CHAPTER 24
“Hello, hello? Come in, Mike. Over and out, over and out,” I said into the walkie-talkie.
“Becca.” I heard his voice come through all crackly and distant sounding. “What is it? Is there an emergency?”
“I just wanted to make sure this thing was working. Over and out,” I said.
“Well, great, now you know.” He hung up.Wait—do you call it “hanging up” when it’s a walkie-talkie?
I sat and waited for a while, but he didn’t say anything else. Then I walked around the room a few times, completely alone and bored. I read the names on the spines of the files—nothing exciting. Nothing like you see in the movies: a room full of unsolved serial-killer files, laden with evidence and jars of body parts for DNA testing. I walked over to the desk and opened the bottom drawer. A folded piece of paper caught my attention and I pulled it out. I placed it on the desk and flattened it with my hands.
“Oooh,” I said out loud, when I saw what it was. It was a slightly younger-looking Mike, without a shirt on, cradling a small, white, fluffy kitten to his big chest. I smiled to myself and picked up the walkie-talkie again.
“Come in, Mike. Come in, Mike. Over and out,” I said into the thing.
“Yeees?” he returned, sounding irritated at my interruption.
“Why is there a picture of you without a shirt on, holding a kitten, in the bottom drawer of the desk? Over and out.”
“Why are you going through the desk?” he asked.
“I’m bored and you’re still not answering the question,” I said.
“It was for a charity calendar,” he said, very quickly and matter-of-factly.
“Charity? For what?” I asked, staring at the picture of him. He looked good, holding a kitten. Mind you, he’d probably look good holding a sewer rat, too.
“SPCA.”
“So, all the cops took their shirts off and posed with kittens?” I was amused now.
“There are no other cops in this town,” he returned.
“So it was just you? Twelve shots of Mike without a shirt on, cradling various animals?” I didn’t bother to stifle my laughter.
“It was for charity,” he reiterated.
“And can one still buy this intriguing calendar?” I asked.
“No. Limited print run.”
At that, I laughed. “Limited print run,” I repeated. “So, when I get out of here, will you autograph this picture for me?”
“Just stop it!” he said.
“Stop what?” I asked innocently.
“I really have to work,” he said, after a small pause.
“Fine. Fine. Over and out, Mr. January, February, March, April—”
He cut me off mid-calendar, and, once again, I was all alone. With a shirtless picture of Mike. I lasted about five minutes before I called again.
“Come in, Mike. Over and out,” I said into the mouthpiece.
He replied quickly this time. “You don’t have to say ‘over and out’ every time. What’s wrong?”
“What other animals were you holding, in the shoot?”
