“Haven’t. Just got up here myself. Saw the dark windows, figured I was out of luck, when the elevator doors dinged, and here you are.”

I nodded again, inserted the key in my office door, worked the lock. After another moment’s consideration—resignation?—I said, “Please, come in.”

“Thank you.”

“Tea, coffee, water?”

“Coffee. If it’s not a bother.”

“You showed up at my office unannounced. Too late to worry about being a bother.”

D.D. finally smiled, then followed me into the double-room suite as I snapped on the lights, hung up my coat, tucked away my purse.

“Where’s your receptionist?”

“I gave her the day off.”

“Don’t you normally work Wednesdays?”

“Something came up.”

D.D. nodded, walked around the space, seemed to study the framed degrees hanging on the walls while I got coffee brewing. I opened up the inner door that led to my space. D.D. sat down in the hard-back chair, sighing softly before catching herself. Her left hand was trembling. Discomfort, fatigue, hard to be sure, but I doubted the detective was the kind of woman who caved easily. That she’d actually sought out my services had to say something about her current level of physical distress.

“For insurance purposes,” I informed her, “I’m going to have to count this as an official appointment.”

“Okay.” Then, “What does that mean?”

I smiled, took my usual seat behind my desk. “It means you get the full hour to tell me why you really showed up unannounced at the office of a pain specialist who just two days ago you accused of preaching bullshit.”

“I didn’t mean you personally,” D.D. protested faintly. “Just, um . . . you know, the approach. Naming Melvin. Come on, I’m in real discomfort. How does a name change that?”

“Let’s find out. Catch me up. On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your pain as of this moment?”

“Twelve!”

“I see. And for how long has it felt like that?”

“Since this morning. I got a little frustrated getting dressed. Wrenched hard when I probably should’ve tugged delicately. Melvin’s been pissed off ever since.”

“Okay.” I made a note. “What time this morning?”

“Ten A.M.”

I glanced at my watch. It was now two o’clock. “So you have been suffering for the past four hours. What interventions have you tried?”

D.D. stared at me blankly.

“How about pain meds? Over-the-counter ibuprofen, prescription narcotics? Have you taken anything?”

“No.”

I made another note, based on our last appointment, hardly surprised.

“Ice?” I asked next.

“Haven’t been home,” she mumbled.

“What about a topical pain-relieving ointment? Biofreeze, Icy Hot? I believe both products come in pads or gels for use on the go.”

She flushed, looked away again. “Hard to apply. And you know . . . smelly. Doesn’t go with the ensemble.”

“By all means,” I assured her, “let’s not sacrifice the outfit.”