High Noon

never met in her life, but she goes out.”
    “And you find that attractive?”
    “I find it fascinating. And hot. You met her, right? What did you think?”
    “I found her brisk and to the point, well bred and canny. And in possession of an excellent ass.”
    “I got her stuck in my head. Well, I think I ought to go see her, try to figure out why. You can give me a ride in, I need to pick up my car anyway.”
     
    After running a two-hour training session, Phoebe sat down at her desk. Her hair was pulled back, rolled at the nape of her neck, mostly to keep it out of her way. In addition, she thought—hoped—the style lent her some authority. A lot of the cops she trained—the male ones—didn’t start out taking a woman very seriously.
    They all took her seriously by the end, or they were out on their ass.
    She might have had an inside man in Dave to help crack the door open for her in the department. But she’d shoved the door wide, and earned her rank, her position.
    Now, due to that rank and position, she had a pile of paperwork to push through. And she had to spend the afternoon in court, testifying on the circumstances of a domestic dispute that had gone south into a hostage situation.
    After that, she needed to come back and finish up what she could. And after that, she needed to go by the market.
    And after things settled down at home, she needed to hit the books, to prep for a lecture she was due to give on crisis negotiation.
    Somewhere in there she needed to squeeze out time to balance her checkbook—long overdue—and see if there was any way she could afford a new car without robbing a bank.
    She opened the first file, and got down to managing her little corner of the Savannah-Chatham PD.
    “LT?”
    “Mmm?” She acknowledged Sykes, one of the negotiators in her unit, without looking up.
    “Guy out here wants to see you. Duncan Swift.”
    “Hmm?” This time she looked up with a frown. She looked through the window of her office, saw Duncan studying the squad room as if it were a foreign planet.
    She thought of her workload, of the time crunch, and nearly passed him off. Then his gaze shifted, met hers. And he smiled.
    “Ah well.” She pushed up from her desk, stepped out to the doorway of her office. “Mr. Swift?”
    He had a damn effective smile, she decided. Something about it said it was easy and often used. And his eyes, soft and dusky blue, looked right at you. In her experience a lot of people weren’t comfortable making that solid eye contact. But this man let you know he wasn’t just looking at you, he was thinking about you while he did.
    “You’re busy. You look busy,” he said when he reached her. “You want me to come back when you’re not?”
    “If what you came by for can wait about a decade, that’s fine.”
    “I’d rather it didn’t.”
    “Then come on in.”
    “Wow. It’s sort of like on TV, but not exactly. Do you get weirded out sitting here where everybody can see what you’re doing all day?”
    “If I do, I can always pull the blinds.”
    He hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of worn jeans. There were long legs in those jeans, she noted.
    “Bet you hardly ever do.”
    “I spoke with the attorney you hired on Joe’s behalf. He seems very competent.”
    “And then some. So…I wanted to ask you if I should visit Suicide Joe—”
    “Excuse me? Suicide Joe?”
    “Sorry, we got to calling him that last night. It stuck in my head. Should I visit him, or is it better for him if I step back?”
    “What do you want to do?”
    “I don’t know. It’s not like we were pals or anything. But yesterday’s loop keeps running through my head.”
    “It’s more to the point what’s running through his.”
    “Yeah. Yeah. I had this dream.”
    “Did you?”
    “I was the one sitting out on the ledge in my underwear.”
    “Boxers or briefs?”
    It made him laugh. “Boxers. Anyway, I was sitting on the ledge and you were sitting there with me.”
    “Are you feeling suicidal?”
    “Not a bit.”
    “It’s called transference. You’re putting yourself in his place. It was a traumatic experience, for you as well as Joe, even though it ended well.”
    “Have you ever had one that didn’t?”
    “Yes.”
    He nodded, and didn’t ask for details. “What do you call me having you stuck in my mind? Wishful thinking?”
    “That would depend on what you’re wishing for.”
    “I started to Google you.”
    She sat back now, raised her eyebrows.
    “I