She was looking over the menu while she sipped coffee when Sullivan slipped in the bench opposite her. She set the menu down and slid it to one side for the waitress to pick up.
“Already know what you want?” asked Sullivan.
“Same as always. Eggs, over easy. Extra crispy bacon. Rye toast and a fruit cup. I’m a creature of some habits. I read over the menu the same way I read cereal boxes when I was a kid.”
He grinned. “You too?”
“Yeah. Plus, I’ve been here awhile. Trying to keep myself awake and entertained.”
“Ouch. Sorry. Last minute paperwork. Had an emergency call at five-thirty. OD.”
“Ouch,” she said softly. “Now I’m sorry. Did he live?”
“She. And no, she didn’t. The boyfriend called it in, but it was already too late when he came to and realized she was unresponsive.” He lowered his head, his voice. “There was a child. About a year old, I think. Sleeping when I arrived but wailing at the top of his lungs by the time child protective services got there. The boyfriend isn’t the baby daddy; at least that’s what he says. CPS will look for kin.”
“Heroin?”
“Fentanyl. The latest scourge.”
Ramsey said, “You okay?”
Sullivan looked up, nodded. “Yeah. The baby was hard. These calls always are when there are children.” He took a deep, deliberate breath and let it out slowly, shook himself off. “Enough. I need coffee.”
As if on cue, their waitress arrived, topped off Ramsey’s cup. She had a cup ready for Sullivan and filled it just short of the rim. “The usual?” she asked Ramsey.
“No point in deviating from what works.”
“And you, Officer Day?”
Sullivan handed her his menu without looking at it. “The morning sampler. And keep the coffee coming.”
“You got it.”
When the waitress departed, Ramsey asked, “Are you planning on sleeping any time today?”
He regarded her, puzzled at first. His expression cleared when he understood. “Oh, the coffee. Doesn’t bother me. Not when it comes to sleeping. Once I’m down, I’m out. It’s always been that way.” He carefully raised his cup and took a swallow before he sat back. “Tell me about your shift. Any crimes and misdemeanors?”
Ramsey’s smile was rueful. She shook her head. “Slow night. The only thing moving was the paint.”
“Maybe I need more coffee.” He took another swallow. “How’s that again?”
“Oh, nothing really. It’s the Caribbean Coast. That’s bisque to the layman. Paul accepted twenty pallets of the paint off the truck. He didn’t have to because it was a delivery error, but Paul thought it would look good for him if he could unload it. At least I suppose that was his reasoning.”
“Okay, but what do you mean it was moving?”
“Brisk sales in bisque. Seems as if it’s a popular color. Who knew?”
“Wouldn’t be my first choice.”
“Nor mine. Mason Calabash—he mostly works in the home improvement area—told me that he even sells it on the midnight shift. I don’t get it. Who does a paint job in the middle of the night?”
“Not me. I don’t paint. Ever.” He frowned slightly then, slate gray eyes shifting sideways past Ramsey’s shoulder as he drifted into thoughtfulness.
Recognizing Sullivan’s attention had wandered, Ramsey looked behind her to see what had caught his eye. It wasn’t the approach of their meal, nor anything of interest occurring at the other tables, but then she didn’t know the people scattered around in the same manner he might. “What is it?” she asked, leaning to her left so she was in his line of sight.
Sullivan blinked and his eyes returned to sharp focus. “What? Oh. Nothing.”
“Huh-uh,” she said, shaking her head. “Can we agree not to do that?”
