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

Country Manners by Brendan DuBois

Being the only woman private investigator within a fifty-mile radius in a rural county in upstate New Hampshire, one would think that business would be sparse. Maybe so, and maybe I was lucky, but I always had enough work to pay the bills, sock some cash away every year in my IRA, and still have enough free time to canoe the local streams, do some stargazing, and pretty much stay out of trouble.

And staying out of trouble was something I always try to do. So no deranged boyfriends looking to find their girlfriends, no young ladies looking for creative ways to eliminate their parents, and nothing else equally shady ever made my client list. Which is why I should have cuffed my visitor that late morning, tossed him out onto the sole sidewalk of Purmort, New Hampshire, and then taken the rest of the day off.

But maybe I’m getting older, or bolder, or something, for I didn’t sense trouble when he first came in.

My office is small, with a desk, phone, three chairs, computer, and two three-drawer filing cabinets with good solid locks. The walls have a framed print of Mount Washington, my framed license from the N.H. Department of Safety, and an award I received in a previous life from the New England Press Association. The window behind me overlooks a set of abandoned B&M railroad tracks and some marshland, and the front glass door gives a nice view of the Purmot grass common, once you get past the gold leaf lettering that announced K.C. Dunbar, Investigations. Next door, in the same building, is an Italian restaurant, the Colosseum, which is run by a second-generation Greek family, which is typical for New Hampshire. But don’t ask me why.

So the door opened up that morning and a man came in, slim, late thirties, short, dark blond hair. He was wearing a nice black suit, light blue shirt, and red necktie, and carried a slim, black leather briefcase. I looked at him and he looked at me, and I thought, lawyer, out of town, looking for something or another from the local talent. Said local talent being me. Still, I opened the center drawer of my desk and waited. Yeah, probably just a lawyer.

And in a way, I was correct, but only correct in the manner of stating that if you loved ice, the maiden voyage of the Titanic was a brilliant success.

“Miss Dunbar?” he asked.

“The same,” I said.

He put his briefcase on one of the two polished wooden chairs in front of my desk, held out his hand, which I promptly shook. “Stewart Carr.” And then he put his hand inside his coat, pulled out a thin leather wallet, and popped it open in front of my face. “Special Agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

I looked at the photo and the accompanying detailed information card, and then looked up at him.

Perfect match, of course.

“Gee,” I said, knowing I sounded awestruck but hoping my expression said something else.

“May I sit down?” Carr asked.

“Of course,” I said, my first mistake of the day.

He sat down with a smile and looked over at me and said, “Just to clear the air, Karen Christine Dunbar, I’m not here about any of your clients or past cases. So we can get past the whole client confidentiality issue.”

I leaned back in my chair, conscious of his nice suit and my own faded jeans and T-shirt advertising last year’s Purmort Old Home Days. “All right. Consider it passed.”

He looked around and said, “Nice office. Cozy.”

“Thanks. It works.”

“I would think that an investigator in your position... might be more comfortable working out of your home.”

I smiled and decided I really didn’t like Agent Carr. Tried to one-up me by knowing my whole name, and now telling me that he knew how much I made and no doubt how much I had in the bank. “Thought about that at first, but I decided that some clients, well, I didn’t want some clients being in my private space where I live. Besides, the landowner gives me a break on the rent: He owns the restaurant next door, and I help keep an eye on the place during off hours now and then.”

He grinned. “Really? Didn’t think there’d be much crime in a place like Purmort.”

“Not enough to reach the FBI statistics desk, but there’s more than enough vandalism, break-ins, and the general stupid people doing stupid things to keep some of us busy.”

“I see.”

“And speaking of stupid... What can I do for the Department of Justice today?”

Ouch. That left a mark. While his grin remained, his face colored a bit as he reached over, picked up his briefcase, put it on his lap. He snapped the lid open and said, “We want to hire you.”

I tried not to laugh and admired myself for succeeding. He waited for my reply, I suppose, and I said, “Go on. You’ve got my interest.”

“Good. Glad I’ve succeeded, Karen.”

