She crosses her arms. “Do you want my tip or not?”
“Come on inside,” I say. “And if you really feel the need to insult me, at least do better than ‘halfwit.’”
Dalton stays outside. Because at ten below freezing, it’s really just too warm to be indoors. Jen plunks into the chair behind the only desk in the station. My seating options then are to kick her out of it or take another chair, as if I’m the witness and she’s the cop. I stay standing.
“What’s the tip?” I say.
“I’d like a coffee. Black. Cookies, too. I know lover boy smuggles in chocolate chips for you.”
“Leave.”
“That wasn’t an insult.”
“It actually was. Nicole has been kidnapped—by the psycho who kept her in a cave for a year, after he murdered two other women. Making me take time to fix you coffee insults everyone in this town who actually gives a damn.”
Her lips tighten. “I’ve been out there, pulling double shifts on the search parties—”
“Because we’re paying you.”
“For one shift. The second is volunteer. But I want a hundred credits for my tip.”
“We don’t pay for tips.”
“Time to start.”
“No, it’s not, because that would set a precedent. The payoff is that I use your tip to catch a killer, which helps everyone. It’s a community effort.”
“Fuck community. I want credits.”
“And you honestly expect to be hired as militia with that attitude?”
“My attitude is adjustable. You know what adjusts it? Money. You don’t want to ‘start a precedent’ by paying me for this tip? Hire me now. Then I’m on the payroll, and I’ll do my damn community service.”
My palms thump onto the desk, cutting her short. “You are wasting my time, Jen, and I’m starting to think that’s your end goal. Stall my investigation so you can tell everyone what a shitty job I’m doing.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” she says, her voice tight as she straightens. “I have a valid tip. I’m just not sure you’re competent enough to use it.”
“Oh, for god’s sake.” I stride to the door and grasp the knob. “Get out.”
“You don’t want my tip?”
“Yes, I do, but it’s obvious I’m not going to get it. I can’t pay you. I can’t hire you. I can’t even convince you I’m competent—apparently solving a quintuple homicide wasn’t enough.”
“If you’d solved it faster, Mick would still be alive.”
I go still. Completely still. Then I say, as quietly as I can, “Get out.”
She rises. “You couldn’t save him. Just like you couldn’t protect Nicki. You—”
“Get out!” I roar, and she stumbles back.
The door flies open, and Dalton is there.
“Yes,” Jen says. “I’ve upset your little girlfriend. Bad, bad Jen. Fine. You want the tip? You were right about Val. She dreamed up her intruder. I investigated. There’s nothing to suggest anyone was at her house that night. I delivered her breakfast today, and when I asked about the intruder, she got all flustered. I’m thinking it was a repressed-chick wet dream. She woke up while fantasizing about Dalton, flipped out, and made a mistake. There wasn’t an intruder.”
I’m not sure this qualifies as a tip, but I need to get to work so I just say, “Okay.”
“With Nicki gone, it might seem like it was the same guy and Val could shed more light on it. But it’s a whole separate thing. You can skip Val’s story. Concentrate on the rest.”
“Thank you.” I struggle to say that as sincerely as I can. I’d already requestioned Val and put to rest any worries that she really did have an intruder. But Jen doesn’t know that and seems to have honestly been trying to help. I’d just wish I could have gotten that without the ridiculous preamble.
I tell Jen to add an extra hour on her militia time card.
“An hour?” she says. “I spent half a day on that.”
“Consider it volunteer work,” Dalton says. “Part of your application for a position.”
“Fuck you, asshole,” she says and stomps out.
When the door closes, I say, “I can’t learn my lesson with her, can I?”
He walks in and stokes the fire. “There used to be this feral cat that’d come around. Must have lived with settlers at one point. It knew people. It’d slink about, and folks would feed it, try to coax it inside. If you walked past, it’d meow and roll, like Storm does when she wants attention. It’d even rub up against you, purring. But if you reached down, there’d be bloodshed. Every goddamned time. Folks knew that. You think they stopped?” He shakes his head.
“Did you try?”
“Fuck, no. I wasn’t falling for her bullshit.”
I smile. “Which makes you the smart one. But I suppose it’s not really about intelligence. It’s ego. We want to be the special one. The one that breaks through. The cat might attack everyone else—but me? I’ll be different.”
“Some people, yeah, it’s ego. Others? It’s a genuine desire to help.”
“Only the cat doesn’t want help. It wants bloodshed. To lure you in and then lash out and punish you for trying.”
“Yep.”