“I gave you some. You don’t even have to wait for DNA to start lookin’ for another guy as the kid’s father. Man, nuns weren’t this hot when I was growin’ up. I had to get off on the girls in their uniforms—y’know, with the knee socks and pleated skirts—”

“Oh, God, please, stop now,” one of the female officers said. She cast Brinkman a pained look as she placed a sack lunch in the refrigerator. “Let’s be grown-ups.”

Montoya agreed. He didn’t have time for Brinkman’s sexual fantasies. He had his own to deal with. Last night, he’d been able to patch things up with Abby, which had included the kind of lovemaking session they’d shared before the baby had been born. If he let himself, he could get a hard-on just thinking about it, so he didn’t. At least he’d woken up in a decent mood, one Brinkman seemed intent on ruining.

“Back to O’Toole,” he said, interrupting Brinkman’s sleazy train of thought.

“I’m just sayin’, we have to get his attorney involved.” Edging over to the near-empty box of cupcakes, Brinkman added, “Pain in the ass,” before snagging one of the treats. He crossed to the coffeepot, picked it up, and scowled. To the few cops still hanging out in the lunchroom, he said, “If anyone else wants a cup of Joe, they’re SOL.” Even though he obviously hoped someone would take the bull by the horns and brew another pot, no one jumped up to take over.

Lynn Zaroster, one of the youngest female detectives, walked into the kitchen at that moment and saw Brinkman holding up the empty pot. He offered her a wink and smile.

Charming.

She wasn’t buying it. “Oh, yeah, zero in on the woman because all this kitchen stuff is women’s work, right? Give me a break, Brinkman!”

“Hey, I’m just talking about making a fuckin’ pot of coffee.”

“Got it.” Lynn did a quick one-eighty out of the lunchroom, her short, black curls swirling indignantly behind her.

“It’s not about being a woman. It’s because you’re better at it than I am,” Brinkman called after her.

“Yeah, right.”

The female cop who had taken on Brinkman earlier sent him a look guaranteed to send his soul straight to hell and then walked out of the lunchroom.

Louis Brounier, who had observed the whole exchange, shook his head as he stood and gathered his paper. A big, burly African American with a fleshy face and silver hair, Brounier couldn’t move as fast as he once had, but his dark eyes caught everything, including Brinkman’s ridiculous self-imposed predicament. “Ya know, Brinkman, you might have to break down and make your own coffee.”

“Bite me, Brounier.”

“You wish.”

“Look, I got a case to solve,” Brinkman complained.

“Just one? Lucky you.”