A snippy tone but I let it pass. “For how long? And where? And why?”

“This weekend. Day after tomorrow. Friday evening to Sunday morning. The where is a farmhouse near the end of a dirt road called Dutton Hill Road. Number eighteen. Familiar with the road?”

“Road, yes. Farmhouse, no. What’s the deal with the farmhouse?”

“We’d like you to conduct a surveillance on the house for that period of time, Friday evening to Sunday morning.”

He pulled out a sheet of paper, examined it for a moment, and said, “Your normal rate of pay is eighty dollars an hour. The period of time we require your services is thirty-six hours, for a total of two thousand eight hundred eighty dollars. We’ll offer you three thousand for that work.”

Not a bad nut, I thought. Exhaustive work for thirty-six hours, but I could pull it off. And it would really help fatten up the old bank balance. Still, when the government comes calling, why not answer with enthusiasm?

“All right. Call it four thousand.”

Another little bit of color was added to his face. “You seem pretty confident of yourself.”

“I’m the only good P.I. within quite a distance.”

“There’s Roger Valliere. Out in Montcalm.”

This time, I didn’t succeed. I did laugh. “Roger’s a retired deputy sheriff. Nice old buck, if you want a car repossessed or a lawsuit served. For a thirty-six hour surveillance... he won’t last, sorry.”

“Thirty-five hundred.”

Oh, what the heck. “Deal. What’s the surveillance? Keeping an eye on who’s living in the farmhouse, or who’s going in and going out?”

“The place is empty. We want you to see if anyone shows up during that time frame.”

“Who?”

“Anyone, that’s who.”

“Sounds intriguing. All right, you haven’t answered the most important question.”

“Which is?”

“Why?”

“Sorry?”

I shifted in my seat. “Why? I’ve been in business long enough to know that private work and public work rarely meet, and when they do meet, they usually don’t get along. So why is the FBI wanting to hire lil’ ol’ me?”

“Resources.”

“Really?”

“Really. You know what’s been on our mind since 9/11. White-collar crime, bank robberies, computer fraud. It’s all taken a back seat to counterterrorism. We don’t have the manpower anymore to do routine work. Which is why we’re looking to hire you for those thirty-six hours. We have information that someone of... someone of interest might be in the area.”

“Someone bad?”

“Let’s just say someone of interest and keep it at that.”

“Do I get to know who he or she might be?”

Another chilly smile. “If you take the job, you’ll be given a secure, prepaid cell phone. If someone shows up — even somebody delivering a package or reading a gas meter — you’ll give us a call.”

I thought about the job offer, thought about my bank account, and looked at Agent Carr again. His face had a mocking look about it, like he was daring me to take the gig.

“And you’re saying the farmhouse is empty?”

“Quite empty,” he said.

“You sure?”

“The FBI says its empty. We’ll leave it that.”

I tried not to show my lack of enthusiasm for the FBI’s capability to determine very much unless it was presented to them wrapped up in bright red gift ribbon.

“All right,” I said. “You’ve got me. Thirty-six hours beginning this Friday evening.”

I went to a side drawer of my desk to pull out a standard client contract, but he beat me to it. A sheaf of papers came out of his briefcase and went across my desk.

“A contractor agreement,” he said. “Please review and sign. And note the nondisclosure and confidentiality clauses in the last two pages.”

I suppose I should have sent him on his way and then spent an hour or two with a friendly local attorney to see what I was getting myself into, but I still liked the thought of thirty-five hundred dollars for thirty-six hours of running surveillance. I skimmed through the form and signed the bottom, and Agent Carr did some magic of his own, and then passed over a cashier’s check for half of the amount.

“Standard, am I correct? Half in advance.”

I slipped the check into a side drawer. “Quite standard.”

Two more items were now on the desk. A cell phone and a business card. “My business card, if you need to contact me. And the encrypted, prepaid cell phone, to make the contact. Any questions?”

A whole bunch, but only a couple came to mind. “This he or she. Dangerous?”

