Morrison’s desk looked out onto the offices through another set of windows, floor-to-ceiling, Venetian blinds hanging at the tops. He usually left them open. When they were closed, somebody was in huge trouble. I couldn’t decide if I was relieved they were open now.

Three calendars, with the past, present and next months turned up, were tacked on a bulletin board above a quietly percolating coffeemaker on the other side of the office. Around the calendars were clippings from cases, past and present, overlying one another until the board below them was virtually invisible. Next to the coffeemaker was a Frank Lloyd Wright clock. I wondered if it had been a Christmas gift, and who had given it to Morrison. There were no photos of family on his desk. I doubted he had any.

I eyed the clock. He’d kept me waiting seventeen minutes. It only seemed fair, since I’d kept him waiting four and a half months.

A moment later the door banged shut and I flinched upright, startled out of the first sleep I’d had in days. Morrison glowered at me from the doorway. I cast another glance at the clock. I’d been asleep less than three minutes. Just enough time to make the worst possible impression. I hoped I hadn’t drooled on myself.

“Get,” Morrison growled, “the hell. Out. Of my. Chair.”

I beamed. “Bruce was very specific,” I said in my best innocent voice. “‘Morrison wants your ass in his chair the minute you get off the plane.’”

Morrison took a threatening step toward me. I cackled and waved a hand, climbing to my feet. “I’m getting. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.” I walked around the desk to the chair I was supposed to be in, and sat.

Or that’s what I meant to do, anyway. What I actually did was take two steps, tread on my shoelace and collapse in a sprawl at Morrison’s feet. I lay there wondering why I couldn’t breathe. I could feel Morrison staring at the back of my head.

The floor was pretty comfortable, all things considered. Maybe if I stayed there, Morrison would just have me thrown in a nice quiet cell where I could sleep for two or three days. Except there were no quiet cells at the station, and I knew it. I groaned, pushed myself to my hands and knees, then sat back on my heels.

“Don’t do it, Joanie!” someone bellowed, loud enough to be heard through the window. “The job ain’t worth it!”

It took several seconds for my position, relative to Morrison’s, to sink in. Then I turned a dull crimson, too tired to even get up a really brilliant shade of red. Morrison glared over his shoulder and stomped around the desk to take his seat, all without ceasing to scowl at me. I climbed to my feet in a series of small movements, using the desk to push myself up incrementally. Eventually I got turned around and met Morrison’s frown.

“You look like hell,” he said, which wasn’t what I expected, so I blinked at him. He waved at the chair. “Siddown.”

I sat. Not, thankfully, right where I was standing: I had the presence of mind to stagger the couple of steps to the chair. Morrison watched me. He was in his late thirties and looked just like a police captain ought to: a big guy, a little bit fleshy, with cool investigating eyes and strong hands that had blunt, well-shaped fingernails. He was good-looking in a superhero-going-to-seed kind of way, which is probably one of those things you’re not supposed to notice about your boss. I sank into the chair and closed my eyes.

Morrison leaned back in his chair. It creaked, a high shriek that made hairs stand up on my arms. “You overextended your personal leave by three months, Walker.”

“I know.”

“I hired your replacement ten weeks ago.”

“I know.” Damn, but I was a stunning conversationalist. My eyes were glued shut. I rubbed at them, and the sticky contacts suddenly made tears flood through my lashes.

“Jesus,” Morrison said in mystified horror, “don’t tell me you’re crying.”

“It’s my contacts,” I snarled.

“Thank God. You never struck me as the weepy sort.” Morrison was quiet a moment. I didn’t have the energy to look up at him. “It seems like half the department’s been by to make googly eyes on your behalf.”

I snorted into my palms, undignified laughter. “Googly eyes?”

“Googly eyes,” Morrison said firmly. “For some reason they like you.”

“I fix their cars.” It was true. On particularly bad days—of which this was one—I thought it was because I had no way to relate to other people except through cars. On better days, I acknowledged that I just loved the job, and the fact that I’d made friends because of it was a bonus. “Come on, Morrison, give me the ritual ‘I divorce thee’ three times, and let me go home and get some sleep.” I pushed a hand back through my hair. Morrison winced. “God, do I look that bad?” I hadn’t checked a mirror. Maybe I should have.

“You look like you got hit by a truck. What happened?” Morrison actually sounded curious.

“I got into a fight.” I dredged up a little smile. “But you should see the other guy.”

Morrison snorted and stood up, coming around his desk to lean on the edge of it, arms folded as he looked down at me. I checked the impulse to get to my feet. Morrison and I were exactly the same height. I’d been known to wear heels sheerly for the pleasure of looking down on him. He was looming on purpose. “I’m moving you to the street beat.” He sounded alarmingly pleasant.

I stared at him for a long time. “What?”

“I’m moving you to the street beat,” he repeated. “Corner cop duty.”

“You’re supposed to fire me,” I blurted. I’d never done time as a cop. I didn’t really want to. Morrison grinned, and pushed away from his desk to get himself a cup of coffee.

“The chief wouldn’t let me. You’re a woman, you’re an Indian, you’re a cop, all you’ve done wrong is not show up to work for a few months, and that was because of a personal family emergency. It’s not enough to fire you for. Not in this quota-happy age.” He opened a fridge under the coffeemaker table and poured milk into his coffee.

My eyebrows shot up. No one had ever actually mentioned quotas out loud. It was just one of those silent givens that nobody talked about. Morrison turned back, lifting his mug of coffee. “Want some?”

“Sure,” I said dazedly.

Morrison poured a second cup of coffee and handed it to me. I took a sip, burned my tongue, and clutched the cup with both hands, watching Morrison nervously.

“So I’m putting you on the street.”

“Why?” My voice rose and broke. Morrison beamed at me. I’d never seen him smile so broadly before. It was unnerving.

“Because I figure you’ll quit. You’re a mechanic, not a cop. You haven’t got the stuff. Want to save us both time and do it now?” Morrison didn’t burn his tongue when he sipped his coffee. The bastard.

I ground my teeth together so hard it hurt. I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t do it. Not in the face of that grin. I couldn’t prove him right, especially by quitting before I’d even tried.

“No,” I said through my teeth, standing up and putting the coffee cup aside. “No, I don’t think I do. Sir.”

It took every ounce of will I had available to close the door gently on my way out.