I Knew Her as Katarina

My friends told me I did not have a chance. I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. I moved over to her table.

We closed the bar that night.

Her name was Katarina and she was indeed, nothing but trouble. She drank too much. She left her apartment at all hours of the night, ostensibly to visit a sick friend or "make a delivery". She always looked worse for the wear upon returning.

I found ways to visit her with coffee and croissants in the morning. She found the most delightful ways to accept without returning the favor.

Katarina needed money and certainly should have asked. While always an alluring dresser, she began to display the ragged edges of one accustomed to a better life, but not ready to accept the financial ease of downgrading to one station below her current situation.

Intrigued, I followed Katarina, from a safe distance, looking for clues.

It only took a week.

Katarina worked early mornings at a hospice that housed her mother in exchange for her labor. I read the agreement when it fell from Katarina's purse. The current balance indicated she had a duration of two years remaining to even the account.

That night, after dinner, I confronted Katarina.

She broke down in tears.

I offered her money. Katarina and her mother could live with me. She reached into her purse for another tissue to wipe her eyes. When three more copies fell out, each with a different mother's name, her tears instantly dried.

I should have known better.

And said good-bye.

It was worth seeing her twirl on her heels and leave with a handful of marked bills. She is sure to spend them with the next criminals I get to investigate.

Oh, the life of an FBI agent.