Urban Shaman by Ce Murphy Page B

know.” Damn, but I was a stunning conversationalist. My eyes were glued shut. I rubbed at them, and the sticky contacts suddenly made tears flood through my lashes.
    “Jesus,” Morrison said in mystified horror, “don’t tell me you’re crying.”
    “It’s my contacts,” I snarled.
    “Thank God. You never struck me as the weepy sort.” Morrison was quiet a moment. I didn’t have the energy to look up at him. “It seems like half the department’s been by to make googly eyes on your behalf.”
    I snorted into my palms, undignified laughter. “Googly eyes?”
    “Googly eyes,” Morrison said firmly. “For some reason they like you.”
    “I fix their cars.” It was true. On particularly bad days—of which this was one—I thought it was because I had no way to relate to other people except through cars. On better days, I acknowledged that I just loved the job, and the fact that I’d made friends because of it was a bonus. “Come on, Morrison, give methe ritual ‘I divorce thee’ three times, and let me go home and get some sleep.” I pushed a hand back through my hair. Morrison winced. “God, do I look that bad?” I hadn’t checked a mirror. Maybe I should have.
    “You look like you got hit by a truck. What happened?” Morrison actually sounded curious.
    “I got into a fight.” I dredged up a little smile. “But you should see the other guy.”
    Morrison snorted and stood up, coming around his desk to lean on the edge of it, arms folded as he looked down at me. I checked the impulse to get to my feet. Morrison and I were exactly the same height. I’d been known to wear heels sheerly for the pleasure of looking down on him. He was looming on purpose. “I’m moving you to the street beat.” He sounded alarmingly pleasant.
    I stared at him for a long time. “What?”
    “I’m moving you to the street beat,” he repeated. “Corner cop duty.”
    “You’re supposed to fire me,” I blurted. I’d never done time as a cop. I didn’t really want to. Morrison grinned, and pushed away from his desk to get himself a cup of coffee.
    “The chief wouldn’t let me. You’re a woman, you’re an Indian, you’re a cop, all you’ve done wrong is not show up to work for a few months, and that was because of a personal family emergency. It’s not enough to fire you for. Not in this quota-happy age.” He opened a fridge under the coffeemaker table and poured milk into his coffee.
    My eyebrows shot up. No one had ever actually mentioned quotas out loud. It was just one of those silent givens that nobody talked about. Morrison turned back, lifting his mug of coffee. “Want some?”
    “Sure,” I said dazedly.
    Morrison poured a second cup of coffee and handed it to me. I took a sip, burned my tongue, and clutched the cup with both hands, watching Morrison nervously.
    “So I’m putting you on the street.”
    “Why?” My voice rose and broke. Morrison beamed at me. I’d never seen him smile so broadly before. It was unnerving.
    “Because I figure you’ll quit. You’re a mechanic, not a cop. You haven’t got the stuff. Want to save us both time and do it now?” Morrison didn’t burn his tongue when he sipped his coffee. The bastard.
    I ground my teeth together so hard it hurt. I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t do it. Not in the face of that grin. I couldn’t prove him right, especially by quitting before I’d even tried.
    “No,” I said through my teeth, standing up and putting the coffee cup aside. “No, I don’t think I do. Sir.”
    It took every ounce of will I had available to close the door gently on my way out.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    N o fewer than eight cops—all of whose cars I tinkered with regularly—lingered outside Morrison’s office, ostentatiously reading files or exchanging stories over their desks. Every one of them fell silent as I carefully closed Morrison’s door and stepped away from the office. Bruce, a thin blonde who had no business being away from the front