“I know you’ve glommed the broad’s scatter,” you inform the suspect grimly. “I’ve got you doped as an honest bird. Give me the wire and the buttons won’t hear a word, savvy?”
He isn’t speaking yet, but you know this egg is on the verge of cracking. When he does, it’s another case solved, and another century in the bank.
Just a typical day’s work for Jane Crocker, the most hardboiled detective this side of Prospit’s moon.
“Avast!” A fine piece of ankle storms into the room, waving a cutlass at your witness. “Speak, you scurvy dog, or it’s to Davy Jones’ locker with you!”
Your partner waves her sword a little too enthusiastically, and slices off your informant’s head. It smashes on the ground.
This is an occupational hazard of constructing interrogatees from your partner’s magic eight balls.
“Take that!” she crows.
“Vriska, he was about to peach on the skirt,” you tell her. “You didn’t need to scare him, let alone give him the full Blackbeard.”
“Well, I’m boooooooored!” she complains, perching herself on your lap. “I thought I was going to get to be bad cop!”
You consider your options. Your only lead just got planted and there’s nothing to do on this case but bump gums.
More importantly, you’re dizzy with the dish in your lap, and your plans for this afternoon are dust.
“You do make a good bad cop,” you say, as you pull her towards you for a kiss. “You’ll just have to find some other number to grill.”
She smirks, and winks at you. “Aye.”