EDITING: Politics and Poison

Chapter Two: Catching Up

Joe Hardy: Nancy took me to a diner on the main street, for lunch. It wasn't bad; with heavy oak furniture and private booths, it was comfortable and warm. We chose the front booth of the restaurant, with views of the street and the Des Moines river directly across it.

The restaurant was practically empty, and we were quickly waited on. Nancy chose a slice of quiche and a cappuccino. Whilst I ordered the homemade hamburger and a vanilla malt milkshake.

When the waiter had departed, Nancy settled back into her seat. Her eyes probed mine. They matched the seascape painting to her right, perfectly.

"How have you been?" she asked.

"Not bad." I drummed my fingers upon the wooden tabletop. "I work for the Bayport PD now. Did you know that?" I didn't give her time to reply. "I had to do the training, even though I've solved more cases than most of the guys on the force. Collig even made me do the theory- you know, Miranda Rights and how to get a warrant." I reflected on the many cases we'd solved together in the past, and how we'd illegally entered more premises than I could count. "He seemed to think it was important that I learn how to search a property the proper way."

The corners of Nancy's lips lifted into a smile. I could tell that she was also thinking about our adventures. We'd solved mysteries of all kinds, from primary school, when someone would steal their classmates' eraser, to when we were late teenagers and there were murders and assaults. Nancy would help her Dad, by ensuring that his clients were innocent; and Frank and I would assist our own father, by following leads and getting him out of scrapes. 

"How're you? What are you doing?" I asked, just as our drinks arrived. I tasted my milkshake, and added sugar to it, watched her and waited for a reply. It was carefully weighed. My eyes followed her hands, which were slender, strong, as they played with her stirring stick.

"I'm at the National Academy," she finally said.

I almost spilled my drink. "Shit, FBI? Like... super spies?"

Her brows shot up. "Kind of. I am in my last year of training."

"So what have you done? What are you doing? What will you do when you finish?" I couldn't stop the questions from flowing. Suddenly, she looked kick-ass, stirring her coffee, and gazing at me with a slight frown. I'd always known she'd fight crime, but the FBI was super-cool.

She raised her hands in protest. "One question at a time, please! Well... right now we're doing tactical work. We've done firearms training, and driving skills work, but I have my final exam next March, in Hogan's Alley. It's a town that has a reputation as being a hot-bed of terrorist and criminal activity. Hollywood set-designers built it- and we have to complete a timed series of tests: hostage situations, criminal negotiations, making arrests. When I finish I intend to join the violent crimes division. They investigate robbery and major crimes such as serial killers and organized criminal units."

My mouth hung open. "That is so awesome!"

"And hard," she said, diplomatically. "It's not easy at all. We get trained a lot; it's very demanding on the body, mind and soul. I've had to get really fit; and there isn't a whole lot of time to socialize."

I thought about it for a second, couldn't imagine not being able to flirt with girls. "Do you have a boyfriend?" After she and Ned Nickerson had broken up a couple of years beforehand, her relationship status had been removed from her Facebook page. She's always been private, but I hardly knew what was going on in her life, anymore.

She took a sip of her drink. "Yes. Ned Nickerson and I are back together."

I had to hide my surprise. After all, he'd always disapproved of her sleuthing, constantly worried about how much danger she put herself in. Surely he was against her training at the National Academy in Virgina! I found it hard to imagine that he'd approve, somehow.

Nancy read my expression and sighed. "I know. We're long distance, too. So we don't see a lot of each other. Which is fine by me. He hates what I do, anyway."

Her creamy skin was creased with lines. I knew better than to press her. "Well Frank and Callie broke up," I said brightly, as our food was laid upon the table. "I speared a fry with my fork. "He lives in New York now, goes to Columbia University."

Something moved in her eyes, as I expected it would. They dropped to her quiche, and she bit her lip. "Um, so how is he going?" she inquired of her salad.

"I don't know anymore," I replied simply. "I haven't talked to him for months."