High Noon

conversation with me, it will be a formal one, and my delegate will be present.”
    “Up to you.”
    “Yes, it certainly is. Good afternoon, Lieutenant Blackman.”
    It took Phoebe only about forty-five seconds to admit she was just too pissed, too insulted to sit there doing paperwork. Even the pretense of doing paperwork wasn’t possible.
    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