It was the paramedic's professional judgment that while he had really done a job on his cheek, there wasn't much that could be done for it except clean it up and get some antiseptic on it.
"I live right around the corner," Detective Lassiter said. "And I've got alcohol and hydrogen peroxide."
"That'll do it," the paramedic said.
Matt met Olivia's eyes for a long moment.
"Thank you," he said.
"You're welcome."
"Can we find out if the Grand Am is hot?" Matt asked.
"He's running it now," the Eighth District sergeant said, nodding toward a uniform in a patrol car.
Less than a minute later, the uniform got out of the car and announced that the Grand Am had been reported stolen.
"Can you take him and hold him on that?" Matt asked. "I'll come by later and do the paper."
The District sergeant shook his head, "no."
"You know better than that, Sergeant. You're the arresting officer and you need to make the statement to the detective at Northeast."
The Highway sergeant stepped between them. "I'll get all of Sergeant Payne's necessary information and make sure the detective has it, Sergeant. Besides, we helped him to make the pinch back there, and I want to make sure Highway gets in on the paperwork. You know how it is."
The Eighth District sergeant looked at him for a moment, then walked away.
The Highway sergeant turned to Matt.
"Let me have your badge and payroll numbers. And I better have hers, too. Tell me what happened and how you hurt yourself so the Northeast Detective can document it if you need to go out IOD,2and make sure you touch base with the assigned detective so you agree with the statement before he puts it on the '49."
"Thanks a lot," Matt said. "I owe you two now."
"You better let me drive," Olivia said.
"Why?"
"It looks like you scratched your hand, too. You'll get blood all over your pretty leather gear shifter."
He walked around the rear and got in the passenger seat of the Porsche.
Detective Lassiter opened the door of her second-floor apartment, reached inside, flicked on the lights, and then motioned Sergeant Payne inside ahead of her.
"The first aid stuff's in the bathroom," she said. "The bedroom's just the other side of the living room."
He walked across the living room to the bedroom, noticing as he passed through it to the bathroom that it was not messy, and that a white comforter covered her bed.
Intimate feminine apparel was hanging from the shower curtain rod. When she came into the bathroom, she snatched it off and threw it behind the shower curtain.
She took bandages, swabs, Mercurochrome, and bottles of hydrogen peroxide and alcohol from a cabinet and then turned to him and started cleaning his face.
"That's pretty nasty," she said. "You sure you don't want to go to the emergency room?"
"I'm sure," he said.
Three minutes later, his scraped face had been cleaned with both hydrogen peroxide and alcohol. He had manfully tried, and failed, not to wince when the alcohol stung painfully.
"Let's look at the leg," she said.
"What's wrong with the leg?"
"The fence got that, too, I guess. In the car, I saw it. It's all bloody."
Three minutes after that, his leg had been treated with alcohol and hydrogen peroxide and painted with Mercurochrome, but not bandaged.
"Your trousers are ruined," Olivia said.
"I noticed."
"And let me see what you did to your hand."
"I guess I scratched it the same place I tore my pants, going over the fence."
She took his left hand in both of hers.
"That's a puncture wound," she said.
He didn't reply.
"You just can't leave it like that," she said.
He didn't reply.
She looked up at him. Their eyes met.
"What?" she asked.
"You know goddamn well what, Mother."
"I'm not your goddamn Mother."
"I know," he said, softly. "Your move."
She had not taken her eyes from his. She took her left hand from his and raised it to his unmarked cheek.
"Oh, God!" she said.
Ninety seconds later, atop the white comforter on her bed, while still partially clothed, Detective Lassiter and Sergeant Payne came to know each other, in the biblical sense of the term.
And in the next half hour, now completely devoid of clothing, and between the sheets, Detective Lassiter and Sergeant Payne twice came to know each other even better.
TWELVE
[ONE] Matt Payne awoke at five minutes to six. For a moment, he wondered why so damned early-he had two alarm clocks to make sure he was awakened at seven-and then he remembered some of what had happened the night before, and thought that might have something to do with it.
"Jesus Christ!" he said in wonderment, then went to his bathroom, which his father had described as being somewhat smaller than those found on old Pullman railroad cars.
He examined himself in the mirror over the toilet.
What the hell happened to my face?
He remembered.
Sliding along the concrete driveway in hot pursuit of the critter in the hot car who'd run the red light and slammed into the Caravan.
"Nevertheless, sir, minor facial blemishes aside, you look like the well-laid man of fame and legend!" he said aloud.
He smiled at the memories of other of the previous evening's activities.
However, a moment later, when in an habitual act he reached inside the shower stall to open the faucet that would long moments later bring hot water all the way from the basement to the garret apartment, his hand really hurt him.
Shit! The goddamn- what did she say?- "puncture wound."
When he came out of the shower, the damned thing still hurt, and it looked angry.
"Shit!"
He had two thoughts, one after the other.
Maybe Olivia would know what to do with it. Do I put a bandage on it? Soak it in hot water? What?
Maybe, if I called, she might say, "I'll come by on my way to work and have a look at it."
That's a very interesting prospect.
He went naked and dripping into his bedroom-which his father also compared unfavorably to a sleeping compartment on an old Pullman car-and picked up his cellular from the bedside table, where it lay beside his Colt Officer's Model.45.
Twenty seconds later, a sleepy female voice said, "Lassiter."
"Good morning."
"Oh, God!"
"I was calling to inquire whether your schedule is free for breakfast."
"Oh, God! What time is it?"
"A little after six."
There was no immediate response.
"For reasons I can't imagine, I'm ravenous," Matt said.
"I don't even want to think about breakfast," Olivia said. "My God, Matt!"
"My God, what, Olivia?"
"I haven't even had time to think, and you want breakfast?"
"Think about what?"
"Oh, for God's sake! Everything!"
"What is there to think about?"
"You know I didn't want that to happen."
Oh, shit!
"Do I detect a slight tone of regret?"
"I didn't say that, Matt," Olivia said. "Oh, God!"
"May I infer, then, that it was not an entirely disappointing experience for you?"
Olivia giggled.
"Not entirely," she said. "My God!"
"You keep saying 'My God.' "
"I keep remembering what happened," she said. "My God, I can't believe I behaved like that!"
"For my part, it was an entirely delightful experience."
"Was it?"
"Couldn't you tell?"
"Oh, Matt! What are we going to do?"
"That brings us back to breakfast."
"No. For one thing, I'm not hungry, and for another, I don't want anyone to see us together."
"Why not?"
"You know why not."