I dredged up a little smile. “But you should see the other guy.”
Morrison snorted and stood up, coming around his desk to lean on the edge of it, arms folded as he looked down at me. I checked the impulse to get to my feet. Morrison and I were exactly the same height. I’d been known to wear heels sheerly for the pleasure of looking down on him. He was looming on purpose. “I’m moving you to the street beat.” He sounded alarmingly pleasant.
I stared at him for a long time. “What?”
“I’m moving you to the street beat,” he repeated. “Corner cop duty.”
“You’re supposed to fire me,” I blurted. I’d never done time as a cop. I didn’t really want to. Morrison grinned, and pushed away from his desk to get himself a cup of coffee.
“The chief wouldn’t let me. You’re a woman, you’re an Indian, you’re a cop, all you’ve done wrong is not show up to work for a few months, and that was because of a personal family emergency. It’s not enough to fire you for. Not in this quota-happy age.” He opened a fridge under the coffeemaker table and poured milk into his coffee.
My eyebrows shot up. No one had ever actually mentioned quotas out loud. It was just one of those silent givens that nobody talked about. Morrison turned back, lifting his mug of coffee. “Want some?”
“Sure,” I said dazedly.
Morrison poured a second cup of coffee and handed it to me. I took a sip, burned my tongue, and clutched the cup with both hands, watching Morrison nervously.
“So I’m putting you on the street.”
“Why?” My voice rose and broke. Morrison beamed at me. I’d never seen him smile so broadly before. It was unnerving.
“Because I figure you’ll quit. You’re a mechanic, not a cop. You haven’t got the stuff. Want to save us both time and do it now?” Morrison didn’t burn his tongue when he sipped his coffee. The bastard.
I ground my teeth together so hard it hurt. I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t do it. Not in the face of that grin. I couldn’t prove him right, especially by quitting before I’d even tried.
“No,” I said through my teeth, standing up and putting the coffee cup aside. “No, I don’t think I do. Sir.”
It took every ounce of will I had available to close the door gently on my way out.
CHAPTER SEVEN
No fewer than eight cops—all of whose cars I tinkered with regularly—lingered outside Morrison’s office, ostentatiously reading files or exchanging stories over their desks. Every one of them fell silent as I carefully closed Morrison’s door and stepped away from the office. Bruce, a thin blonde who had no business being away from the front desk, put on a mournful smile. “Well?”
“The son of a bitch fired you,” Billy guessed before I had time to draw breath. An uproar met his speculation, a wall of outrage entirely on my behalf. Rex, short and stout as his name, flung his hat on someone’s desk and stalked toward me. I backed up into Morrison’s door, alarmed. The doorknob hit me in the butt.
“Get out of the way, Joanie.” Rex sounded like a bulldog, low-voiced and growly. “I’m gonna give that bastard a piece of my mind. He can’t do this to you! You were on family leave, for Christ’s sake!”
I edged to the side. “Um, actually…”
Rex stormed past me and flung Morrison’s door open, banging it closed behind him again. Around me, furious cops swore and waved their hands and lined up, God help me, actually lined up to be the next one to take on Morrison.
“Actually,” I mumbled, “he didn’t fire me.”
Nobody listened. I rubbed my hand over my eyes, setting my contacts to tearing again, and sighed. Bruce appeared at my elbow and guided me to a desk to sit down. “It’ll be okay, Joanie,” he promised. “You’re a fantastic mechanic. You’ll get a job in no time. Heck, you could probably keep yourself busy just fixing our cars, huh guys?”
“I fix your cars anyway,” I pointed out. “Nobody pays me for it.” Bruce had exactly one hobby: running. His wife’s car, a 1987 Eagle station wagon with a manual transmission, broke down more often than soap opera stars. I wasn’t sure he knew how to drive it, much less fix it. “Look, Bruce, I’m—”
Bruce patted my shoulder reassuringly. “Elise wants you to come over for dinner Friday. She’s going to raise holy living hell about you getting fired.”
Elise made the best tamales I’d ever had, and was convinced I was killing myself eating macaroni and cheese for every meal. “Elise is an angel,” I said, “but—”
Rex burst out of Morrison’s office, cheeks bright red with exertion. Billy marched through the still-open door. Even over the general noise I could hear Morrison’s, “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” A moment later Billy backed out of the office, herded by Morrison, who stopped at the door, broad-shouldered and impressive.
“Joanne Walker has not been fired!” he bellowed. “All of you get the hell back to work!” He stepped back into his office, slamming the door behind him.
Eight officers of the law turned as one and stared at me accusingly.
“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” I said weakly. “He didn’t fire me. He busted me back to foot patrol.” For a moment I wondered if a mechanic could technically be busted back to anything.
Everyone was silent for about as long as it took me to wonder that, and then the cacophony began again. I tried, briefly, to explain, then gave up and let Billy defend my dubious honor as an honest-to-God cop with a badge and everything. I wasn’t sure where that badge was. I remembered they’d given me one when I graduated from the police academy, but my best guess was that it was in my sock drawer. Or possibly in the glove compartment of my car. Or maybe in the junk drawer in the kitchen. I slunk out while the debate about whether I was really a cop heated up.
Gary and Marie were waiting impatiently in the lobby. “You’re a cop?” Gary demanded as I came through the turnstile.
“No. Yes. No. Shit! Why?” I flung myself onto a bench and scrubbed my eyes.
“Jeez, lady, I didn’t mean to ask a tough question. What happened in there? Why didn’t you say you were a cop back at the church? Or the airport? I thought you were nuts, goin’ after some broad you saw from a plane.” Gary towered over me, hands on his hips. Marie hovered in the background, looking just as curious as Gary.
“I’m not a cop. I mean.” I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I am a cop. I guess I’m a cop. I’m a mechanic. That’s what I do. Except now I don’t. Now I write jaywalking tickets, or something. I wonder when I’m supposed to be back at work. Shit.”
Gary and Marie stared at me. After several seconds, I mumbled, “I make more sense when I’ve had some sleep.” I pried my eyes open. Tears welled up again. Gary became sympathetic all of a sudden.
“All right, all right. I’ll take you home. Tonight we’ll get together and figure this out.” He actually patted my shoulder, just like Bruce had done.
“We?”
