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Detective Baxter stood by his desk, straightening his tie. He paused, tapped a finger to his temple in salute.
“LT’s in her office. Trying to get a head.”
Roarke acknowledged the black humor with a quirked brow. “You’ve had all day, and that’s the best you’ve got?”
“Already used up all the good ones. Anyway, I’ve been off shift for, hey, look at that, an hour. So my brain’s a little . . . detached.”
“Better, marginally. Where’s your boy?”
“Sent him home, and stayed back to finish the Fours and other crap. He’s got a date.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah, our Trueheart’s finally worked it up to ask out the little redheaded cutie in Records. He was seeing somebody else, but it fizzled. Civilians can have a harder time working it out with cops. Present company excepted.”
“Understood.”
“Anyway, he’s trying out the dinner and a vid routine, after which, they’ll likely exchange a friendly handshake. Kid moves like a glacier when it comes to the female persuasion. Otherwise, he’s a quick study.”
“You suit each other.”
“Yeah, who’d’ve thought? Anyway, I’m gone. I’ve got a date myself, and I expect to be shaking more than her hand at the end of the night.”
“Good luck with that.”
“Friend, it ain’t about luck.” He gave Roarke another salute and sauntered off.
Amused, and considering the concept of dates, Roarke walked into Eve’s office.
She stood in front of her murder board, hands on her hips. “Computer,” she said, “save and copy all data to my home unit.”
“This is good timing.”
“I need some mulling time.”
“I’ve your copy. Sealed and logged.”
She took it from him. “Aren’t you all official?”
“I certainly hope not. You can have your mulling time on the way.”
“I’ve got a couple more things—”
“That can wait,” he interrupted. “I want dinner.”
She pulled a derringer out of her pocket. Obligingly, he lifted his hands in surrender. “Don’t shoot. I’m unarmed.”
“Bet you’re not.”
He only smiled. “You can search me later. Clever little thing there. Where’d you get it?”
“Souvenir from Peabody and McNab.” She cocked it. It’s small, but it’s mean. Just like me.
He laughed and stepped forward to take a better look at it. “There was this screen show—television,” he corrected, “as it was about a century ago. What was it? In any case, it was in the American West, and the hero was a mercenary—a gun for hire. He carried one of these.”
“I hope he didn’t charge much.”
“He had the full-size as well, but this was his—”
