“I’m sure she does not know the law. Or maybe she was too scared.” His pager buzzed. He looked down at the number, then back up at my face. “I must go back to work. I would like to see you again, Cindy. Would that be possible?”

I looked at him, making the quick mental calculations about his age based on what he had just told me. He looked younger than thirty-two, but then again, people say I look younger than twenty-eight. “What did you have in mind?”

“Dinner is always nice.”

“When?”

“You tell me.”

I flipped through my mental calendar. “Friday night?”

He winced. “I am not shomer Shabbat. I do drive much to my father’s disapproval, but I don’t usually go out Friday, except maybe a Shabbat dinner.”

“I understand. Look, I work evening watch. Nights are hard. How about lunch?”

“Lunch would be fine. How about Wednesday? I don’t start here until six in the evening.”

I didn’t start work until three. I told him that Wednesday would be fine. “Let’s meet at the restaurant. That way I can go straight to work afterward.”

And it avoided giving him my phone number or e-mail address.

He seemed tickled. “Perfect! Have you ever had Ethiopian food?”

“Never had the pleasure, but I’m adventurous.”

“Meet me on the corner of Fairfax and Olympic—southeast corner—at twelve, maybe?”

Little Addis Ababa. It was only a block or two in length, but it was in striking contrast to the Jewish area around it. “Twelve it is. Any vegetarian dishes in your cuisine?”

“Many. You are vegetarian?”

“Not strictly, but most of the time.”

“I am kosher and the restaurants are not. So I will eat vegetarian, too.”

His pager went off again. I stood and so did he. “It was really nice meeting you, Koby.”

He laughed. “You sound shocked.”

“Not shocked.” I shrugged. “It was just … unexpected.”

“That’s when it is the nicest,” he said, beaming. “It was lovely meeting you, Cindy. I look forward to Wednesday.”

He turned and walked hurriedly out of the cafeteria. He moved with grace and confidence, a man clearly comfortable in his own skin.

The streets held scant traffic and I made good time, catching all green lights down Sunset Boulevard. This was my district, and out of habit, I slowed at the hot spots—the pay phones used by the hookers at the pimp motels. Still some foot soldiers out at two in the morning, but nothing too heavy. Poor girls were shivering, wearing microminiskirts and tank tops with only thin shawls to warm their bare shoulders. They teetered as if drunk, but it could have been the ultrahigh platform shoes.

I thought about my upcoming date. There were three immediate things in Koby’s favor: He didn’t appear to be a psycho, he was employed, and he seemed genuinely nice—more interested in me than in my profession.

Civilian guys usually split into two camps—those intimidated by female cops, and those obsessed with the fact that I carried a gun. The only men who truly didn’t care were those involved with the Job—other cops, DAs, PDs, probation officers, private detectives, and bail bondsmen. Those dates usually dulled very quickly because after we talked shop, there was nothing else. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. The Job was consuming, and those of us immersed in it often forgot that there was a whole other world out there.