Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 52, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2007

Well, so far the highlight of my day was this little moment, getting an FBI agent to shut up. I tossed three more things at him, which he caught this time with more ease.

“First, I know you didn’t want one, but here’s my report of what went on, or didn’t go on, during my thirty-six hours. The highlight was when a couple of deer came by at about four P.M. on Saturday.”

Thump.

“Item number two. Seventy-two photographs of an empty house, taken every half hour, proving I was there.”

Little thump.

“And in this envelope, item number three. The memory card from my digital camera. I’m sure your tech boys can analyze those photos, make sure they were taken at the time I said they were taken, and that I just didn’t take seventy-two photos in a row, to cheat you and Uncle Sam.”

He kept quiet, looking at what I had tossed toward him, and then he looked up at me and smiled. “Very good, Karen. You passed.”

“Didn’t know I was being tested, and don’t particularly care. I did my job, and I want the second half of my payment. Now.”

A pause. Decided to cut him some slack and smiled in return. “Please.”

And surprise of surprises, the second check came out of his briefcase and was slid across the desk, and I promptly squirreled it away and said, “There. Anything else?”

“Don’t you want to know what you passed?”

“Of course I do,” I said, “but based on prior experience, why should I trust anything you say?”

“Because what I told you was the truth,” he said. “I just left some things out, that’s all.”

“Like what?”

“Like the fact that we are short staffed, we are underfunded, trying to do too much with too little. Which is why I was here, looking at you, to see how good you were, to see your talents at work. That was the test. To see if you would stick with a boring surveillance for that period of time.”

“Really? A boring surveillance on a house that you fine fellows own, is that it?”

His face flickered a bit, like the internal battery in that brain had just gotten hit with a power surge. “What... how did you find that out?”

With the help of a neighbor girl, about fifteen years old, I thought, but instead I said, “We’re not as dumb out here as you think. The place is supposedly owned by Grayson Corporation, out of Pennsylvania, which doesn’t officially exist. The state exists, of course, but Grayson is a fake. A front for something else that’s a front to something else that’s a front for the Department of Justice. What’s up there is a spare safehouse, to be used when you folks need it, to hide people, interview subjects, so forth and so on. That’s all.”

Yet one more smile. “Congratulations. You passed with honor.”

“With honor, then? And what does that get me? A gold star on my check?”

“No. An offer.”

“What kind of offer?”

“A job offer, that’s what. And here’s our offer. You work for us as a contractor, perhaps doing an assignment here and there, keeping an eye on things, reporting anything suspicious to me, or whatever contact person is set up. Retainer of, oh, say, about five hundred a month.”

“Why me, and why a private investigator? Thought you’d go through local law enforcement for something like that.”

“Because local law enforcement means oversight, means paperwork, means bureaucracy. Working with a P.I. makes it that much more simple. And you in particular, Karen, because you’ve proven your abilities, and also... your location. You’re less than fifty miles from the Canadian border. People of interest, illegally passing across, may end up in Purmort for a bit before heading elsewhere. And you’ll be our contact.”

“Your snitch,” I said.

He shook his head. “No. A cooperative citizen, that’s all.”

I thought for a moment and then crossed my legs underneath my desk. “All right. The price for this citizen’s cooperation is one thousand a month. Not five hundred. And I report to you anything I think may be of interest. That’s my call. Not yours. I’m not going to rat out someone because they’re holding a one-person protest in the town common against the government or something like that.”

The cheery Agent Carr had now been replaced by the earlier Agent Carr, the one I had gotten to know and... well, had gotten to know.

“Impossible.”

“Nope, quite possible. One thousand a month, and my call. And that’s the deal.”

He gathered up the paperwork, pictures, and envelope I had sent his way, and he said, “No. There’s no deal.”

“Oh, yes there is. Or else.”

“Or else what?”

I leaned back, pointed up to my award certificate from the New England Press Association. “Or I contact some old friends of mine in the news media. At the TV station in Manchester. Or the Associated Press bureaus in Concord and Portland. Tell them what just went on, tell them what you just told me. How does that sound, Agent Carr?”