“You have to make your own judgment,” he said quietly. “The fact that this someone is a person of interest to the FBI should give you the necessary guidance.”

“All right,” I said. “Do you want a report when the surveillance is done?”

An amused shake of his head, as if I were wasting his FBI-man time by asking such silly questions.

“No, no report necessary. If we don’t hear anything from you, we assume no one showed up. And if someone shows up, you’ll make the call, and we’ll take it from there. Anything else?”

Well, I thought. This was sure going to be a day to remember.

“Nope, I think we’re all set, Agent Carr.”

He snapped his briefcase shut and stood up. I stood up as well and shook his outstretched hand. He said, “I’m pleased this went so well. Country manners, am I right?”

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“Country manners,” he said. “I’m originally from Boston, got assigned to the Chicago bureau when I graduated from the Academy... I like the pace, like the nice country manners up here. It’s a nice change.”

“Glad to hear it, Mister FBI,” I said, putting on my most innocent smile.

And I waited until he got out of view before looking down at my center desk drawer, open since Agent Carr had first walked into my office. And nestled there, above a checking account statement from the Purmort Cooperative Savings Bank, was my Ruger stainless steel .357 revolver. For whenever a sole male comes into my office, I always have the center drawer open, just in case.

Country manners, indeed.

So after a while, I decided it was time to leave my office and get home to see Roscoe, my male better half, to see how he was doing and to tell him about what had happened with the FBI. I got a free cheese pizza from my neighbors next door — being in a conservative small town, I leaned toward conservative eating when it comes to pizza — and a five-minute drive got me home. I parked my four-year-old Ford SUV in the dirt driveway, and apologies to all, but an SUV gets me out of trouble during rainy days, snowy days, and muddy days here in Purmort, and balancing dinner in my hand, I went home. My home, small and lovely, is a cottage of sorts on two acres of land on the Hanratty River, and it belongs to me, Roscoe, and the Purmort Cooperative Savings Bank. I got the door opened and yelled out, “Honey, I’m home!”

No answer. Typical.

Through the small living room into the combo kitchen and dining room, I put the pizza box down and said, “Roscoe, come on, it’s not nice to tease.”

Approaching footsteps. Finally.

I grabbed a Coke from the fridge and went to the countertop that served as my table, and sitting on a tall stool, washing a paw, was a black and white short-haired cat that was the size of a small raccoon.

I scratched his head as I opened the pizza box and popped open the Coke. “And how was your day, hon?”

In reply, Roscoe started purring. He’s not a lap cat, not a cat overbrimming with ootchie-cootchie cuteness, but he can always be counted on to start rumbling with pleasure when on the scene.

Which meant, in my universe at least, that he beat out most male bipeds.

As I munched on the first slice, I said, “So. Get this. There I am, minding my own business, wondering what to do for the rest of the day, when the FBI shows up. A representative from one of the top law enforcement agencies comes into Purmort and requests my services. Can you believe it?”

The purrs grew louder. “No, I can’t believe it either. If the FBI really wanted to do a freelance surveillance and not tie up their own resources, they’d bring in contract people, already vetted and experienced. Like retired military or FBI. Not a local yokel, as attractive and smart as she might be.”

The purrs seemed to slow. I finished one slice and reached for another. “I hope your purr drop-off isn’t a comment on my looks and abilities.” I took a smudge of tomato sauce and let Rosoe lick it off with his raspy tongue. Our own secret, never to be shared with his vet.

“So what does that leave me?” I asked. “It means we’re en route to make a nice piece of change that can get the house painted before fall... for doing just a bit of surveillance work. It also means we’re involved with something slippery with the Feds.”

I thought some more, started to reach for a third slice, hesitated.

“And, my friend,” I said, rubbing his face with both of my hands, “it means we’re being set up for something. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t like it, money or no money. This whole deal stinks, ‘cause when the Feds are there, they got the bigger guns, and you know what they say. God is always on the side with those with the heaviest artillery.”

Then it seemed chilly for a moment, and I picked up Roscoe and hugged him tight and said, “Lucky for me, we’ve got a weapon or two hidden away.”

