J. Robb: Indulgence in death

“Lieutenant!” Sorenson came after her. “It’s obvious my client is emotionally and mentally distressed, and may be suffering from illegals abuse. I-”

“Take it up with the PA. I’ve done my job.”

She kept walking, and as she passed Observation Roarke came out, fell into step with her. “Nice work, Lieutenant, for a temporary whore.”

“That’s saying something from a conniving, social-climbing nobody.”

“What a good fit we are.” He took her hand. “Ready for the weekend?”

“Oh, boy, howdy. I need lemon meringue pie and strawberry shortcake.”

“Aren’t you the greedy one?”

“Hey, sometimes you’ve just got to go for a little indulgence.” She turned toward the conference room. “I need about thirty to deal with the paperwork. And I’m going to need a couple hours tomorrow morning on Moriarity.”

He only nodded, and kept her hand in his as they looked at the board. “No more faces,” he said. “Not tonight.”

“No, not tonight.”

He understood, she thought, that she’d needed to ensure that. And understood, as she did, there would be other faces on other nights.

But not tonight.

She turned to him, slid her arms around him, laid her head on his shoulder, and breathed clear.

He was right. What a good fit they were.