“Atleasttwo more?” I blurted.
The chief led me to an office, opened the door, and ushered me into a work paradise with the promised digital whiteboard and a digital murder board, both of which I would form close relationships with. There was a couch and two guest chairs, along with enough space I’d be able to spread files out without needing to resort to the hallway or the nearest scrap of open floor space. The presence of twenty filing boxes stacked in a corner concerned me, but I would tackle it the same way as always: at the beginning and with a purpose.
I wouldn’t miss my squeaky dry erase markers, and I would donate them to someone still stuck with a traditional board. I spotted my filing boxes on my desk, and I dumped my purse on the polished surface before exploring, checking out the cabinets to discover a precinct-branded travel mug inside with my name on it. “We have named cups?”
“You have four more where that one came from. The mug wars got ridiculous, so we just keep a stash of these and engrave owner’s names on them. Bailey has one of yours in the break room making your coffee. According to your file, you live on the mainland?”
“I do. It was what I could afford at the time I joined the force, and I haven’t had time to find a closer place to live.”
“With your permission, we’ll call in a real estate agent to help you find a new place, and part of your hiring bonus will be getting you moved closer to the area. Cops who have to drive several hours to get to work are crabby cops, and we don’t stock enough pixie dust to keep everyone from being crabby due to the commute.”
My mouth dropped open. “Pixie dust?”
“Oh. Frankson is one of those, is he?” The chief snorted. “I’ll make sure to have a talk with the Brooklyn captains and make sure they review their operations. We basically throw low grade dust around our precinct like it’s sugar. It keeps everyone in a slightly better mood, improves general work performance, and lowers incidents on the streets. Happy cops work better with the public, and the low grade dusts don’t impair. Sure, we have to budget for it, but pixie dust is definitely cheaper than some of the court cases we’ve had to deal with due to overly cranky cops at the end of a long shift.”
I returned the mug to the cabinet and explored the drawers to find a stockpile of new general supplies. A post-it gave me a temporary username and password for the computer along with instructions on how to make my username. “Anything else I should know before I get started on this?”
“If my wife starts talking in her sleep when she passes out on your couch, ignore it or record it. If you record it, send me a copy, because once she starts talking in her sleep, things get weird.”
I raised a brow. “You mean they aren’t already weird? I got sucker punched by an archangel today.”
“Weirder,” he replied with a grin.
Armed with a mug with my name on it, Chief Bailey Quinn invaded my office and set my prize on my desk. “I have decided that because I subjected you to twenty-two teleportations today, I will make your first twenty-two coffees. That almost makes up for torturing you on the way here.”
I accepted the cup, chuckled, and asked, “How long do you think it would take you to run to Stony Point?”
Bailey checked her phone, tapping on the screen. “What’s out in Stony Point?”
“My apartment.”
She dropped her phone, which clattered on the floor, and she cursed before scrambling to retrieve it. “Oh, good. I didn’t break this one. Okay. That’s too far, Sam.”
“I know it’s too far. We’ll look into arrangements.”
“It’s really too far.”
Samuel sighed. “You want to run her to and from work, don’t you?”
“Twenty minutes flat with how good she is at handling teleports during daylight hours, and maybe an hour after dark if people and the roads are stupid.”
“Or I can book her into the extended stay hotel ten minutes from here until we can move her properly. That way, I keep my wife as sane as possible. I’m challenged enough without you running how many miles each day?”
Bailey sat on my couch and regarded me with a frown. “Do you like hotels?”
I shrugged. “If I have a ten minute commute? I’ll love everything to do with that hotel. Will I be allowed to take my cruiser home?”
“Absolutely. The choice is yours if you take it home or bring your own vehicle to work.”
I had a vehicle? Rather than tell him that, I replied, “I can handle a long commute for a while until I find a place to move closer. It doesn’t bother me.”
“While it may not bother you, it bothers us.” Samuel glanced at his wife and laughed. “And she’s out.”
Sure enough, Chief Bailey Quinn had fallen asleep on my new couch, still seated upright. When her husband stretched her out to be more comfortable, she didn’t stir. I wondered how I’d get anything done if I needed to keep an eye on a woman with a reputation of destroying entire city blocks. “Is she all right?”
“She’s fine. We’ve just been busy because of the cases you just inherited. If you’re too tired to drive home, a hotel will be arranged.”
I turned in my chair to regard the stacks of boxes. “A hotel might be a good idea, because leaving that to breed will give me hives.”
