C.E. Murphy - Walking Dead

Speaking of thirty seconds. I let out a sigh of relief and grabbed my coat off the back of my chair. It would take thirty seconds to walk to the clock and punch out. I could get my coffee. I’d even bring one back for Billy. God, I was swell.

“Detective Walker?”

The officious little guy called my name as I stepped away from my desk. My shoulders hunched around my ears and I pretended not to hear him. I made it two more steps before one of the guys whose car I’d fixed helpfully bellowed, “Hey, Walker!” making it impossible for me to sneak away.

I was going to pour sugar in his gas tank. I turned around with my best expression of seething discontent, hoping to both castigate the bellowing detective and scare off the suit.

Neither worked. The detective looked way too pleased with himself, clearly knowing he’d just ruined my lunch hour, and the fellow in the suit looked like nothing short of thermonuclear war would put him off the trail. He put a briefcase on my desk and reached over it to offer a hand in greeting. “Detective Walker? I’m Daniel Doherty with First Ally Home-state Insurance. I’m here to talk to you about your vehicle.”

There are words which, when spoken, are intended to strike fear into the hearts of men. Anything involving the phrase “We need to talk” is gut-clenching territory, and when it comes from an insurance adjudicator, it’s worse than that. My knees stopped working and instead of shaking Daniel Doherty’s hand, I caught myself on the edge of my desk and admired the cold sweat breaking out on my forehead. The only reason I was sure I’d caught myself was that I wasn’t on the floor: my hands were so icy I could’ve missed the desk entirely and I wouldn’t have felt it. My heart hung between beats, and foul air filled my lungs with agony before I forced out a whispered “Is she okay?”

My inherent drama probably would’ve been better suited to hearing about a child’s injury, but Petite was my baby. She’d been fine four hours ago when I parked her outside the precinct building. Short of a bulldozer rolling through the parking lot, I couldn’t really imagine what might’ve happened to her, but I had visions of terrible things. Worse than tires slashed or roofs split open by swords or being helicoptered out of an earthquake zone, all of which were bad, but only the first hadn’t happened to my poor car in the last year. We’d had a rough year, Petite and me.

“According to our records ‘she’ is.” He gave me a smile that wasn’t exactly oily, but I didn’t have a better word for it. Slippery, maybe. He was nice-looking, if tiny—he was probably five or six inches shorter than me, very slim throughout, with curling black hair and chiseled features that verged on pretty. Not my type, even if he wasn’t an insurance agent, and I didn’t trust the smile. “But there’ve been some irregularities in your insurance claims this year, and I’m here to inspect the vehicle and spend a day or two with you so we at FAHI can get a better feel for your daily usage and what might be the appropriate insurance coverage.”

I caught a “Like hell you are!” behind my teeth and kept it there. Belligerence rarely did any good with insurance adjusters. Or cops, for that matter. When I released the words, they were an as-polite-as-I-could-make-them “Petite’s a 1969 Mustang and I consider her worth the cost of maintaining full coverage, Mr. Doherty. I’m pretty sure, in fact, that the premium I’m paying actually covers acts of God, so I’m really not sure why you’re here.”

“Your insurance is comprehensive.” He managed to make it sound as if I should be given a gold star for knowing that. What a good little driver I was. “But you’ve had some extraordinary claims this year, have you not?”

“I have. My car was vandalized in January—” by a god, no less, but the insurance did cover acts of gods, dammit—not that I’d put it down as such in the paperwork, because that would be insane “—and I was unlucky enough to be at Matthews Beach Park when the earthquake hit in June. Petite slid into one of the fissures and had to be winched out.” With a helicopter.

“These things do happen,” Doherty said with sympathy, except it didn’t go anywhere near his eyes. “Curiously, though, you submitted no mechanic or bodywork invoices, and your driving record has been spotless up until this point.”

That was because I was a very very good driver, and Petite could outrun any cop car you cared to pit her against. I didn’t say that out loud. I gritted my teeth, pushed my face into a smile and said, “Actually, I did submit mechanic and bodywork-fee paperwork. I’m a mechanic by trade, and—”

Doherty looked at me, looked around the detectives’ office I was in, looked at the nameplate on my desk with my name on it, and looked at me again, all with an air of mildly amused but polite disbelief.

I had six inches’ reach on the guy, easy. I could break his nose before he even knew I’d thrown the punch, and then I could put a hand on top of his head and watch him swing like a little kid. I fixed my smile harder into place. “I’ll show you my résumé, if you like. I only joined the force recently. Every other job I’ve had is as a mechanic, and Petite’s my pet project.” My face felt like it would freeze in its smile, which is presumably not what mothers all over the world meant when they gave that warning. “All of this is in the paperwork.”

“I’m sure, but you understand that after such an exemplary record, coming on several expensive discrepancies in six months looks a little strange. We only want to provide you with the best possible service, Detective, and we need to have full and complete records to do that.”

“It’s taken you almost ten months to decide you needed to look at the case a little more carefully? I have full coverage. I don’t see the problem. Perhaps I should be talking to your competitors instead of you, Mr. Doherty.” My smile was getting a little strained. Maybe a lot strained. There was probably a rule against leaping on insurance adjusters and ripping their throats out with your teeth.

“You’re welcome to, of course, although I think you’ll find our rates are competi—”

His tone of utter reason did me in. My short fuse, let me show it to you. I leaned across my desk and his briefcase and snapped, “Oh, go to hell. I’m not scamming your damn company. I’ve submitted my invoices. I don’t even charge for my own time—” Belatedly, I realized that could be the problem. “Would it help if I did? Would I seem more legitimate then? Would you be happier if I was asking for five times as much money? I thought I was asking for plenty already, but if you want to pay me for my efforts, I’m not going to object. Otherwise go away and cut me a check. There are people committing real insurance fraud out there. Go harass them.” I wanted my coffee. I wanted dainty Mr. Doherty to leave me alone. I wanted all kinds of things.

It’s good to want. Billy blew in through the front door—I didn’t even know he’d left—and thrust a cardboard coffee cup in my hand, then grabbed my coat. “Drink up. We gotta go.”

“What? Where?” I shot Doherty a look and put the coffee down to take my coat from Billy and fumble it on. Amaretto’s distinctive scent rose from the cup and I nearly wept. “Thank you. This is manna from heaven. I’m unworthy of its gift, and yet I immerse myself in it.” I got my coat on and scalded my tongue on the first blissful sip of coffee. “What’s the rush? Where’re we going?”

“The Museum of Cultural Arts. C’mon, you’re driving.” He threw the keys at me next, and I snapped a hand out to catch them.

“What, the café there has just opened a new coffee-and-doughnuts express line? I don’t want to spend my lunch hour admiring old spearheads and meaningless blocks of color on contemporary paintings.” I took a slow, glorious drink.