Chapter 2 #3
They ordered food and spent the rest of the night talking about work.
Nikolai was thrilled to learn Hjalmar was in law enforcement too.
They wouldn't be working cases together since Hjalmar worked with drugs and he with murders, but not only had he reconnected with an old friend he still liked, but they also understood the toll their jobs took.
And as long as they were talking work, he managed not to ask more about Frode.
* * * *
Frode jogged up the stairs to Hjalmar's floor at the precinct.
When Lieutenant Givens blocked his way, he sneered.
She didn't like him, and at times she shut Hjalmar down when he wanted Frode's input on things, but for the most part she settled on telling him he didn't give them enough information for what they were paying him.
"I haven't okayed any gypsies today."
"Wow. Do cops have an HR department? I'd like to file a formal complaint."
She glared. "For what?"
"Racism. The word you're looking for is Roma."
Silence. "I meant I haven't agreed to have a fucking fortune teller on my floor today. We're not a circus."
The slack-jawed expression on Hjalmar's face followed by a rosy anger rapidly spreading on his cheeks as he came up behind Givens made Frode flinch. So far, he believed Hjalmar had been unaware of his lieutenant's aversion to psychics.
She noted his reaction and looked over her shoulder. There was a moment where he could read regret in her eyes, then she schooled her face. "Bakke, heading out?"
Hjalmar stared at her; his lips flat, and his hands curled into fists. "What did you say to him?"
"Nothing. I was surprised to see him here today. You haven't requested his input."
"He's my brother."
"I know, but I still wasn't--"
"I don't fucking care." Hjalmar's voice was low but shook with anger.
This was why Frode never told him about the jackasses he was working with.
For some reason, Hjalmar liked most of them, and he didn't want to ruin it for him.
He believed they liked Hjalmar back as long as they could ignore he had a psychic brother.
She opened her mouth to speak, but Hjalmar held up a hand to stop her. "If I ever, ever, see you give him so much as an unkind look, I will report you. Do you have any idea how many arrests his input has helped with?"
"I--"
"I don't care what you're about to say."
"I'm your boss."
"I don't fucking care. You can't afford to have me transferred. I have the best clearance rate in the department."
Frode couldn't help but smirk. Hjalmar was good at what he did.
Then Hjalmar stomped past her and grabbed Frode's arm. They flew down the stairs, and Frode had to focus on not tripping over his feet. Once they reached the curb outside the station, Hjalmar whirled on him. "Why didn't you tell me she treated you like that?"
The anger hadn't subsided, but Frode wasn't scared. "Because you have to work there. She is your boss, better if you didn't know."
"I trusted her." He was fuming, and Frode couldn't help but smile. When Hjalmar saw it, he huffed and rolled his eyes. "Fucking hell."
"It's fine."
"It's not. The police can't walk around being..." He waved a hand, and Frode chuckled.
"I don't think there is a work force more prone to racism, homophobia, and other kinds of discrimination."
"No, we work against those things."
Frode gave him an unimpressed look. "You're hunting drug dealers, don't kid yourself into believing you're doing a good job for the queer community."
Hjalmar glowered at him, but most of the anger had evaporated. Hjalmar got angry, but he didn't stay so for long.
"Did she say anything homophobic?"
"No." And to give her some credit, she never did. He didn't think she was a homophobe, only scared of the unknown.
About one in ten thousand were psychic, and there was no genetic component anyone had managed to find to tell if a kid would be born with a talent or not. But despite there being so few of them, psychics were feared. They made people uneasy.
It was ridiculous considering Frode couldn't do anything with his skill to anyone. Skills varied, and there were people who could affect others with what they could do, but Frode wasn't one of them.
"So what am I doing here?" Frode shoved his gloved hands into his pockets.
"Eh..." Hjalmar looked confused for a second. "Oh...I figured we could have lunch."
"Two days in a row? It wasn't a hard reading. I'm fine."
"No, I know. I...Look, would you come with me to a crime scene? It's been released, so there are no tapes or anything."
Frode didn't move. He went to crime scenes on rare occasions.
If they wanted him to read something they couldn't bring to the station, but most often he didn't go near them.
Most often he didn't know what the case was about.
He pointed at pictures, told the agents or detectives who had touched the item they'd brought him.
If they didn't have a photo, he sat down with Mr. Yeager, the forensic artist, for a composite drawing.
"Why?"
"It doesn't make sense to me. I won't ask you to touch anything there, but could you stand there with me and think."
A strange request, and he had no idea what he possibly could do to help Hjalmar, but he shrugged. "Sure."
* * * *