The next day was Friday, the day my surveillance was set to start, but I had a little private work to take care of before I officially clocked in on the Fed’s payroll. After my morning exercise routine — roll out of bed, shower, breakfast, pet the cat — I got out and went to the Purmort Town Hall, where I had an interesting few minutes with the town clerk, Mrs. Pam Dawkins, who helped me make sense of the town’s tax records.

“So,” she said, looking at me over her half-spectacles from behind the waist-high counter that separated the small office from the town hall lobby, “what interest do you have in this farmhouse on Dutton Hill Road?”

“Professional, what else? And I suppose I can count on your usual discretion.”

“Sure,” she said, winking at me. Last year I had helped her locate Mr. Dawkins, who had skipped out of town and had a philosophical opposition to paying child support. However, after I had located him, he found a higher philosophical opposition to having his cheating butt in county jail, and since then, the child support checks have been regular and on time.

Pam flipped through a bound computerized printout, running a thick finger down the columns of names and numbers, and she said, “Ah, here it is. Eighteen Dutton Hill Road. Two bedroom home... owned by something called Grayson Corporation. Property tax bills paid promptly, every six months.”

“How long have they owned it?”

“Hmmm... looks to be ten years. Before that it was owned by Muriel Higgins, she used to be the principal of Purmort Regional High School, and it’d still be owned by the Higgins family, if it weren’t for her two worthless sons. Morons decided to start a business doing day trading on the Internet, and when they finally crashed and burned, they had to sell their mom’s place to pay off the tax bills and penalties.”

“I see,” I said. “And what’s Grayson Corporation?”

“Don’t know,” she said. “They’re not local. The bills get sent to a post office box in Allentown, Pennsylvania. No phone number, no contact person. Sorry, Karen.”

“No problem,” I said, gathering up my bag from the countertop, but before I turned to leave, Pam said, “Want to know more?”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, do you want to know more about Grayson Corporation?”

“Sure,” I said. “What do you have in mind?”

She smiled, flipped the tax book shut. “I’ll give it to Stephanie.”

“Steph? Your daughter?”

“Absolutely,” she said. “She’s not old enough to drive yet, but Karen, she knows how to dig out info from the Internet.”

“Pam...”

She raised up her hand. “Please. Even though we settled up our bill, I still owe you. And I’d rather have Steph spend her computer hours doing something productive, instead of looking for boys to chat with. Deal?”

I smiled back at her, thought about Agent Carr. Well, he was right about one thing.

Country manners.

“Deal,” I said, and I left Purmort’s seat of government.

Dutton Hill Road started off paved, and after a couple of miles, became a dirt road. A typical rural road out in this part of New Hampshire, there were wire fences set on each side of the road, interspersed with rock walls that were about as old as the town. Small homes and farms were set off at a bit of distance, most of which had a few horses or cows or some chickens out there in the yards. Nothing that was really a working farm, but small homes with folks that liked to keep their hands in the rural tradition of their parents and grandparents.

Lucky for me, the mailboxes out here were numbered, and it took me about ten minutes of driving before I reached number eighteen. It was on the right side of the road, and the mailbox was black, with white numerals neatly painted on. The driveway was dirt and the home was about fifty feet away. I pulled to the side of the road, let the engine run for a bit.

“Well, Tyler,” I said, speaking to an empty vehicle. “Time for you to make another appearance.”

From the passenger’s seat, I picked up a dog leash and a home-made flyer, showing a mournful Labrador retriever’s face, with the words LOST DOG at the top, with a description, name — Tyler — and my phone number, off by one digit. I switched off the engine, got out of my SUV and went up the driveway, calling out, “Tyler! Tyler! Where are you, buddy?”

With dog leash in one hand, flyer in the other, I certainly didn’t look like a P.I. checking things out; I just looked like a concerned young lady seeking her lost pooch. One of the many advantages to being a female P.I. Strange men bopping around a neighborhood tend to be observed and recorded. Odd women doing the same are usually overlooked, especially if they’re women looking for a lost dog, or women conducting a door-to-door survey, or women looking for an address. Nice bit of tradecraft that gives us a slight advantage, especially since male P.I.’s, when doing surveillances, can usually do their business with empty soda bottles when their bladder gets too full. I, on the other hand, know the location of every rest stop, gas station, and kind motel owner within fifty miles.

