the strength of his professional façade. He opened her case file to study the presentence report. Except for the shoplifting, she had a clean record. The police stated that she had picked out a $40 blouse from a clothing boutique, tried it on in the dressing room and then split with it. Security caught her down the street, then held her until police arrived. Did she walk into the boutique planning to steal or was this a case of dumb impulsiveness? He wondered. The report also went into Lindie's personal profile. She was in her last year at the University of Maryland majoring in Applied Mathematics. That alone told him that she was smart—a smart girl who made a dumb decision.

He wanted to gain more insight and decided to make a home visit a week later. His itinerary called for about a dozen field visits, including one at the Nottingham, the off campus townhouse-style apartment complex near her school where Lindie roomed with two other girls, both students. He wore what he normally wore for the field, business casual. It was close to eleven when he pulled his black Mazda 6 into the parking lot and walked a few yards to the front door. He knocked once, twice and then a third time. 'Probably not there,' he thought after more than a minute had passed. He was almost at his car when he heard the door open.

"Agent Nichelsen. Sorry, I just got out of the shower." Lindie stood barefoot in the doorway wearing tight jeans and a white pullover. Her hair was damp and disheveled. "I guess this is that home visit you mentioned."

"Yes. Are you busy?"

"I don't have class until one. Come on in."

'Nice place,' he thought for a student's pad, carpeted and well-furnished, including an eat-in kitchen with modern appliances.

She gave his attire the once over. "No suit today, huh? Can I get you anything? Something to drink, maybe?"

"No thanks," he said, aware that the agency frowned on agents accepting anything from offenders.

She invited him to take the sofa, then excused herself. Seconds later, she walked back into the living room brushing her hair. Apologetically, she said, "I need to do this so it doesn't curl up too much as it dries." She took a seat in a lounge chair across from him.

"No problem." He looked around, paying close attention to the abstract paintings on the walls. "Very nice."

She smiled. "I painted them during my freshman year."

"Really?!"

She laughed. "Surprised?"

He kept his eyes on the paintings. "Sort of. I mean, I didn't know that math majors could also be artistic. Stereotypes die hard."

"There's more in my room if you'd ever like to see them."

"Sure, maybe some other time." Wyatt knew that he didn't need to stay any longer. Per agency guidelines, he had already verified her home plan. Yet he was still curious about the shoplifting. Also, it didn't hurt that he found her so pretty that he could barely take his eyes off her. "So tell me about this shoplifting," he said.

"What about it?"

"Well, I guess I'd like to know what possessed you to do it."

"Let me guess. You were a psychology major in college."

"Right on target."

"Thought so." She paused, looked up at the ceiling. "What possessed me to do it...hmm. Look, I know this is no excuse, but I didn't have my credit card with me and I really wanted that blouse. It was a stupid, impulsive act that'll never happen again."

"That sounds so ironic," he said, "because stupid isn't a word that should ever apply to you, an Applied Mathematics major."

"Not only that, I'm in MENSA. Seems like a huge incongruity, doesn't it?"

MENSA, as Wyatt knew, was a society for high IQ people. Damn, she really was smart! "You're in MENSA?!"

"I am. Hope you won't hold that against me." She chuckled.

"Not at all. So, what's your IQ? Just curious."

She demurred "I've tested in the high one-thirties. I'll leave it at that."

"Wow." He then returned to her explanation for the shoplifting. "Are you impulsive by nature?"

"I can be. Are you? And what's YOUR IQ?" She grinned.

"Impulsive? I've had my moments. IQ? Not even close to yours, that's for sure. In fact, I'd say I'm a couple of standard deviations below." As a psychology major, he knew all too well his and Lindie's relative positions on the Bell Curve: they weren't even close. He was high average at best, around the fortieth percentile, while she was in the elite, less than two percent class.

He glanced at his watch, then got up to leave. "Anyway, it's back to work. See you in the office next month."

She walked him to the door. "No more home visits?"

"None needed, not unless you move. Disappointed?" He smiled.

"Um, well, no, I guess not. Thanks for stopping by."

*****

"You had some company, I see," Heather Barksdale said when she got inside the apartment. Helen, one of Lindie's roommates, had seen Wyatt emerge from the townhouse when she pulled into a parking space. Dressed in black stretch pants, she stood at the bathroom door, watching Lindie brush her hair.

"My probation agent," Lindie said, still facing the mirror.

"Nice looking dude. Is he attached?"

Lindie continued to brush. "I forgot to ask. Interested?"

Helen chuckled while she stole a peak in the mirror over her friend's shoulder and fluffed her wavy dark brown hair. "Don't you think he's cute? Looks-wise, he kind of reminds me of Jimmy."

Jimmy Fields, she meant, Lindie's ex-boyfriend. Like Wyatt, he stood just under six-feet and had this rakish quality about him—eyes that were dark, almost mesmerizing, along with finely cut features and a body honed either in gyms, on ball fields or both. They had split several months ago.

