“I-don’t know what’s happening,” I said, breathing deeply. “I slept okay in the hospital.”

“They were giving you drugs. Librium. It’s a benzodiazepine. Eases the withdrawal symptoms. This is your first morning off.”

“God.” My lips were dry and cracked. “Lisa, I think I’m going to need a little something, just so I can function. It’ll be the last-”

“No, Susan. No booze.”

“I don’t want the alcohol. I just need to kill this pain-”

“No booze.”

“It’s not like I want to get drunk. Once I get this anxiety under control, I won’t touch another-”

“That’s exactly what they told me you’d say, Susan. The answer is no. You’ve got to ride this out.”

“Fine.” I knew she was right, but at the same time I was cursing her under my breath, thinking what a stupid woman she was, how she didn’t understand at all. I began plotting how I could get rid of her so I could live my own life. It wasn’t as if one stupid drink was going to put me back on the skids and start me hallucinating. I could control it, and this time I would.

Took almost an hour to get to the point where I could walk. Showering made me feel a lot better. I cleaned up, put on some jeans and a clean shirt. Used some damn bubble-gum-flavored toothpaste I found in Lisa’s medicine cabinet. Considered myself lucky I didn’t have to use a Barbie toothbrush.

She’d already found me an apartment, not far from hers, and had my stuff moved into it. At the same time, she made it clear that I was welcome to stay with her as long as I wanted or needed. She hadn’t lived with anyone for over a year, so she had a second bedroom that did nothing but collect dust. It was a generous offer. But I couldn’t help noticing that she didn’t suggest that I move into the spare bedroom on a permanent basis. We’d tried being roommates once, when we were both in college. It was a disaster. The fact that we are still friends is a testament to the healing power of forgiveness, or perhaps the evanescence of human memory.

“I want to see Rachel,” I told Lisa as I finished dressing.

“I knew you would,” she replied. “You’ve got an appointment at noon.”

“So now I need an appointment to see my own niece?”

She didn’t say anything.

I peered into Lisa’s big lighted makeup mirror. At thirty-four years of age, I was still subject to pimples, and sure enough, there was a big one right at the top of the bridge of my nose. Makeup or straight pin? “Well, that’ll be okay. We can get some lunch.”

“You… aren’t permitted to take her away from her foster home.”

“What?”

“I’m sure they’ll change that in time, but for now, your visit will be restricted to the Shepherds’ home.”

“Who the hell are they to tell me when and how I can see Rachel?”

“They’re just trying-”

“I’m her only living relative.”

“They know that, and-”

“They’ve got no business giving me orders.”

I could sense that Lisa was getting irritated. “As far as NDHS is concerned, you’re the sozzled psycho who attacked a kid in a bar and then-” She paused. “They’re not going to let you take Rachel anywhere.”

“Have they been spreading these slanderous remarks all over town? I will fight this-”

“Susan.” I could tell she was checking herself, biting back words. “Give yourself a little time. You’re not going to put everything back together in a day. Your main focus should be on getting healthy. And staying healthy.”

“You’re right, of course,” I said, not meaning it at all. I finished brushing my hair and adjusted the lay of my bra. Nothing worse than poorly aligned mammaries. “So what have you planned to kill time till noon?”

“I thought we might go to the mall at the Venetian. Do a little window-shopping for purposeless trinkets we can never afford. Maybe bump into Michael Jackson. Get a coffee. Ride a gondola.”

I shook my head. “Thanks, Lisa, but I’d go nuts. Will you take me downtown?”

“You mean downtown as in police headquarters?”

I touched my nose. “Got it in one.”

“I told you already. You’re no longer employed there.”

“Then I need to clean out my office, don’t I?”

Lisa looked very dubious. “I suppose.”

“So let’s roll.”

“And you won’t cause any trouble?”

“Moi? Wouldn’t dream of it.” I tucked in my shirt, wishing I still had a holster to strap on. “I’m finished with that sort of thing. From now on, I’m going to be amiable and even-tempered at all times. Positively serene.”

“W hat the hell did you think you were doing?”

Lieutenant Barry Granger stared at me with a placid expression that in no way disguised the contempt I knew he felt for me. It was quite a change. I still remembered a time when his stares signaled thinly disguised lust, or later, stares of envy, and, more recently, pity. I probably liked this one best.

“Clearing out the trash,” he explained, his feet propped up on my desk. “Making myself at home.”

“In my office?”

“Not anymore.”

Incredible. In the space of one week O’Bannon had reassigned my office space. Actually, I could live with that, even understand it. But what I couldn’t understand was giving it to this pig Granger.

“This is unacceptable,” I said. My emotions were also pretty undisguised.

“O’Bannon needed a new detective.”

“I was only gone a week. I’ve taken longer vacations.”

“Not in the drunk tank.”

I could feel my rage rising, and I really wanted to ream him in the worst way. But that would be playing into his hands. “Why would he promote you?”

“I was next in line.”

“I was still around.”

“You were drunk on your ass.”

“And even drunk on my ass I would be a better detective than you.”

To his credit, Granger remained calm. “I don’t think Internal Affairs would agree.”

“O’Bannon can’t afford to replace a seasoned-”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Granger was a handsome man, which made him all the more difficult to bear. He had sandy hair and a sun-baked complexion. He wore a light stubble, which even I had to admit made him look damn sexy. How did men maintain a light stubble, anyway? At some point, don’t you have to shave or it turns into a beard? Do they make special razors with dullish blades for guys who look good with a little growth? “You’re a behaviorist. I’m a homicide specialist. It’s not that I’m replacing you. O’Bannon just needed someone he could depend on.”

“Go to hell.”

“And he can’t count on you any more than-” He stopped himself, the bastard. Apparently this line was too low even for him. “Than anyone could.”

“How the hell would you know?”

“I’ve seen what you’ve done to yourself. I’ve seen what you’ve turned into.”

“There have been some extenuating circumstances, you son of a bitch. I lost my husband!”

“And I lost my partner!” He lashed out, letting loose something I knew he’d been holding back a long time. “Did you forget that?”

Granger had been David’s last partner. Granger wasn’t around when he died, but in a way, I think that made it worse. Sometimes cops carry this “my partner-my life” routine too far-the influence of excessive episodes of T. J. Hooker. But David and Granger had been close. Granger had genuinely loved David. And admired him. I knew that. But it didn’t make me like him. How dare he fling the loss of my own husband in my face to score points, as if somehow he had more right to grieve than I did?

“I didn’t forget,” I said, pushing past him. “Where are my files?”

“You don’t have any. They’ve all been reassigned.”

I was reaching my limit. One more remark like that, and I knew I’d hit him. So much for my attempt to prove that I don’t have any more violent tendencies. “I’m talking to O’Bannon.”

“He’s at the crime scene. Likely to be there all morning.”

“What crime scene?”

Granger squinted slightly. “You have been out of touch, haven’t you?”