So up the dirt driveway I went, calling out poor Tyler’s name — a dog whose picture I had downloaded off the Internet months ago — and checking things out. The first thing I noticed was the driveway; it was dirt, which is usual for this part of the state, but this one was in very good shape, a nice mix of dirt and gravel, nice drainage off to both sides. I went up to the farmhouse.

“Tyler! You around here, buddy? Tyler!”

Quick look around the place. Two story, maybe a hundred years old or so, with unattached garage and a barn to the rear. I went around to the outbuildings, dangling the leash. The buildings were empty. No rakes, no farm equipment, nothing.

“Tyler!”

The yard was in poor shape, with weeds and knee-high grass, but the buildings didn’t reflect the landscaping. They were in okay shape. Hard to explain, but if the place hadn’t been lived in for a decade or thereabouts, you’d expect things. Cracked windows. Shingles falling off. Siding cracked and worn. The place wouldn’t make Town and Country magazine, but it was in better shape than one would expect.

“Tyler!”

Off to the house. Knocked on the door. No answer, of course. But procedures had to be followed. I made notice of the door. Nice and solid, lock and dead bolt. First class, all the way. Went to the side window, peered in. Place was empty. The big room had wide planks for a floor, and I could make out a kitchen counter off to the rear. Everything looked too clean, too neat.

I juggled the leash again. Empty house, well maintained, nice driveway up and back.

Like it was waiting for someone, someone to stop by for a quick visit on his or her way to someplace else.

The someone being my surveillance target?

Perhaps.

I went back down the driveway to my SUV. Looked at the flyer.

“Thanks again, Tyler. Can always count on you.”

And I went into the SUV, closed the door, and said, “But don’t tell Roscoe I said so.”

Home, getting ready for my thirty-six hours. A small knapsack, digital camera, telephoto lens, cassette recorder, notebook, spotting scope, and iPod. Looked to Roscoe, scratched his head for good luck, tried to ignore the growing feeling in my gut, like a little field mouse, busily chewing away on my innards. I was getting into something, and this something I couldn’t quite figure out.

Then my phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Karen? Pam Dawkins here. How are you?”

“Doing fine,” I said, scratching Roscoe’s head one more time. “What’s up?”

“Can I come over for a quick visit?”

I looked at my small collection of gear. “Pam, I’m about to—”

“Karen,” she said firmly, “it’s about Stephanie. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

So ten minutes later, I was in my driveway, waiting, when Pam drove up in a battered Toyota pickup truck, colored black except for where rust had chewed up on it some. She stepped out and I said, “Pam, I really don’t have that much time.”

“Whatever time you have, you’ll have some for me,” she said, leaning back against the truck cab. “Stephanie did her magic work on the Internet this afternoon. Found some things out. Told me what she learned.”

“And why did you have to come here to tell me? Why couldn’t you have called?”

She frowned. “Because Stephanie told me it’d be better to tell you face to face. And not over the phone. So here I am. And none too pleased that I volunteered my daughter this morning.”

“Pam, I’m sorry if I—”

She held up her hand. “Nope, my deal, not yours. And I’m sure nothing will come of it. But look, can you give me ten minutes so I can tell you the ins and outs of that farmhouse’s owner?”

I checked my watch. Tight but manageable. “Ten minutes will be fine. Want to go in the house?”

“No,” she said. “Let’s do it here.”

Which is what we did.

So, fifteen minutes after Pam arrived, I was alone again, not counting Roscoe, of course, and back into my house I went. There, amidst my pile of gear, was the special encrypted cell phone that Agent Carr had given to me. I picked it up, made sure it was on, and then dialed the number on his business card.

I also wrote the number down on a pad of paper.

I put the phone up to my ear, listened. One ring and then it was answered, “Carr.”

