City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(72)

Another sigh.

“I am. She’s learned to recognize me and know that she will get exactly one crust per day. It’s a treat. Not a meal.” I glance over at him, going serious. “If you really want me to stop, I will.”

“Nah. Have your fun. But if I catch you giving her a name …”

“I won’t. She’s a wild animal. Not a pet.”

He nods, satisfied that his student has learned her lessons well.

“What was this about us going caving?” I ask.

“A few of us are heading out tomorrow. You’ve been working the case non-stop. A break will freshen your brain.”

I say yes quickly. Another lesson assimilated. If I want something, admit it. None of this pissing around pretending I don’t really care one way or the other. He wants me to care—one way or the other.





Four



It’s spelunking day. We’re closing up the station at noon. Kenny and a couple of the militia guys will be in charge. I joke that we should make Val man the station, and we spend the morning trading quips about that. Or Anders and I do. Dalton just rolls his eyes and mutters.

I’ve given up on Val. She reminds me of a principal I had in elementary school. We swore she was a vampire who could only arrive before dawn and leave after dark, which explained why no one caught more than fleeting glimpses of her. We’re sure Val is reporting on us via her satellite phone, but she comes out so rarely that we never have to worry about watching over our shoulder.

Val’s only defender is Beth. “She’s a deeply unhappy woman,” she’ll say.

“Then she should get off her ass, do some work, and be less unhappy,” Dalton replies.

“That’s not the solution for everyone, Eric. I think there’s a story there.”

“And I think you just want there to be one, to give her an excuse.”

Anyway, that’s Val. Dalton did tell her we were going caving. She didn’t care.

The idea of taking off for the afternoon seems very carefree and spontaneous. Like skipping school on the first gorgeous day of spring. Except I never actually did that, and I suspect if Dalton had lived down south, he wouldn’t have, either. So while we have every intention of cutting out at noon, the reality is a little different.

At ten, we get a call—which in Rockton means someone comes running through the station’s front door. There was a break-in at the greenhouse last night. All three of us go to investigate. It seems like a simple case of someone deciding, presumably drunk or high, that he really needed a tomato. Or an entire vine of tomatoes. One is stripped clean, with a tomato crushed underfoot as the thief made his escape.

Yes, it’s almost laughable. The Case of the Trampled Tomatoes. In Rockton, though, resource theft is a serious offence. It has to be.

We could abandon the investigation at noon. But it would send the wrong message to would-bethieves. Dalton sends Anders off to guide the others and says we’ll catch up.

At twelve-thirty, we find the thief. It takes actual detective work—interviewing two witnesses, examining footprints left at the scene, and then banging on the door of the suspect, who is sound asleep, with squashed tomato on her shoe and three ripe ones on her counter.

Jen protests her innocence. She accuses me of having a vendetta against her. She attempts to hit me. I put her down. Dalton is amused. He even smiles. Then he lets me escort her, arm wrenched behind her back, to the cell, where she’ll spend the afternoon, namely because we really do want to get off on our trip and this is the easiest way to contain the howling woman.

I’m finishing a brief report on the incident when Diana swings into the station with a wide grin. For a second, I forget anything’s happened between us.

“Hey,” she says. “I heard you had some excitement this morning, and I’m betting you haven’t eaten lunch.”

“I—”

“So I’m taking you out. No tomatoes. I promise.”

“Today’s—”

“Your lucky day, my friend. Having solved the great tomato caper, even your * of a boss can’t deny you an afternoon off.” The door opens as my * boss steps in and stands behind Diana. I try to cut her short, but she’s going full steam. “I have also wrangled an afternoon off, which means we are doing lunch and then going rafting. It’s gotten too cold for pond dips, but it’s still fine for raft lounging.”

“She has plans,” Dalton says.

Diana turns. “Work, you mean. I think Casey—”

“—has earned the afternoon off. Which she is getting. We’re going caving today. You know that because I heard Petra telling you.”

“I thought that was cancelled due to tomato theft.”

“Nope. Casey? Got your things?”

“Casey?” Diana says. “When did you pull the stick out of your ass and start calling her by name?”

“Diana,” I say, sharply enough that I expect her to react. Maybe even apologize. She doesn’t, and when Dalton motions for me to get ready, she says, “Yes, Casey. Hop to it. God forbid you keep the man waiting.”

She’s been drinking. That must be it. But I don’t smell alcohol and she’s standing upright, no wobbles.

I open my mouth to ask her to leave, but she grabs my arm. “Come rafting with me, Case. You know you want to.”