“That’s the kind of stuff you want?”

“For a start.”

“Okay.” He propped his feet beside hers. “First, you don’t separate, not like you mean. The minute you have to think like a cop, that’s what you are, that’s how you think, and you’ve got no personal life until you can stop thinking like a cop again.”

“Wait.” Bess shoved the plate into his lap, then bounded up and hunted through a drawer until she came up with a notebook. She dropped onto the sofa again, curling up her legs this time, so that her knee lay against the side of his thigh. “Okay,” she said, scribbling. “You’re telling me that when you start on a case, or get a call or whatever, everything else just clicks off.”

Since she seemed to be through eating, he set the plate on the coffee table. “It better click off.”

“How?”

He shook his head. “There is no how. It just is. Look, cop work is mostly monotonous. It’s routine, but it’s the kind of routine you have to keep focused on. Make a mistake in the paperwork, and some slime gets bounced on a technicality.”

“What about when you’re on the street?”

“That’s a routine, too, and you’d better keep your head on that routine, if you want to go home in one piece. You can’t start thinking about the fight you had with your woman, or the bills you can’t pay, or the fact that your mother’s sick. You think about now, right now, or you won’t be able to fix any of those things later. You’ll just be dead.”

Her eyes flashed up to his. He said it so matter-of-factly. When she studied him, she saw that he thought of it that way. “What about fear?”

“You usually have about ten seconds to be afraid. So you take them.”

“But what if the fear’s for someone else? Someone you love?”

“Then you’d better put it aside and do what you’ve been trained to do. If you don’t, you’re no good to yourself or your partner, and you’re a liability.”

“So, it’s cut-and-dried?”

He smiled a little. “Except on TV. You’re asking me for feelings, McNee, intangibles.”

“A cop’s feelings,” she told him. “I’d think they would be very tangible. Maybe a cop wouldn’t be allowed to show his emotions on the job. An occasional flare-up, maybe, but then you’d have to suck it in and follow routine. And no matter how good you are, an arrest isn’t always going to stick. The bad guy isn’t always going to pay. That has to cause immeasurable frustration. And repressing that frustration…” Considering, she tapped her pencil against the pad. “See, I think of people as pressure cookers.”

“Sure you do.”

“No, really.” That quick smile, the flash of the single dimple. “Whatever’s inside, good or bad, has to have some means of release, or the lids blows.” She shifted again, and her fingers nearly brushed his neck. She talked with them, he’d noted. With her hands, her eyes, her whole body. The woman simply didn’t know how to be still. “What do you use to keep the lid on, Alexi?”