Megan Cinders came up to Gray’s office about half past five, by which time he had switched over to a glass of the Islay malt that he’d been given by Administration as a welcome gift to his new position. It was good Scotch, very peaty, and he sipped quietly on it as he watched the news. Megan ducked her pretty head into the doorway, hair braided into a mahogany cable that hung from her shoulder. She had shed her work scrubs in favor of a plain gray sweater with a thick cuffed collar and black slacks, the designer of either he couldn’t identify. Her short-heeled boots were dark and similarly unimpressive.
“Yo-ho, Detective,” she called, looking at him. “You still need me?”
Gray blinked at her from his monitor and nodded. “Yes,” he said with a nod, “Please, come in. Close the door behind you.”
“Well…” She drifted off, looking around the office. She seemed impressed. “I wasn’t going to stick around the office. I was going to get dinner. Why don’t you come with me?”