“Karen Dunbar here.”

“You’re early, and you’re not where you’re supposed to be,” he said, his voice frosty. “What the hell do you mean by calling? I said you were only to call if there was a sighting.”

“You certainly did,” I replied. “But I wanted to make sure the phone worked. I didn’t want to be in the middle of the woods at two A.M. and have a dead phone in my hand if somebody showed up. You see, what you get for when you pay me, Agent Carr, is my professionalism. And my professionalism demanded that I check the phone before I depart. Is that all right, Agent Carr?”

His reply was crisp and to the point. “Call again only if there’s a sighting.”

I said, “You got it,” but by that time, I was speaking into an empty phone.

No matter.

I left shortly with my gear, and left the special phone behind as well.

Surveillances.

In moderate-sized towns and cities, it takes guile and patience, and finding a nice place to hang out for a while. Preferably a parking lot, a busy street, or someplace where a car parked all day doesn’t bring much attention.

Sure. Try that on some of the roads around my town and surrounding towns, and after a half hour or so, somebody will stop by — probably somebody you know — and say, “Need some help?” And within an hour, a bunch of people will know that Karen’s on the job, and within another hour, the whole town will know what you’re doing.

So my best friend in doing surveillances is the U.S. Geological Survey. They make wonderful topographical maps marking, among other things, roads and elevations, and with a bit of work, you can find a nice quiet spot that gives you a view of what you’re looking at.

Which worked well for me this Friday afternoon. I backed my SUV up an abandoned logging road — and thanked Detroit again for four-wheel drive — and did a small hike up to a hill that overlooked Dutton Hill Road. There was a nice large maple tree and some low brush that offered some concealment, and within twenty minutes or so, I was set. I had a low-slung and comfortable camp chair that I settled into, and with my spotting scope at a sweet angle, I had no problem keeping an eye on at least half of the house. Maybe the mysterious he or she would approach the house from the rear; if so, there wasn’t much I could do about that, but at least I had the road, the driveway, the front and part of the side yard in clear view. Among my collection of stuff was a down sleeping bag, which I unrolled for later use. I had water, instant coffee, some Coke in a beverage cooler, and some freeze-dried food to cook up on a small gas stove. For a bathroom I had the woods and a well-placed log. It wouldn’t be perfect, it wouldn’t be luxurious, but it would work.

Probably not as exciting as working a surveillance in midtown Manhattan, but I was outdoors and I was on my own, which situated me fine. Years earlier I had been a newspaper reporter for the state’s largest newspaper, and a pretty good one at that. I found I enjoyed poking around and finding things out, and after a few years suffering under some editors, I decided to go on my own. About ninety percent of what I do now — records research, tracking people down, so forth and so on — is identical to newspaper work. But for the most part, I get to choose my clients and my own schedule, and that is nice indeed.

Surveillance.

Sounds so mysterious, so sexy.

So here’s what it’s like.

Sitting and watching. Taking a picture of the house. Listening to music on your iPod. Watching some birds fly by, deciding they’re crows: They’re always crows. Looking through the spotting scope. Feeling your heart race just a bit when a vehicle approaches, the letdown when it passes the house. Yawning. Scratching. Tiring of music, trying something else. Listening to a book-on-tape, which really isn’t on tape anymore, since you’re using an iPod, but it’s a book about FDR that sounded interesting. Drinking water. Snacking on pretzels. Pulling the sleeping bag up over your legs and lap as it gets cold. Watching again as another vehicle approaches. Another bust. Drinking a cup of coffee from a Thermos, knowing you’ll have to make a fresh batch later on. Another photo of the house. Racing to the nearby log to do your business, coming back to find no lights on at the target house. Good. Listening to nature for a while. Yawning. Scratching.

