Serious Moonlight(107)

I didn’t care about any of it; I wasn’t afraid.

I didn’t have to count my fingers; I was awake.

I didn’t have to track down any clues; I’d already solved the mystery.

I’d never been so sure of anything in my life.

He hugged me tight. I pressed my face into his neck and my palm against his chest to feel his heartbeat, strong and confident: Thump, thump. Thump, thump. And my own heart bounded to meet it.





“And you call yourself a detective.”

—Nora Charles, After the Thin Man (1936)





33




* * *



“Any more questions?” the woman on the other side of the diner booth asked. She glanced at her watch before peering out the raindrop-speckled window. Yesterday it had been hot and sunny. Today it had decided to rain. Late-October weather was unpredictable.

I scanned my notes one last time and tried to think of anything I’d missed. I didn’t want to blow my big opportunity, but I was also aware that she was doing me a favor and that I wasn’t paying her for her time. “I think I understand everything. It just seems unfair that I’d have to work in an agency before the state will allow me to take the test to get a license, but I can’t work without a license? What kind of catch-22 is that?”

The woman crossed her arms, brown leather jacket creaking. “It’s not an evil plot to stop you from becoming an investigator. It’s to make sure you know what you’re doing before the state gives you permission to start stalking people.”

Dorothy McKnight was a frequent patron of the Moonlight. She was also the owner of McKnight Investigations and a licensed Seattle PI. A couple of weeks ago, we’d struck up a conversation at the counter, and I’d surprised both myself and her by boldly asking if she’d meet with me to answer questions about becoming an actual detective.

In her early forties and nearly an entire foot taller than me, she was strikingly pretty, no-nonsense, and sharp. I could see why she’d been drawn to detective work, because I could feel her sizing me up from the first moment we talked. Her eyes never stopped moving.

“I’m sure it’s not a conspiracy against me personally,” I told her, trying to block out the steady stream of people who were carrying presents, heading to the Moonlight’s private dining room in the back. The diner was officially closed right now and would be for two hours while the shower was happening. There was a sign out front that informed potential customers. “I just don’t understand why I can’t take these criminal justice classes you suggested—”

“And computer science and forensic science.”

“That’s a lot of science,” I said.

“It’s a scientific world.”

And one that I could now explore: I may not have an official diploma from my grandmother, but I’d passed the GED test with a nearly perfect score last month. “I’m just saying, why isn’t there some kind of junior detective position that I can apply for to learn on the job before I take the license exam?”

“Because no PI needs a junior detective,” Dorothy said, pushing an empty coffee cup out of the way to lean over the table. “What a PI might need is a receptionist. Someone to take calls and do data entry. Someone to keep the files updated and look up information when a detective calls into the office. You have that kind of experience, working at the Cascadia, do you not?”

“I do, yes.” I was doing it only twice a week because that was all they could spare to give me during the day, since my narcolepsy doctor didn’t want me working graveyard shifts. “But I already have that job. And how would that help me get my license?”

“At a hotel? It wouldn’t. But working for me might. Because you’d get to learn a little bit about the business, and if you did a good job and took all the courses I suggested, I might be in a position to sponsor you for your license.”

I blinked at her. “Are you . . . offering me a receptionist job?”

“My last girl left months ago to move to Oregon. Things are a little chaotic, so I wouldn’t be able to babysit you. I’d expect you to take initiative and learn things for yourself. Ask questions. And being a good receptionist doesn’t guarantee you shit. I can’t help you study or get your license, do you understand?”

“Yes, but—”

“But if you’re willing to come into Beacon Hill a few days a week, I’m willing to be flexible with hours so that you can take your classes.”

“Seriously?”

“Can’t pay much.” Dorothy gave me an amount that was five cents lower than what I was making at the Cascadia, but she was willing to give me full-time hours after a trial period. “You’d be working for all of us, another investigator working under me and the agency’s attorney. Like I told you before, it’s mostly corporate vetting and the occasional landlord who thinks his tenant is dealing coke. Exciting cases are few and far between. But I could use someone who’s interested in the work. Don’t see a lot of females wanting to be PIs. I can show you the ropes better than one of the big agencies can, and you won’t have to suffer through dick jokes.”

I chuckled nervously.

“What do you say?” Dorothy asked. “You need to think about it?”