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share my misgivings about releasing him.” He paused to let that soak in. “But I’m equally certain that, under the circumstances, you ruled according to the law and your own conscience.”
    Judge Laird gave a slight nod. “I’m glad you appreciate the complexities involved.”
    “Well, I had forty-eight hours to contemplate them.” He grinned, but if the judge had any perception at all, he would have realized that it wasn’t a friendly expression. “Please excuse me. My partner is signaling for me to rejoin her.”
    “Of course. Enjoy the evening.”
    The judge stepped aside and Duncan brushed past him.
    “What did he say?” DeeDee asked out the side of her mouth as Duncan took her arm and guided her toward the bar.
    “He told me to enjoy the evening. Which I think includes having a drink.”
    He elbowed them through the crowd to the bar, ordered a bourbon and water for himself and a Diet Coke for her. Another detective in their division sidled up to them, awkwardly holding a drink in one hand and balancing a plate piled with hors d’oeuvres in the other.
    “Hey, Dunk,” he said around a mouthful of crab dip, “introduce me to your new squeeze.”
    “Eat shit and die, Worley,” she said.
    “What do you know? She sounds just like Detective Bowen!”
    Worley was a good detective but one of the “yahoos” that DeeDee had referred to earlier. Never without a toothpick in his mouth, he held one there now, even as he ate from his plate of canapés. He and DeeDee had an ongoing contest to see who could better insult the other. The score was usually tied.
    “Lay off, Worley,” Duncan said. “DeeDee is an honoree tonight. Behave.”
    DeeDee was always in cop mode. Having worked with her for two years, Duncan thought that was possibly the only mode she operated in. Even tonight, despite the skirt and the lip gloss she’d smeared on for the occasion, she was thinking like a cop. “Tell Worley what we found in your house.”
    Duncan described the severed tongue. He indicated a chunk of meat on Worley’s plate. “Looked sorta like that.”
    “Jeez.” Worley shuddered. “How do you know Morris was the rightful owner?”
    “Just a guess, but a pretty good one, don’t you think? I’ll take it to the lab tomorrow.”
    “Savich is pricking with you.”
    “He’s a regular comedian, all right.”
    “But coming at you where you live…” Worley rearranged his toothpick and popped the questionable chunk of meat into his mouth. “That’s ballsy. So, Dunk, you spooked?”
    “He’d be stupid not to be a little spooked,” DeeDee said, answering for him. “Right, Duncan?”
    “I guess,” he replied absently. He was wondering if, when the final showdown came, he would be able to kill Savich without compunction. He supposed he could, because he knew with certainty that Savich wouldn’t hesitate to kill him.
    In an effort to lighten the mood, Worley said, “Honest, DeeDee, you look sorta hot tonight.”
    “Little good it’ll do you.”
    “If I get drunk enough, you might even start to look like a woman.”
    DeeDee didn’t miss a beat. “Sadly, I could never get drunk enough for you to start looking like a man.”
    This was familiar office banter. The men in the Violent Crimes Unit gave DeeDee hell, but they all respected her skill, dedication, and ambition, all of which she had in surplus. When the situation called for it, the teasing stopped, and her opinions were respected equally with those of her male counterparts, sometimes more. “Women’s intuition” was no longer just a catchphrase. Because of DeeDee’s perception, they’d come to believe in it.
    Knowing she could fend for herself without his help, Duncan turned away and let his gaze rove over the crowd.
    Later, he remembered it was her hair that had first called her to his attention.
    She was standing directly beneath one of the directional lights recessed into the ceiling thirty feet above her. It acted like a spotlight, making her