Larkin ignored the look of disapproval as he climbed off the gurney and winced. “Where is she,” he asked, tucking his shirt into his trousers.

“Upstairs. She turned down a rape kit test. She’s only fourteen and they haven’t been able to contact a legal guardian yet, so the hospital counselor is sitting with her.”

“When can we speak with her.”

“I’m going to interview her,” Doyle corrected. “You’re going home to rest.”

“No.”

“This isn’t up for discussion.”

“The hospital gave me three packets of Tylenol, which they will surely charge to my insurance at fifteen dollars a pill, and sent me on my way. I do not need to be on medical leave.”

“I’m not suggesting you do,” Doyle countered. “But you got tased. Twice. Most people would opt for an afternoon nap.”

“I need to work,” Larkin said. “This is the first break in Marco’s case in twenty-three years. I can’t do it without you, but I also won’t let you do it alone.”

Doyle crossed his arms.

Larkin stared, unblinking.

And then Doyle sighed. “We’ll go out someday like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.”

“A murder-suicide pact in Bolivia?” Larkin asked with a curious inflection.

Doyle laughed, and the remaining tension in his body seemed to finally relax.

“It’s a rather poor comparison for our partners-in-crime relationship,” Larkin continued, grabbing his suit coat and throwing it on. “First and foremost being that they were actual criminals and we’re lawmen.”

“Right.”

“And I’ve no intention of putting you out of your misery, should you suffer mortal wounds in a shootout.”

“Why am I the Sundance Kid?” Doyle asked.

“Because Harry Longabaugh was six feet tall and Robert LeRoy Parker was only five foot nine.”

“But Longabaugh was involved with Etta Place.”

“You’re the one who made the comparison. I’m doing my best with the available facts,” Larkin answered.

Doyle slid an arm over Larkin’s shoulders and said, pulling him into another hug, “It’s fine. I always thought they were a little gay for each other, anyway.”