Cavanaugh Watch. Marie Ferrarella

was just the slightest nod of his head. “That way I’m never disappointed. And I’m not.”

      What an awful way to face life. She wasn’t like her cousin Patience, who had this overwhelming desire to fix every hurt animal that limped across her line of vision. But she hated seeing a tortured soul and that was what she was looking at, Janelle thought. A soul that had been through torture. He’d said something about being this way ever since he could remember. There was only one reason for that.

      “What kind of a childhood did you have, Detective Boone?” she asked him.

      His eyes met hers. He bit off the inclination to tell her to mind her own business. Instead, he said, “I didn’t.”

      She nodded, as pieces moved into place. “That would explain it.”

      Janelle was surprised to see his mouth curve ever so slightly into a smile. But by no means was it a warm smile, nor did it involve any part of him other than the skin on his lips. His eyes didn’t smile. They remained detached, cold. Analytical.

      Robots had eyes like that, she thought. In high-tech science-fiction movies. Intelligent, but without a soul, without compassion—because they had no frame of reference available against which to measure feelings. Was that the case with him?

      The cold smile faded as if it had never existed. “Don’t try to analyze me, Cavanaugh. Your talents would be best used elsewhere.”

      There was another knock on the door. A firm one this time. Before she extended an invitation to come in, the door was opened, bringing with it a smattering more air, not exactly fresh, but every little bit helped right now, she thought.

      Janelle drew in a lungful, as if that would somehow help her deal with Sawyer and his all-encompassing disdain. She looked at the sensibly dressed young woman in the doorway. “Yes?”

      Another one of the assistants. Marcia Croft had been there three weeks longer than Janelle had and was still trying to direct Stephen Woods’s attention over in her direction. It was no secret that she wanted him to view her not as an up-and-coming assistant, but as a wealthy graduate of Cornell University who had set her cap not so much on an illustrious career in the D.A.’s office as on the A.D.A.—seeing as how the D.A. was taken. To Marcia it was all about connections.

      “Woods wants us all in the conference room,” she told Janelle. Belatedly, she seemed to take note of the fact that Janelle was not alone. “Well, hello,” she declared with more than a little feeling.

      Marcia’s normally frosty delivery had warmed up several degrees. Obviously Sawyer brought out the best in someone, if not herself, Janelle thought. Marcia usually behaved as if she were entering a leper colony every time their paths crossed. The woman considered her an unworthy rival. Her dark eyes quickly swept over Sawyer’s impressive torso, coming to rest on the holster he wore. She rubbed her thumb over her fingers, as if vicariously feeling the leather.

      “Packing heat, I see,” Marcia murmured appreciatively, raising her eyes to his. Her mouth curved. “And you have a gun, too.”

      Janelle looked at Sawyer. His expression was unreadable. But if he was a typical male, she thought, he was probably eating this all up.

      “Here’s a thought, why don’t you guard her body?” Janelle suggested. Not waiting for a response or comment, she grabbed her portable notebook and darted around Marcia as if she were a mere obstacle to be circumvented.

      The latter smoothly shifted in order to block Sawyer’s exit. “Why don’t you?” she purred, looking up at him.

      “Yours wasn’t the name I was given,” Sawyer replied simply. In no mood to exchange banter, he took hold of Marcia’s shoulders and physically moved the assistant to the side.

      “I won’t tell if you won’t tell,” Marcia offered, raising her voice to be heard. She’d said the words to his back as he quickly strode down the corridor.

      With a careless shrug, Marcia hurried to catch up to Janelle.