It’s now dark, as the stars and at least one planet slowly come into visibility. An owl hoots out there, hunting, and I think to myself, well, I’m here alone, unarmed. Maybe I should have packed the Ruger. It’s too late now. I turn back to the spotting scope. Nothing. I murmur a few words into the cassette recorder, tracking the time and place of vehicles that went by. I figure on another cup of coffee in an hour, another photo of the house. It would be easier if I’d been born a pervert, for they get off on being voyeurs, but most times, surveillances are boring as hell. A vehicle approaches, my heart rate increases. Another bust. I check the time, pick up the digital camera, and take one more photo of the empty house.

Two hours have passed.

Thirty-four to go.

And so, at hour thirty-six and one minute, I stumbled back to the SUV, carrying my gear, stumbling, yawning, and feeling dirty and worn and used. No one showed up, no one at all, and if I wasn’t so tired, I suppose I could have thought it through some, but no, it was time to go home.

I drove slowly, blinking my eyes, yawning hard, until I got home, and I decided the gear could stay right where it was, in my SUV. I unlocked the front door and Roscoe was there, bumping and rubbing against my legs, his meows no doubt stating, “Where in hell have you been?”

I knelt down for a moment, scratched his ears. “Later, pal. Later. Right now, Mama’s gotta get some sleep.”

In the kitchen I filled both his food and water bowls, and then half ran, half stumbled upstairs, where I unplugged the phone and dragged the sheets back, and I know it sounds like hyperbole, but I’m certain I fell asleep before I could even be bothered to pull the blankets up.

On Monday, I took a few more hours off, and I was at my office at eleven A.M. I had worked some from home, so I had my unrequired report ready, and I really wasn’t surprised when Special Agent Carr came into my office, face set and reddened. For some reason his expression reminded me of something I had read once about Admiral Ernest King, head of the U.S. Navy during World War II. His daughter supposedly said that her father was the most even-tempered man she had ever known: He was always in a constant rage.

So went Agent Carr, it seemed, for the first words out of his mouth were, “We’ve placed a stop-payment order on the check I presented to you last Thursday.”

“And good morning to you, Agent Carr,” I replied. “Have a seat.”

He took the seat and said, “There’s a lot of fraud and abuse in government contracts, Karen, but don’t think you’re going to get your share by cheating us.”

“Cheating you how?”

“Cheating us by not being at the farmhouse, that’s why.”

“But I was there,” I said, looking at him steadily. “For thirty-six hours. Friday evening to Sunday morning. Just like you ordered. And I expect full payment.”

“For what? Sitting at home, watching television?”

“And what makes you think I was staying at home?”

A thin little smile. “We know, that’s why.”

In my open side drawer, I picked up the super-dooper encrypted cell phone that he had provided me and tossed it at him. I caught him by surprise, for he used both hands and fumbled it a bit.

“There you go,” I said. “Your special cell phone. Very special indeed. More than just a phone, it was an active tracking device, even when it wasn’t being used. You wanted to make sure I was on the job. Well, I was. I just didn’t bring your Dick Tracy piece of equipment with me.”

“Karen—”

And I interrupted him, saying, “Remember last Friday morning? I tested the phone. You chewed me out for not using the phone as directed, but you also let something else slip. You said I wasn’t at the farmhouse yet. How did you know that? Because a tracking device in the phone told you where I was calling from.”

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?”

His hand was clenched tight on his briefcase handle. “We had... had an agreement. With express mention of confidentiality. You signed it.”

“I surely did, and under false pretenses. And you know it. Come on, Agent Carr, what are you going to do? Shoot me? Arrest me? Threaten to ruin my business? Here, in a small state that distrusts government so much that we elect our governors just for two years?”

He glowered at me, like a rabid pit bull, deciding whether to go for the throat first or the groin. I gave him my best smile, usually reserved for Roscoe. “You know it’s a good deal, best you can get.”

“All right,” he breathed. “Deal.”

I felt some tension just ease away. House painted and a new roof before winter. Not a bad deal. “Delighted to hear it.”

He stood up and went to the door and then looked back at me. He stood there for what seemed to be a long time.

“You know, some would call what you just did extortion,” Carr finally said.

I thought of what he had put me through, how he had lied to me from the very start. I smiled and made an expansive shrug.

“Think of it as country manners,” I said.