Lindie gave her hair a few more brushstrokes, then turned around. "The eyes, for sure, and the body type. It hit me only minutes after I met him."

"Is he nice?"

"Nicer than Jimmy, I would imagine. Not that it would do me any good. Wyatt's my PO."

Helen followed Lindie into the kitchen. "Okay, but if he wasn't. Let's say you met him online or in some bar in Fell's Point. Then what?"

Lindie already knew that Helen was an incurable romantic. Who else would fall into a depression if, God forbid, another show would preempt an episode of the The Bachelor or Bachelorette? "Then what? Probably nothing. He's a hunk, all right, but not exactly my type."

After opening the fridge, Helen poured herself a glass of cranberry juice, then leaned against the counter, grinning. "Not your type? How so?"

Lindie helped herself to a glass and sat at the kitchen table. "Oh, I don't know. Somehow I can't see myself dating a parole and probation agent." She paused and shook her head. "You know, I'm stereotyping him like he did me when he was here, surprised that a math major could also be artistic." After moments of silence, she said. "And you're forgetting something else."

"What's that?"

"He might not think I'm his type either."

*****

Lindie's conversation with Helen swirled in her head as she drove to her one o'clock class. 'He might not think I'm his type either?' She had talked as if Wyatt was a dating prospect rather than her PO. When she sat in his office, she had but a vague awareness that she might be attracted to him. Then, during the course of his home visit, there was no vague about it. He had Jimmy Fields' masculine looks, all right, but not his hard-edged attitude. Jimmy felt intimidated by her intelligence. Wyatt seemed to take it in stride, even admitting that he ranked below her on the Bell Curve. Of course, she didn't really know Wyatt. If their relationship was something other than professional, he might have reacted different. Jimmy showed his insecurity by trying to be controlling. Assuring him that it didn't matter was exhausting work. After Jimmy, she vowed never to get serious with a guy who couldn't handle the whole MENSA thing.

She actually looked forward to seeing Wyatt again. No more home visits he had said. Oh well. He had kidded her about being disappointed; but in fact, she was. She had looked forward to taking him into the bedroom to show off the rest of her paintings. From there, she thought of scenarios that had nothing to do with artwork.

Pulling into the entrance to her school, she almost slapped herself from thinking such ridiculous thoughts. One, there wouldn't be another home visit; and two, Wyatt was her PO, for God's sake. What was she thinking? Was she that terribly starved for romance? Perhaps. Or, perhaps there was something about Wyatt that compelled her to think of him in ways that had everything to do with what they called chemistry and little to do with her recent legal problems.

*****

Wyatt didn't have to consult the rules and regulations of his position to know that socializing with offenders was verboten. You just didn't do it, not in person and not on social media. Yet he was fantasizing about doing just that during Lindie's next office visit after she revealed that she'd be visiting Monticello the same day and time as he. Their discussion had strayed from probation business to history and historical places. Wyatt had seen Thomas Jefferson's magnificent home once before. Lindie had never been there. Both of them had purchased tour tickets online. "One hell of a coincidence," Wyatt said. "What's the probability of that?"

Wearing tight black stretch pants and a denim jacket over a white, loose-fitting blouse, Lindie sat on the other side of Wyatt's desk, backpack on her lap. "Give me a few minutes and I'll tell you," she said. She then pulled out her smart phone and a pocket calculator.

"You're serious."

"You bet. I'm a math major, remember."

He watched in awe as she went to work. First, she researched statistics, the number of visitors per month (approximately 44,000), their state's (Maryland) population, etc. Then, her fingers moved at breakneck speed, crunching numbers on her calculator. Minutes later, she looked up. "Allowing for the Heisenberg uncertainty principle, I'd say the chances of us making reservations to visit Monticello at the same time are about one in five million."

After a few seconds of jaw-dropping silence, he said, "What the hell is the Heisenberg uncertainty principle?"

She sighed the way people do when they embark on a strenuous, if not impossible task. "It's...oh boy. I'm using it as a metaphor employing the observer effect and physicist Werner Heisenberg's theory in quantum mechanics. To fully explain it, I'd need to draw you equations, along with launching into a long-winded explanation that I'm sure would bore you to tears."

In a nice way, he figured she was telling him that he wasn't smart enough to get it. "How about in a nutshell for us cognitive mortals?"

She ran a hand through her hair. "In a nutshell...hmm...let's see. Basically, it means that nothing can be measured exactly because by measuring anything, you're affecting the system you're trying to measure. Sounds like double talk, I know. As I said, it's only a metaphor—and a vague one at that."

"Is this what you discuss at MENSA meetings?"

She laughed. "We listen to guest speakers and then hold discussions, usually on far more mundane matters than quantum mechanics. I can bring you as my guest if you're interested." She frowned. "But that would be a conflict of interest, huh?"

