“You mean, like the gracious, reasonable people we always deal with on the job?” I said. “Even if she was, I still don’t think driving down to Burnsville would have been the best use of the county’s time.”

“It would have been proactive policing,” Genevieve said, adopting a pedantic tone. “Would you rather have to straighten things out again, the next time grand-mère decides to borrow Jordy again without asking?”

I had no answer for that, and we fell silent for the rest of the trip.

But when we were back at our desks downtown, Genevieve said, “Hey, what were you laughing about back there?”

“At Tom’s place? I didn’t laugh,” I said. “I thought I kept a very straight face when he finally realized where his kid was.”

Genevieve rolled a leaking pen against a piece of scratch paper and then, dissatisfied, capped it and threw it in the trash. “Not then. A couple of minutes before that, when we were in his kitchen. I looked over at you and I could see you were trying really hard not to laugh at something. I had to distract the guy so he wouldn’t see.”

I thought. “Oh, that,” I said. “You didn’t see the sign on the refrigerator?”

“What sign?”

“He had a sign on his refrigerator, for those herbal weight-loss supplements, that said: ‘I lost 60 pounds. Ask me how!’ ” I was almost laughing now, remembering it. “That cheery little sign was right in my line of sight, and I couldn’t help it, I kept thinking of his kid.”

Genevieve looked blank.

“A six-year-old weighs about that much. I lost 60 pounds.”

Understanding, Genevieve shook her head. “Your sympathy really bleeds sometimes. For all you knew, his son could have been picked up by a pedophile and-”

“Bullshit. You knew as well as I did from the moment we walked into his apartment that his son was fine. For a couple of minutes,” I said, “I seriously suspected the kid was lost among all those boxes of juice machines in the living room.”

Genevieve gave me her serene smile. “You’re just upset that he didn’t like you well enough to try to sell you a juice machine.”

“Damn straight he didn’t,” I said. “And you know why? People know better than to try that shit with me. What is it with people and these home-sales things?”

“Oh, good,” she said, “we’re off on a rant now.”

“Well, come on,” I complained, “people actually believe the ‘get-rich-working-from-home’ ads in the back of magazines. But who do they end up trying to sell this stuff to? The people around them. Neighbors, family. I mean, is that really salesmanship? What happens when you run out of friends?”

Genevieve gave me a look. “That would take some of us less time than others.”

It took me a moment to realize what she was saying. Then I winced. “Gen, sometimes you are so mean to me, I swear it almost feels good.”

She was unapologetic. “I’m just saying, the home-sales work probably gives a single father like Tom more time to be home with his son,” Genevieve said tolerantly. “Besides, it’s the American dream. Everyone wants to be their own boss.”

“Not me,” I said. “I’m happy with my lot in life: working for you.”

“Oh, please,” Genevieve said. “I do all the heavy lifting in this partnership. Like covering up for you when you’re on the verge of cracking up in the middle of an interview situation in someone’s kitchen.” She turned away from me and typed steadily.

I wasn’t ready to quit provoking her, though. “Genevieve?” I said.

“Yes?” But she didn’t turn around to look at me. At least not right away. But in a moment the silence got to her and she swiveled her chair to look at me. “What?” she said.

“I lost sixty pounds.”

Genevieve turned away again, but too late; her shoulders were shaking. She was laughing. I’d gotten her.

A lot of people would have frowned, I suppose, but cop humor is frequently dark. It doesn’t affect the way you do your job.

“You just wait,” Genevieve said. She was smiling, but she pointed a didactic, warning finger at me. “You wait until you’ve got a kid of your own. Then you’ll understand. You’ll want to go out to Edina and apologize on your hands and knees to that guy.”

We worked awhile in silence. When I heard her roll open her desk drawer, I knew we were done for the day: she was taking out her purse. “You about ready?” she said. We didn’t always leave at the same time, but today, of course, I was driving her home.

“Yeah,” I said, shifting and stretching in my chair.

She closed her desk drawer with the heel of her hand. “As long as you’re driving me home, you want to stay for dinner?” she asked.

“That sounds good,” I said, watching her stand and arrange her bright-red muffler over the nape of her neck, pulling the ends of her short, dark hair out over it. “I end up eating alone a lot these days. Shiloh’s been working late almost every day.” I stood, too.

“That’s no good. Vincent was the same way when he was studying for the bar exam. I never saw him. Sometimes I was afraid Kam was going to start calling any tall black man she saw on the street ‘Daddy,’ ” said Genevieve, pulling her jacket on over the red scarf. “Anyway, let’s pick up Shiloh on the way.”

“He won’t come,” I said as we headed for the elevators. “He’s working on the Eliot thing.”

“Let me handle him,” Genevieve said.

“Oh, right. Amaze me with your Shiloh-handling skills. No”- I took her arm-“we’re not going to the precinct.”

Genevieve looked at me questioningly.

“At this hour, I’ll bet you five bucks he’s up in the law library,” I told her.

And he was, by himself, deep in his work. He looked up at both of us when we came to stand at his side.

“Hey,” I said, laying one hand on the table.

“Hey,” Shiloh said in return. He touched the back of my fingers with his, a gesture no one else in the library could have seen unless they were looking right at table level. “I’ll be home in about an hour and a half,” he said quietly. “Hey, Genevieve, how have you been?”

“I’m good,” she said. “Sarah and I are taking you to St. Paul for dinner at my house.”

“Can’t,” Shiloh said, not elaborating.

“I already lost five dollars to your girlfriend, who bet me you’d be up here,” Genevieve said, even though my offhand remark hadn’t in any way been an actual wager. “So make it worth my while.”

Shiloh glanced up at her, then took out his billfold and laid a five-dollar bill on the table. “Quit while you’re even,” he said, looking back down at his work, as if he expected her to go away.

“Kamareia has something she wants to give to you guys,” Genevieve persisted.

“What?” he asked her.

“A photo, from the Christmas party, of the two of you,” she said.

“Well, I’d hate for you to have to carry that in to work,” Shiloh said. “I know how heavy a Polaroid is.”

Genevieve was silent.

“This is important,” Shiloh said. “And you know I can’t work on it on my own time.”

Genevieve sat on her heels so she could look up at him. “You’re working too hard,” she said softly. “You need to learn to throttle back, Shiloh.”

When he still didn’t respond, she said, “We miss you.”

Shiloh ran a hand through his hair. Then he said, “Who’s cooking, you or Kamareia?”

“Kamareia. It’s your lucky night,” Genevieve said. She knew she’d won.

It was around six-thirty when we pulled into her driveway. Downstairs, the interior of Gen’s house was dim, although a little bit of electric light was falling down the staircase from upstairs, along with the sound of a radio playing.

Genevieve flipped on the lights, illuminating the empty, clean kitchen. Kamareia was nowhere to be seen. Genevieve frowned. “That’s odd, she told me she was going to start dinner around six.” She looked toward the staircase and the sound of the radio. “It sounds like she’s here.”

Her perplexity was understandable: Kamareia was responsible, and she genuinely liked to cook. “It’s okay,” I reassured Genevieve. “We’re not starving. We’ll live.”