I set the box on the kitchen table. I spot my legal pad lying on top and resist the urge to pull it out. I want to continue working the relocation angle, but it’s going to be tough without resources.

A scratch at the window above the sink interrupts my thoughts. I look up to see the orange tabby glaring at me from the sill. I try not to think about the parallels between the unwanted stray and myself as I cross to the door and open it. The cat bursts in with a waft of cold air and a confetti swirl of snow. I go to the refrigerator, pour milk into a bowl and pop it in the microwave. “I know.” I set the bowl on the floor. “We’re fucked.”

I consider having my first drink of the day, but I know getting shitfaced before noon will only make things worse. Instead I walk to the bedroom, exchange my uniform for jeans and a sweatshirt, and grab my laptop off the dresser. Settling at the kitchen table, I fire up the computer and start with the Holmes County Auditor Web site. It’s tedious work that will probably net nothing more than eyestrain and a stiff neck. But at least it will keep me occupied. The last thing I want to do is sit around and wallow in self-pity or, God forbid, go into full self-destruct mode.

By noon I’m frothing at the mouth with frustration. When I can stand the silence of the house no longer, I turn on the television to some mindless afternoon fare and return to my computer. At one o’clock, I pour myself a double shot of Absolut and drink it down like lemonade on a hot day.

I call Skid, but get voice mail. I had assigned him the task of checking snowmobile registrations for the two-county area. I wonder if he’s gotten wind of my termination and decided he doesn’t have to answer my calls. I’m in the process of dialing his home number when Pickles calls.

“I can’t believe those goddamn pencil-pushers,” he begins without preface.

“What’s going on there?”

“Detrick is making hisself right at home in your office. Mona says if he starts bringing in those fuckin’ animal heads from the taxidermist and mounting them on the walls, she’s going to quit.”

“FBI there?”

“SAC arrived a few minutes ago. Some wet-behind-the-ears dipshit with a master’s degree in ass-kissing and the common sense of a beagle. Detrick is practically sucking his dick.”

I get a good belly laugh out of that despite my dark mood.

“I’m glad one of us thinks this is funny,” Pickles grumbles.

“I’m just glad you’re mad for me.”

“Department ain’t going to be the same without you, Kate. You gonna fight it?”

“I don’t know. Probably not.” I think of Tomasetti, but I don’t ask about him. I can’t help but wonder if he had a hand in this. “How’s Glock holding up?”

“He hates this shit, but he’s hanging in there. I swear if his wife wasn’t about to spit out a baby he’d tell those pencil necks to go fuck themselves.”