"Afraid so. But thanks for the invite." Even if she wasn't on his caseload, he imagined being intimidated by all that intellectual firepower. He was about to walk her into the hall when he remembered she needed a travel permit to travel out of state. He removed the forms from his desk, signed them and then had her sign them. "Now you're covered."

"So, I guess we'll be seeing each other in March at Monticello," he said. They stood by the elevators, only inches apart. He could smell her erotic feminine scent, her shampoo and whatever body lotions she used. He wanted to kiss her.

She took his hand and moved closer. "Looking forward to it." Her lips parted; her thumb brushed across the top of his hand. "You know, if only..." The elevator door opened. She let go, then stepped in and waved. "See ya."

Wyatt returned to his office, perplexed. What was she about to say and did she have an ulterior motive for flirting with him? If so, what could that be? She had a relatively easy probation—no intensive reporting or drug/alcohol programs to complete, no urinalysis or community service or exorbitant restitution payments. Maybe she had no hidden agenda, no ulterior motive. Maybe she just liked him and, like him, wished they could have met under different circumstances.

*****

Lindie was in a funk the Friday before the Saturday of her trip to Monticello. Sadie, the girlfriend that she was supposed to go with was bedridden with flu-like symptoms. Both her roommates had their own plans, leaving Lindie with an extra ticket and nobody to go with. She didn't want to go alone, didn't feel comfortable driving that distance by herself. She wondered whom Wyatt was going with. Surely, he wouldn't be going solo. But even if he was, there' no way he'd risk his position by taking her. Or would he? Maybe it was worth a shot by asking. She had nothing to lose, right?

"Wyatt? I mean, agent Nichelsen, this is Lindie."

"Hi."

"Hi." She proceeded to explain her problem. "So, you're probably going with someone already," she concluded, "but I didn't think it would hurt to at least ask if we could ride down there together. And yes, I realize it would be a conflict of interest."

He laughed. "Slightly."

"Look, it's only a day trip and you can trust me not to tell your supervisor."

"I can?"

"Yes, you can. Listen, you can chalk it up to a community contact." Wyatt had briefed her on the need for at least one contact outside the home and office.

He laughed again. "I don't think agency brass would count a trip to Monticello with an offender as a community contact. Day trip or not."

"Technically it would be, would it not?"

"Technically, yes. Procedurally, nada."

"Even on a Saturday? I mean, they can't tell you how to spend your weekends, can they?" She held the phone to her ear and smiled, listening to him laugh. "You like that one, huh?"

"I do, I do," he said, still yucking it up. "I think you missed your calling, Lindie. Maybe you should be doing standup instead of crunching numbers."

Now she started laughing. "I'll consider that. Meanwhile, I've got two tickets for Monticello and nobody to go with. Are you going with someone?"

"No."

"So wouldn't you rather have company, spending the day with a young chick with brains and beauty?"

"Sure. You have somebody in mind?"

She doubled over at that one. "You're pretty funny yourself, Wyatt."

"Thanks."

Her laughter trailed off. "Seriously, we'd have a great time. We groove together. Agreed?"

Silence.

Wyatt?"

"I'm still here."

"Agreed?"

"Um, well, on a certain level, I suppose. But you're on my caseload."

"A minor inconvenience."

"Minor for you, maybe. There could be major hell to pay for me."

"How would they know? What they don't know wouldn't hurt them." When he didn't answer right away, she pressed her case. "Be honest, wouldn't you like to keep me company?"

"A rhetorical question if I've ever heard one. You know I would."

"So let's do it. I...I like you, Wyatt, and not just because I think you're a nice person."

Silence.

"Okay, look," she said, "if you could be sure that there'd be no way in hell of your superiors finding out, would you go? Be honest." She heard him take a deep breath.

"Honestly, yes, I'd probably take you along."

"Okay, so it seems to me that we've got a trust issue, because they'd find out only if I or one of my roommates said something. And that won't be happening."

"Would you trust a shoplifter?"

She grimaced. "That wasn't nice, Wyatt. I made one major mistake in my life and—"

"I'm sorry, Lindie, I shouldn't have said that." He heard her choke up. "Lindie, I'm sorry, my bad. Lindie? Are you really crying?"

She wiped her eyes. "Yes, I'm really crying. That's hitting below the belt. All I want is to share this experience with you, not get you in trouble. Why can't you—"

"Okay, okay, you got me. I should know better than to argue with a Mensan. We'll go."

She beamed. "You mean it?"

"I'm a man of my word, and I can only hope that you're a woman of yours."

She smiled through her tears. "I could kiss you right now."

He chuckled. "This might get me into more trouble, I know, but save it for the trip."

"You mean that?!"

"Bye, Lindie. I'll pick you up around seven."

*****

Too late to back out now. A man of his word keeps his word, and Wyatt intended to keep his. Besides, she was right; he wanted very much to spend the day with a hot chick, one with brains and beauty, and Lindie Nicholson fit that bill to a T. He hadn't lost sight that this was potentially risky business, not for a second. He could only hope that this coming adventure proved worth the risk.