The Chief met with me at precisely eight o’clock Tuesday morning. The interpreter set a chair before the desk. The Chief stirred her coffee with a peppermint stick and gave me an appraising look.
“I hope you’re up for a challenge, Detective Flea.”
Then, with a look of dismay, she glanced at my feet. They probably stank a little bit. I had forgotten my hoof pick at home and detested bathing and showers.
“This new case is extremely confidential,” the Chief leaned closer and lowered her voice. I pressed all four feet into the carpet to smother any odors and nodded eagerly. “There’s been a break-in at the White House. The perpetrator is in custody at the pound. She’s a feisty, tabby cat of no fixed address.”
“With all due respect, Chief, what’s to investigate if the criminal’s already been caught?” I ventured.
The Chief pinched the peppermint stick between two red fingertips and dropped it in the trash. It took all my self-control not to dive after the candy. But it was important to maintain a professional demeaner – especially in front of the Chief.
“We need to investigate fully,” she said, “to rule out any foreign interference.”
A bray of protest rose in my throat, but I restrained it. Didn’t everyone know you could not influence a tabby cat?
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