“Your chart accounts for one hundred thirty-one percent of my eight-hour shift. I’m not sure how you managed that, but this pie tells me I’m working way too hard.” When he simply stared at her blankly, she realized he didn’t get it. She said carefully, “The slices of the pie should equal one hundred. It’s the way of all pies. The math is faulty.” So she didn’t give offense, she added, “Probably the software.”
He picked up the chart, looked at it. “Yeah, probably the software.”
“Sure,” she said, straight-faced. No spreadsheet she knew could make a mistake like that. Paul had drawn the pie on the computer, colored it in, but had created the slices without using a math program. The man was obviously innumerate. “Well, since we’re talking about it, how much of my time do you think I should be devoting to home improvement?” She waited again when he fell silent. She wasn’t certain he was thinking, more like he was stumped.
“Not as much time as you’re spending now,” he said finally. “Maybe three percent.”
Without missing a beat, she said, “About fourteen minutes, then.”
Paul shook his head. “No. Too much time.”
“I could always just walk through, sniff the paint and move on.”
“Yeah. That sounds good. Why don’t you do that?”
Ramsey stared at him. He was serious. “All right.”
Paul nodded, visibly pleased. He returned the pie chart to the side drawer and sat up, folding his hands in a fist on top of his desk. “Good idea. You could use the time you spend chatting with Mason Calabash trolling electronics. Always need an extra pair of eyes in electronics.”
“You realize that in order to get an extra pair of eyes you’d have to hire someone to partner me. I’m working alone way too often these days, Paul.”
He made sympathetic noises. “I’ll have to run it past regional corporate. Right now they’re promoting more cross-training to cashier positions. I was thinking that you could do that job in a pinch.” He paused. “After you’re trained, of course.”
“Of course,” she said dryly. The more Paul talked, the better the police academy sounded. “You know me, Paul. Anything for the Ridge.”
Sullivan Day gave a bark of laughter that made heads turn. He was sitting across from Ramsey in a dimly lit Italian restaurant with plastic grapevines suspended from the ceiling, red-and-white checked tablecloths, and a flickering candle supported in a straw-covered wine bottle. It was so cliché, it was now considered retro chic. “You really said that? Anything for the Ridge?”
She nodded. “I did.”
Sullivan tamped down his smile. “Did he believe you?”
“I think so. Told me I was a team player and how much he appreciated it.”
“Jeez.”
“Yeah.” She took a chunk of warm bread and dragged it through the dipping oil before she plopped it in her mouth. “This was a good idea. I haven’t been here in a while.”
“I like the ambience,” said Sullivan, glancing up at the ceiling. “It’s hard to beat plastic grapes as a motif.”
“Ambience? Motif? You are a strange individual.”
Not at all offended, Sullivan grinned. “Tell me about your week.”
“I just did. My meeting with Paul was the highlight.”
“Poor you.”
“Uh-huh. Tell me about yours. You can start with how you happened to run into me as I was leaving the rec center.”
“I told you then. I was going in for a swim after my shift.”
“That’s what you said, only you weren’t carrying a bag.”
“Damn.” He swore because he’d been caught in the lie, not because he was sorry for it. “I thought you’d be mad if I told you about the chip I implanted in your neck while you were sleeping.”
Ramsey nodded as if it were precisely what she expected. “And here I thought that bruise was a hickey. You’re slick, mister.”
Sullivan shrugged modestly and then answered her question truthfully. “You know your friend Maggie is Buddy’s cousin, right?” When she nodded again, he went on. “She texted him that you and her partner Briony were playing racquetball and that maybe I’d want to know that.”
