Bring me some clothes, she said at last.

He’s feeling very uncertain, Debs. I don’t think he wants—

Clothes, Dexter. Now, she said, and she hung up.

As I said, no rest for the wicked. I sighed heavily at the injustice of it all, but I obeyed. I was almost back to my apartment, and Deborah had left some things there. So I ran in and, although I paused to look longingly at my bed, I gathered a change of clothing for her and headed for the hospital.

Deborah was sitting on the edge of her bed tapping her feet impatiently when I came in. She held her hospital gown closed with the hand that protruded from her cast, and clutched her gun and badge with the other. She looked like Avenging Fury after an accident.

Jesus Christ, she said, where the hell have you been? Help me get dressed. She dropped her gown and stood up.

I pulled a polo shirt over her head, working it awkwardly around the cast. We just barely had the shirt in place when a stout woman in a nurse’s uniform hurried into the room. What you think you’re doing? she said in a thick Bahamian accent.

Leaving, Deborah said.

Get back in that bed or I will call doctor, the nurse said.

Call him, Deborah said, now hopping on one foot as she struggled into her pants.

No you don’t, the nurse said. You get back in the bed.

Deborah held up her shield. This is a police emergency, she said. If you impede me I am authorized to arrest you for obstruction of justice.

The nurse thought she was going to say something very severe, but she opened her mouth, looked at the shield, looked at Deborah, and changed her mind. I will have to tell doctor, she said.

Whatever, Deborah said. Dexter, help me close my pants. The nurse watched disapprovingly for another few seconds, then turned and whisked away down the hall.

Really, Debs, I said. Obstruction of justice?

Let’s go, she said, and marched out the door. I trailed dutifully behind.

Deborah was alternately tense and angry on the drive back over to the Mutiny. She would chew on her lower lip, and then snarl at me to hurry up, and then as we came close to the hotel, she got very quiet. She finally looked out her window and said, What’s he like, Dex? How bad is it?

It’s a very bad haircut, Debs. It makes him look pretty weird. But the other stuff . . . He seems to be adjusting. He just doesn’t want you to feel sorry for him. She looked at me, again chewing her lip. That’s what he said, I told her. He wanted to go back to Washington rather than put up with your pity.