address that wasn’t her apartment, and helpfully offered directions when they neared the location.
“Here,” she said finally. “You can let me out here.”
The guy leaned forward to peer through the windshield. “You live at the police station?”
“No, but thanks for the ride anyway. Bye!” She hopped out of the car and darted up the building’s steps before he could argue. She wondered what he’d tell Paulson.
She walked through the front doors and the smell of the tired, ancient, sweaty waiting room hit her. It had been a while, and she hadn’t missed it at all.
The place buzzed with far more than the usual late-night police station energy. The evening round of drunks and prostitutes had stalled out in the lobby, waiting on plastic chairs until someone remembered that they’d been arrested. The front desk was missing its clerk. Behind the desk, in the back, voices shouted, phones rang, uniformed people scurried back and forth with files in hand and cell phones stuck to ears.
A large, booming man appeared in a doorway and called out. “All right, people, I’m looking for black-market contacts. They won’t be able to unload these things in the open, so we need to go to ground. If I see another auction house phone number on the fact list I’m going punch somebody!”
That was Chief Gene Appleton. Head of the force for ten years. Fifteen years as a cop before that. Celia smiled. If Appleton was knocking heads, things couldn’t be too bad. She’d always liked him. He never talked down to her.
The liking wasn’t mutual, at least not as of seven or so years ago. He’d sealed her juvenile record personally. If he saw Celia here he’d be livid. She slunk away to lean on a wall.
A girl sat in the chair next to her. Magenta hair, black plastic miniskirt, and fishnet shirt over a green bra. She looked about fifteen. Might have been seventeen. Her sullen air made her seem young.
“What’s going on?” Celia asked her.
The girl looked her up and down. Celia wasn’t dressed for the lobby of a police station at eleven P.M., but leaning on the wall, arms crossed, gazing vaguely out, she acted like she belonged. Made all the difference.
“Dunno. Something big went down.”
“Big. Like Destructor big? Like Olympiad showing up big?”
She shrugged. “Dunno. Heard that a cop got hurt.”
Celia’s stomach lurched. She had to remind herself this was only street gossip. Didn’t mean anything. She looked toward the back offices, working herself up to go and ask someone.
The front door opened, ringing the old-fashioned brass bell that no one had the heart to take down. In walked Mark Paulson, his collar unbuttoned and his jacket hanging from his hand.
Celia pushed off from the wall. “Mark!”
His tired eyes brightened. “Celia! What are you doing here?”
In a couple of strides they met, gripping each other’s arms. Not an embrace—they needed to look at each other.
“I wanted to be here in case there was news.”
“Paulson! God, Paulson, what the hell happened?” Appleton stormed around the front desk, his gaze piercing like bullets.
The detective shrugged. “They just let me go. Dumped me out of their car down the block.”
Appleton noticed Celia, even though she’d stepped aside. “You. What the hell are you doing here?”
“I was worried about Mark. Nice to see you again, Chief.”
“Huh. Right.”
Mark put his arm protectively around her shoulders. Appleton took in the gesture and gave his head a frustrated shake. “Whatever. You.” He pointed at Mark. “In the back. Tell me what happened.”
“I’d like to take my date home first, sir.”
“Call her a cab.”
Mark glared at him.