Nora Roberts - High Noon

She grabbed her purse, strode out of the office, through the speculative, and sympathetic, glances of the squad. "Lost time," she said to the new PAA. "I'll be an hour."

She had to walk. She knew herself and understood air and exercise were two vital components to cooling herself off. She walked fast, before she said or did anything she'd regret later, straight out of the building. Out of the cop, she thought to herself.

She could have chosen an easier career. Psychology, psychiatry.

Hadn't she considered both? But no, through all the years, all the schooling, all the choices, she'd kept circling back to this.

She knew it had given her mother more than anyone's share of sleepless nights. God knew it wasn't the best choice for a single mother with a child who needed her. It hadn't been the smart choice, really. She had a family to support, and could have done so with more style charging for fifty-minute hours instead of putting in countless nights on the job. And for what? For what? To be accused by a man who brutalized her? To be questioned by her own over those accusations before the last bruises had completely faded?

She'd swallowed what in her heart was no more than a slap on the wrist of the man who'd used his fists on her. She'd accepted the politics of it, the face-saving, and to be honest had some small seed of relief inside her that she wouldn't be called on to sit in court and replay what he had done to her.

But this? She didn't know if she could swallow this.

And where were her choices now? Phoebe asked herself as she turned into the relative cool of Chippewa Square. She could give the department the finger, walk away. And toss away a dozen years of training and work-good work, she reminded herself.

She could demand a full and formal investigation, and blast the ugliness into the air for those who enjoyed such things to snatch at like ribbons on balloons. Or she could remember that sometimes pride was less important than doing what had to be done.

She dropped down on a bench-the one Forrest Gump had sat on, waiting for a bus.

"Box of chocolates, my ass," she muttered.

But she was calmer. It was good, she decided, that she'd said what she wanted to say to that rat-bastard Blackman when she hadn't been calm. Good that she'd stood up, showed him she wouldn't let herself be walked over by IAB, by politics, by any old-boy network or variation thereof.

Let him poke and prod around. She had nothing to hide.

She'd go back to work, because that's what she did. And really, it wasn't just the only choice she had. It was what she wanted.

But for the next five minutes, she was going to sit here-just like

Forrest-and watch the world go by. As screwed up as it was, it was still her world.

Phoebe glanced over as a woman sat on the bench beside her, then did a quick double take. A sassy white sun hat shaded the gorgeous curling auburn hair. Delicate, just ripened peach tinted the wide, expressive mouth. The long legs were set off in a filmy white sundress and given some jazz with the strappy high-heeled sandals.

Hollywood often came to Savannah, and still it wasn't a usual thing to have Julia Roberts cozy up on a park bench alongside you. Especially when Julia had a prominent Adam's apple and really big hands.

"I hope you don't mind me joining you." The voice was lazy, liquid Savannah, and on the contralto end of the scale. "These shoes are just killing me."

"Not at all. Fabulous shoes, by the way."

"Why, thank you so much!" The four-inch heels lifted, turned side to side, and showed off peach-tipped toes. "Saw them at Jezebel's, and I couldn't resist them. I know better than to go in that place, as I have such a weakness. But there they were, right in the window, and I couldn't live without them."

Phoebe had to smile, and think of Carly. Her daughter would understand the sentiment perfectly.

"But they are not made for walking more than five steps. I'm not her." Phoebe's companion tipped down fashionable sunglasses. "Lots of people mistake us, as Julia and I share certain qualities."

"You certainly do."

"And she is a married lady with those adorable children. While I am still on the market." With a wink, the woman extended her hand. "Marvella Starr."

"Phoebe MacNamara."

"I do believe I've seen you around here, Phoebe-that gorgeous hair of yours. I take a turn around the park most every day. It's near the police station, you know."

"Yes, I do."

"I do love a man in uniform. And the mounted unit, they patrol the park. A man in uniform on a horse." On a lusty sigh, Marvella leaned back, waved a hand over her heart. "I am helpless. I work at Chez Vous. You ever been to Chez Vous, honey?"

"I haven't."

"Oh, you should come on by some night, catch the show. Being in the theater, I do tend to sleep in most days, but I like to stroll on through the park in the afternoon, get my policeman fix." She dug into her peach-toned hobo bag, took out a lemon drop. "Candy?"

"Thanks."

Companionably, they sucked on lemon drops, and Phoebe felt better than she had all day.

"You live around here, too?" Marvella asked.

"No, actually, I work around here. At the police station. I'm a cop."

"Now you shut up!" Marvella poked her in the arm. "Is that the truth? I want to see your gun."

Amused, Phoebe folded back her jacket to expose the weapon and badge on her hip. And had Marvella whistling in delight.

"Pretty thing like you, I'd never have guessed it. But I guess we both know how appearances are deceiving-and it's what's inside the cover that counts."

"Yes, we both know that."

"You know any men in uniform who might be interested in a date with a woman of my particular style?"

"If they aren't it's their loss."

"Aren't you the sweet one!"

"If I come across any, I'll send them over to Chez Vous. I bet you can take it from there."

"Oh, that's a solid truth, Phoebe. That's a solid truth."

While she sat, he took pictures. It was such a bonus! He'd never expected to see her walking along, into the square, out again. But here she was, eyes shaded by sunglasses. He wished he could see them. But it was still a bonus. He'd only been scouting around, and lo and behold, here came Phoebe.

Walking fast-fast as a Yankee-legs striding, hips swinging. Hot under the collar, he was sure of it. And the idea of her anger, her upset, gave him a nice little thrill.

He wondered if she'd liked the little present he'd left for her. It was too bad, really too bad, he hadn't been able to stick around, to wait, to position himself to see how she reacted when she found the dead rat. Still, they were going to have time, plenty of time to get to know each other again. To see each other. Eye to eye.

He didn't know what the hell she and the queer were blabbing on about, but the interlude gave him time for more pictures. And with her running her mouth, she wasn't going to make him.

When she rose, walked away, he blew a kiss at her back. "See you soon, sweetheart."

Dave waited until it was nearly the end of shift to summon her. He was on the phone when she stepped into his office, and he held up a finger. "That was my take, yes. I appreciate it. I'll get back to you."

He hung up, swiveled a little right, a little left as he studied Phoebe's face. "This'll only take a minute. You probably want to get home."

"Monday night's homework session is often a study of temper and despair. By Friday, we have the hang of it again, only to fall victim to the tradition of two days of vacation. Is there a problem, Captain?"

"I know IAB's spoken with you."

"Yes."

"And I know you're pissed off."

"Yes."

"It's not going to go anywhere, Phoebe. It's got nowhere to go. But the Meekses have friends in the department, and at City Hall. It's important to them to save face to some extent."