“We’ll be taking his statement as soon as the doctor clears it. Unless he fingers you, you’ll be off the hook.”

“That’s comforting,” I said, “since I didn’t do it.”

“Remains to be seen,” Crowley answered. “Sit tight. We’ll be there in an hour or two.”

“Guess it’s a good thing nobody has a knife to my throat,” I told him.

He chuckled. “Touché, Ms. Sheepshanks,” he said, and hung up in my ear.

“Why did you toss the doughnuts?” I asked, when I’d replaced the receiver on the wall hook. By then, Tucker was sniffing the coffee canister. Maybe he expected to get a whiff of cyanide or something.

“I’m paranoid,” he said. “We didn’t lock the door when we left, and whoever tried to nail you with the chow mein could have gotten in and done more damage.”

We weren’t through hashing out what Tucker meant to do about the job-custody situation, and I wasn’t ready to let it go.

“What would you do if you couldn’t be a cop anymore?”

Tucker decided to risk agonizing death and started a pot of coffee. I decided I wouldn’t have any until he’d downed a cup without foaming at the mouth.

“I’ve been thinking about starting an agency,” he said. “Private investigation.”

I brightened. While I didn’t go so far as to take it as a sign from the universe that I was finally on the right career track, it did seem like synchronicity. “I’m in the same business myself,” I said, somewhat proudly. “My sister, Greer, gave me five grand as a retainer. I get another five if I can either prove or disprove that her husband is a sneaking, skinny-dicked son of a bitch.”

Tucker stopped, stared at me.

“You’re hanging out a P.I. shingle?”

“I guess it depends on how successful I am with this first job.”

“Do you have any training?” The set of Tucker’s face said the question was rhetorical, since he already knew the answer.

“I’ve read The Damn Fool’s Guide to Private Investigation,” I said. “A little review, and I’m golden.”

Tucker looked as if he might either yell or laugh. He sort of hovered in the middle while the coffeemaker did its groan-and-steam routine.

“Do you have a Damn Fool’s Guide to everything?” he finally asked.

I grinned. “I wish they’d publish one on how to pick emotionally available men,” I said.

Tucker made a face. Poured himself a cup of coffee before the machine was done, so the drippings sizzled on the little hot plate at the bottom. A strong java scent filled the air.

He sipped.

I waited.

He didn’t keel over, so I had a cup, too.