I tossed off the smelly blanket, held it out for him to take. “I don’t need to go for myself. And I guess you’re right about the car.” I slid into the backseat of Ben’s unmarked vehicle. “It’s gone. Maybe I should trade up next time. Get something flashy, like a Benz or a Bimmer. Give my pipe something real dope to ride around in.”

Ben and Weber slid into the front, Ben behind the wheel. He started up, pulled away slowly. I stretched out on the backseat, halfway toward a complete crash; for the first time, I got a good look at the shoes Ben had given me to wear.

“What the hell’s on my feet?”

Ben flicked a look back at me. “Golf shoes. They were all I had in the trunk.”

“Why do you keep golf shoes in the trunk of a department vehicle?”

He flicked a look at me through the rearview. “Drop it.”

I made a face. The shoes were tan and blue and clunky . . . with weird tassels. Ick. They were too small to be his and at least a half size too big for me. “Whose?”

“Geena’s. Three girlfriends back. We played a few rounds. What’s the problem?”

I remembered Geena. Big boobs, not too bright. “They’re butt ugly’s the problem. And what was she, part Sasquatch?”

“Well, pardon me if I didn’t have designer pumps in your size, Princess Grace. Watch yourself, Weber. This is your last chance to look before you leap.”

“Don’t need it,” Weber offered simply.

There was a moment’s silence.

“In case you were wondering,” I said, “this is also not a date. A date is me in a little black dress, not on pain meds, and you in a nice suit jacket, maybe even a tie. A date’s dinner reservations at a nice place, a quiet spot after, then we see how things go.”

Weber turned in the front seat to face me, smiled. “Oh, I know what a date is.”

I smiled. “We’ll see.”

“Seriously, I’ll stop this car and put you both out. Shut up!” I slid Weber a sly look, smiled, and then closed my eyes to sleep until we got to the hospital.