want to see recycled candy bars and nachos, but this was very satisfying'
McLaren gave them both high fives. 'Cool. Well, I'm outta here. Just wanted to stick around long enough to give you props.'
'Likewise,' Magozzi said. You want to catch a beer with us later?'
His pale face turned slightly pink, and then he grinned. 'Sorry, guys, but I've got a real cutie lined up for dinner.'
Gino nodded his approval. 'No shit? Way to go, dude.'
Johnny's grin got bigger. 'JDate rocks.'
'I hope like hell you told her you were a Belfast Catholic before you agreed to meet her.'
'I know her story, she knows mine. Everything's kosher.'
'Hey, at least you're working your way into the lingo. Best of luck, friend,' Gino said, meaning it.
'Thanks. And hey, speaking of cuties… there's a profiler from the FBI somewhere around here waiting for you. That's some hot property.'
'Chelsea Thomas,' Magozzi informed him.
McLaren's red brows lifted. 'Ah, so you know her. Lucky you. She's way outta my league.'
Gino shrugged. 'Oh, I don't know, McLaren. She might be the kind of woman who picks the ugliest Christmas tree on the lot or adopts the blind, one-legged puppy at the pound.'
'Rolseth, you are such an asshole. Anyhow, have a good night, guys, and wish me luck.'
Chelsea Thomas was waiting for them outside the Chief's office, and she did look hot… and different. She was dressed in a suit, but it wasn't a Fed suit. Magozzi was no fashionisto, but he knew really great, expensive clothes when he saw them - Annie Belinsky had schooled him in that.
'Detectives. Excellent work today.'
Her smile was infectious, and Magozzi and Gino both succumbed. 'Yep. Everybody did their part, and it turned out great.'
Yes, it did. You can't imagine how important this is as a deterrent. What kind of impression did you get from talking to them?'
Magozzi thought about that for a minute. 'Actually, they weren't the monsters I was expecting.'
'New kind of monster,' Gino said. 'Stupid little bastards with too much alone time and no sense of consequence who think they can get away with anything'
Chelsea nodded. 'Their brains aren't fully developed at that age. Actually, they're boys, so their brains never fully develop.' Her smile flashed again.
Magozzi's brows lifted. 'Wow. You're in a great mood.'
'Aren't you?'
'Absolutely. Want to grab a beer with us later?'
'I'd love to, but I have to get to the airport. The Director wants me on the morning talk-show circuit tomorrow to get as much publicity on this as possible. Save the interview tapes for me, will you? And congratulations again.'
Gino looked over at Magozzi. 'We're zero for two on the happy-hour buddies. I think we're stuck with each other.'
'I think we're going to be stuck here all night, anyway.'
Chapter Thirty-seven
Grace was standing at the marble counter in Harley's kitchen, picking her way through a chicken pot pie - she was eating purely for sustenance, not pleasure, so it seemed appropriate that she do it standing up. Huttinger's hard drives had arrived, and they were all staring down a long night's work.
She looked up when John Smith walked in a few minutes later. He was clearly exhausted, which was understandable, and yet there was something almost peaceful in his face, as if gravity had granted him a temporary kindness.
'You've had quite a night,' she said, laying down her fork. 'We caught the news. Congratulations.'
'None deserved. The credit belongs to all of you and your extraordinary software, and to Detectives Magozzi and Rolseth, of course. They're quite an impressive pair.'
Yes, they are. But I'll bet they didn't feed you,' she raised her plate in an invitation. 'There's more in the oven if you're hungry.'
'What about the others?'
'They ate earlier.' She started to move toward the oven but he stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. 'Don't interrupt your meal. I'll get it, and thank you very much. It smells delicious. When on earth did you find time to make this today?'
'I make them in advance, and keep them in Harley's freezer for nights like this.'
He asked for permission to sit after he'd filled his plate, and Grace pulled out stools for both of them. They sat side by side, looking straight ahead, eating in a silence that was oddly comfortable for two people who didn't really know each other at all.
'I have a boat,' John said abruptly, ruining everything.
Grace chased a piece of carrot around her plate, letting the statement hang there. Damnit. And it had all been going so well. She should have known he'd turn out to be just like everyone else. It was one of the reasons she avoided people. 'Hello' always turned into some inane conversation that would interest her not at all. What did she care if he had a boat? Now he'd tell her how long the boat was, what he'd named it, where he parked it, or docked it, or whatever it was you did with boats, as if all this information would be important for her to know.
'This is important,' he said, which was almost as weird as saying 'I have a boat.'
She looked up from her plate, annoyed with herself for being a little curious. 'I have no interest in boats,' she told him. Best to nip conversations like this in the bud.
'Neither do I. But I like where they take me.'
'Right. On the water.'
He almost smiled, but he didn't look at her. 'Not where they take me physically, where they take me in my head. I called my boss tonight and resigned. When I get back to D.C., I'm going to get on the boat and just sail away.'
Grace couldn't help herself. She actually turned her head and looked at him, because, damnit, that was interesting. And stupid. 'That wasn't very smart, John.
You're going to lose part of your pension. Why would you do that?'
'Because you looked at me the other day, saw your future, and didn't like it. I don't like it much, either. So I'm going to change it. You want to come along?'
She snatched up the plates and walked to the sink. 'Don't be ridiculous.'
'Okay. Do you want me to cover the leftovers with plastic or tinfoil?'
'Tinfoil.'
He went right to the correct drawer and pulled out the tinfoil. Grace watched from the corner of her eye. Harley had about fifty drawers in his kitchen. How the hell did he know where it was? Did he sneak down here when they were working and inventory everything? She spun away from the sink and folded her arms over her chest. 'Why did you ask me that?'
John shrugged. 'Because I didn't know how much butter you put in the crust. A lot, and plastic wrap would make it soggy-'
'Not that, the boat thing'
'Oh. Because you're a great cook and you don't talk much.'
Upstairs in the office, Harley, Roadrunner, and Annie were deep into Huttinger's hard drives, and were about to break when Harley roared from his station,
'Christ, Harley, give us a warning when you're going to go ballistic in a quiet room,' Roadrunner complained. 'What's up?'
Harley spun his monitor around for his gathering audience. 'I just found a hit list.'
'What?'
