Guilt By Degrees - страница 31

I shook my head and pressed my lips together in an effort to keep myself from saying what I thought. This wasn’t the place to get loud and profane.

“Yeah,” Graden said. “And some managerial type named Phil Hemet jumped into the mix too.”

Hemet too? That was more than I could stand.

“Hemet is a talent-free jerkoff who brownnosed his way to the top, and Averill is a sniveling puke who thinks he craps flowers-,” I snapped, unable to help myself.

“So what do you really think?” Graden said, laughing.

I gave him a little smile, though I really was angry. The waitress brought our salads, and I let mine sit for a moment, my appetite gone. But even in the throes of pissitivity, I was able to appreciate the fact that Graden not only understood my upset but felt the same way. It was one of the great things about being on the same side.

“What’s going to happen to Stoner?” I asked.

“You can’t talk about this,” Graden said sternly. “Not even to Bailey.”

“I promise,” I replied. “Have I ever snitched?”

“No,” he admitted. “That’s why I’m going to tell you.”

He took a bite of his salad and another sip of his drink. “I’m pushing to just let him off with some administrative leave. But there’re some in the department who think Stoner’s a hothead who needs a bigger paddling than that.”

“Such as?” My stomach rumbled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since…when? I couldn’t remember. I dug into my salad.

“Maybe a transfer out of Homicide Special,” Graden said, his voice stern.

“Seriously? Just for decking that asswipe?”

But I might be facing the same fate if Hemet decided to go after me. I filled Graden in on what Toni had told me about Hemet.

The waitress arrived and gave us steak knives and set the salt plate between us.

Graden started to say something, then stopped himself.

“What?” I asked.

A smile played on his lips. “I was going to say that it’s not the same, and that you have nothing to worry about because Stoner has a way of speaking his mind that ticks off the brass an awful lot,” he said wryly. “But it really is the same, isn’t it? I mean, short of the fistfight.”

I had to smile. “I guess it kind of is.” I’d had more than my share of run-ins with both the office management and the judges. I called it “being direct.” They called it “confrontational and insubordinate.” Tomato, tomahto.

“One of the many things I love about you, baby,” Graden said. He lifted his drink. “Here’s to mouthy women.”

“And hotheaded men,” I said.

We drank, then tucked into our steak. Graden told me about a trainee who’d been caught smoking dope in his squad car after his shift ended. I topped him with a story about a DA who’d been caught shooting heroin in his car. On a lunch break. During trial.

After we finished, we turned to look at the view some more and sank back in our chairs, pleasantly relaxed. We rode to the Biltmore in a comfortable silence. Graden left the car with Angel and walked me to the elevator. I’d joked with Bailey about having sex with Graden, but the truth was, we hadn’t yet slept together. Though we’d kissed enough to know it would be something great when we did take the plunge. We reached my door, and he pulled me in for a long, slow, romantic kiss. If I’d had one more martini, I would’ve opened the door and tackled him. But I managed to restrain myself. Just.

Graden stepped back and touched my cheek. “Call you in the morning?”

“Sounds good.”

I opened the door and paused to watch him move down the hallway. He had a smooth, long stride and a strong, athletic build. I caught myself mentally undressing him and quickly stepped inside before he could turn the corner and catch me staring. I decided a cold shower would slow my revved-up jets, but it took only a few seconds before I was shivering and dreaming of nothing more X-rated than hot water. By the time I got into bed, I’d calmed down enough to feel how tired I was. I stacked the pillows to prop up my aching neck and opened the murder mystery I was forcing myself to wade through. The only thing I could say for it was that it never failed to put me to sleep. For some reason, no matter how much I hate a book, I can never manage to just stop reading-I have to see it through to the bitter end. And the end is inevitably bitter, because I’m always paradoxically irritated at having wasted the time to finish it.