The hurricane of scandal whistled through the precinct, scattering papers off desks and rear ends off seats. The chief was unimpressed at losing a body, any body, but especially this one. At last, the mystery still unsolved, Henry was given leave to go home.
"I'll give you a ride," Jo said. "I don't mean to be blunt, but you look terrible."
He smiled. Her directness was never malicious. Generally it saved time and misunderstandings. "Be as blunt as you need. I confess I am rather tired."
He settled into the passenger seat of her police issue Ford. The upholstery smelled of perfume, as if she routinely spritzed herself before getting out. No, he realised, picturing her climbing in, weary from a crime scene: she gave herself a little spray of La Vie Est Belle after she got into the car. It was a tonic, a removal of the taint of death.
Maybe he ought to try it. He would need a fair dose of it, in his job. Luckily he liked her favourite fragrance.
He lay back and watched Jo's hands on the wheel, slender wrists, elegant fingers. If he slid his gaze downwards, under cover of half-closed eyes, he could catch a glimpse of her right ankle, formal in sheer black hose, between her trouser hem and her sturdy black heels. He smiled then, and turned his face towards the passenger window. He always had been a fool for a pretty ankle.
Jo manoeuvered through heavy winter traffic, noticing a dusting of snow in Brooklyn's lesser streets, and pulled up at last close to Henry's antiques shop. "Well, see you tomorrow," she said, and turned to see Henry flaked out beside her, his face soft and slack, his breath coming in a slow, deep rhythm like waves breaking on a remote shore.
She sighed. He worked too hard. Well, so did she, but she was tough. There was a frailty to Henry Morgan, a weakness he tried to hide, and she wished she could persuade him that he could trust her.
She lay her hand on his shoulder to wake him, and he stirred and mumbled, "The ship," and a tear ran down his cheek.
Shocked, she drew back, but he opened his eyes and blinked. "Jo," he said. still blurry.
"Yeah."
He wiped his eyes without embarrassment.
"Are you ok," she asked. The car was claustrophobic. Henry looked as dazed as if he'd been pulled from the wreckage.
"I'm perfectly fine -"
The radio cawed like a crow on a solitary tree. Jo picked up and listened. "Ok, we're on it. -Another John Doe," she said to Henry. "Would you mind-?"
"Not at all."
"I'll drop you back here as soon as you've done your thing," she said. "Promise."
"I know you will," he said.
As they re-entered rush hour traffic, she said, "Were you dreaming about a ship?"
She kept her eyes forward and tried to be matter of fact. It still seemed very personal. She could just as well have asked about, unimaginable, his sex life.
He didn't reply, but watched the riverside lights from his window.
Fair enough. She hadn't really expected an answer anyway. Flakes filled the windshield and she switched on the wipers.
More snow. Good for preserving a body, terrible for ruining the evidence.
"I drowned once," Henry said.
He glanced at her. His eyes were wary.
"Drowned."
"Yes. I - I was brought back to life."
"I heard of that. Wow. That must be pretty..." What? "Horrible," she said. Lame. "I'm sorry," she added, far too late. "Does it give you nightmares?"
"It never has before. But lately...as you saw." He shrugged.
"It's ok," she said softly. "Everyone has issues."
For a moment Henry thought she would take his hand. But she was scowling at the road. And what would he have done if she had? "I'll find our missing John Doe," he said. "I swear it, Jo."
She blinked.
"Bodies don't just vanish," he said.
"That's for sure." Their little moment of intimacy was gone. A dream, that he might tell her what was really in his mind, or how she could help. She wondered if a big hug, preferably not whilst also driving, truly would fix him. Or maybe her.
What would it be like to kiss Henry Morgan? Old fashioned, she thought: courtesy ruling passion. Pretty romantic actually. Not that he would ever allow it. He had just used her first name twice in one conversation - that was where they were up to. Anything more would have to wait for him to be ready in, oh, about a hundred years.
She could be ready a little sooner, she thought. There was a decency and reticence about him that appealed to her. He was ... dependable. She knew he'd been married. He would have treated his wife properly. He wouldn't disappear from her life, no explanation, no reason.
She would like a man like that. One day. And if he would only let her in, she thought that Henry Morgan could do a lot worse than a woman like her.