"Sara."
"Jeffrey," she countered. "If you don't want to see me, just say it. Don't use a case as an excuse. We've both been buried deeper than this before and still managed to spend time with each other. As I recall, it's what makes this crap" – she indicated the mounds of paperwork – "bearable."
He dropped his chair with a thud. "I don't see the point."
She gave humor another stab. "Well, the sex, for one."
"I can get that anywhere."
Sara raised an eyebrow, but suppressed the obvious comment. The fact that Jeffrey could and sometimes did get sex anywhere was the reason she had divorced him in the first place.
He picked up his pen to resume writing, but Sara snatched it from his hand. She tried to keep the desperation out of her voice as she asked, "Why do we have to get married again for this to work?"
He looked off to the side, clearly annoyed.
She reminded him, "We were married before and it practically ruined us."
"Yeah," he said. "I remember."
She played her trump card. "You could rent out your house to someone from the college."
He paused a second before asking, "Why would I do that?"
"So you could move in with me."
"And live in sin?"
She laughed. "Since when did you become religious?"
"Since your father put the fear of God into me," he shot back, his tone completely devoid of humor. "I want a wife, Sara, not a fuck-buddy."
She felt the cut of his words. "Is that what you think I am?"
"I don't know," he told her, his tone something of an apology. "I'm tired of being tied to that string you just yank when you feel lonely."
She opened her mouth but could not speak.
He shook his head, apologizing. "I didn't mean that."
"You think I'm here making a fool of myself because I'm lonely?"
"I don't know anything right now, except that I've got a lot of work to do." He held out his hand. "Can I have my pen back?"
She gripped it tightly. "I want to be with you."
"You're with me now," he said, reaching over to retrieve his pen.
She put her other hand around his, holding him there. "I miss you," she said. "I miss being with you."
He gave a halfhearted shrug, but did not pull away.
She pressed her lips to his fingers, smelling ink and the oatmeal lotion he used when he thought no one was looking. "I miss your hands."
He kept staring.
She brushed his thumb with her lips. "Don't you miss me?"
He tilted his head to the side, giving another indefinite shrug.
"I want to be with you. I want to…" She looked over her shoulder again, making certain no one was there. She lowered her voice to barely more than a whisper and offered to do something with him that any self-respecting prostitute would charge double for.
Jeffrey's lips parted, shock registering in his eyes. His hand tightened around hers. "You stopped doing that when we got married."
"Well…" She smiled. "We're not married anymore, are we?"
He seemed to be thinking it over when a loud knock came at the open door. It might as well have been a gunshot from Jeffrey's reaction. He jerked his hand back and stood up.
Frank Wallace, Jeffrey's second in command, said, "Sorry."
Jeffrey let his irritation show, though Sara could not guess if it was for her or Frank's benefit. "What is it?"
Frank glanced at the phone on the wall and stated the obvious. "Your extension's off the hook."
Jeffrey waited.
"Marla told me to tell you there's some kid in the lobby asking for you." He took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. "Hey, Sara."
She started to return the greeting but stopped at the sight of him. He looked dead on his feet. "Are you all right?"
Frank put his hand to his stomach, a sour look on his face. "Bad Chinese."
She stood, putting her hand to his cheek. His skin was clammy. "You're probably dehydrated," she told him, putting her fingers to his wrist to check his pulse. "Are you getting enough fluids?"
He shrugged.
She stared at the second hand on her watch. "Throwing up? Diarrhea?"
He shifted uncomfortably over her last question. "I'm okay," he said, but he obviously wasn't. "You look real nice today."
"I'm glad somebody noticed," Sara said, giving Jeffrey a sideways glance.
Jeffrey tapped his fingers on the table, still annoyed. "Go on home, Frank. You look like shit."
Frank's relief was obvious.
Sara added, "If this isn't better tomorrow, call me."
He nodded again, telling Jeffrey, "Don't forget about the kid in the lobby."
"Who is it?"
"Something Smith. I didn't catch…" He put a hand to his stomach and made a sick sound. He turned to leave, managing a garbled "Sorry."
Jeffrey waited until Frank was out of earshot to say, "I have to do everything around here."
"He's obviously not well."
"It's Lena's first day back," Jeffrey said, referring to Frank's ex-partner. "She's supposed to be in at ten."
"And?"
"You run into Matt yet? He tried to call in sick, too, but I told him to get his sorry ass in here."
"You think two senior detectives gave themselves food poisoning so they wouldn't have to see Lena?"
Jeffrey walked over to the phone and put the receiver back in the cradle. "I've been here over fifteen years and never seen Matt Hogan eat Chinese."
He had a point, but Sara wanted to give both men the benefit of the doubt. No matter what he said about her, Frank obviously cared for Lena. They had worked together for nearly a decade. Sara knew from personal experience that you could not spend that kind of time with someone and just walk away.
Jeffrey pressed the speaker button, then dialed in an extension. "Marla?"
There was a series of clicking noises as she picked up the receiver. "Yessir?"
"Has Matt shown up yet?"
"Not yet. I'm a little worried what with him being sick and all."
"Tell him I'm looking for him as soon as he walks in the door," Jeffrey ordered. "Is there someone waiting for me?"
She lowered her voice. "Yes. He's kind of impatient."
"I'll be there in a second." He turned the speaker off, mumbling, "I don't have time for this."
"Jeff -"
"I need to see who this is," he said, walking out of the room.
Sara followed him down the hallway, practically running to keep up. "If I break my ankle in these heels…"
He glanced down at her shoes. "Did you think you could just waltz in here whoring yourself out and I'd beg you to come back?"
Embarrassment ignited her temper. "Why is it you call it whoring myself out when I want to do it, but when I don't want to and I do anyway, all of a sudden it's sexy?"
He stopped at the fire door, resting his hand on the long handle. "That's not fair."
"You think so, too, Dr. Freud?"
"I'm not playing around here, Sara."
"Do you think I am?"
"I don't know what you're doing," he said, and there was a hardness around his eyes that sent a cold chill through her. "I can't keep living like this."
She put her hand on his arm, saying, "Wait." When he stopped, she forced herself to say, "I love you."
He gave her a flippant "Thanks."
"Please," she whispered. "We don't need a piece of paper to tell us how we feel."
"The thing you keep missing," he told her, yanking open the door, "is that I do."
She started to follow him into the squad room, but pride kept her feet rooted to the floor. A handful of patrolmen and detectives were starting their shifts, sitting at their desks as they wrote up reports or made calls. She could see Brad and his group of kids congregating around the coffeemaker, where he was probably regaling them with the brand of filter they used or the number of scoops it took to make a pot.