The phone rang.

"Ignore it," McCoy said. He teased Regan with his teeth again and heard her moan. "The machine will get it."

"Uh-huh," she agreed breathlessly, and he smiled, allowing himself to feel a certain smug satisfaction. When Regan had frozen, rigid in his arms, at the merest chance he might discover her scars, McCoy had considered the possibility that it would take more patient days or weeks of winning her trust before she'd let him see her, touch her, as he'd been longing to do for months.

But he had thirty years experience finding the right keys to unlock a witness or defendant's reluctance, and he knew Regan Markham, knew that she might talk about a red convertible but she'd never buy a vehicle without side airbags, knew that her fierce prosecutorial instincts were tempered by a pragmatic compassion to those whose lives had been lived on the downside of advantage —

Knew that if he could make her laugh, the battle was more than halfway won.

And now she was sprawled beneath him, self-consciousness forgotten, one hand clutching his shoulder and the other fisted in the coverlet. As the answering machine clicked on, McCoy raised his head from her breast to look at her. Regan's eyes were closed, a frown of intense concentration on her face.

He kissed her, tracing her lips with his tongue. "Relax," he whispered. "Let it happen. Let go."

She groaned, back arching. "Jack — I — please!"

And Arthur Branch's voice came out of the answering machine. "Jack, if you're there, pick up. I'm standing up with the mayor and the chief of police in an hour and —"

"Dammit!" McCoy rolled over and reached for the phone. He lifted the receiver and the machine went silent. "Arthur."

"Sorry to wake you, Jack," Branch said. "The police have concluded the Kuen shooting was in self-defense within the meaning of the statute and they're ready to close the book. There's a press conference scheduled at nine to try and draw a line under the overnight media speculation. It would be helpful if you were there — if you're up to it, of course."

Up, yes, but not exactly for a press conference. Probably not wise to say that to Arthur. "I'll be there," McCoy said instead. He listened to Branch's platitudes for another moment, and interrupted when it seemed likely the District Attorney was about to start telling him another one of his stories about his childhood with a not-so-hidden message. "I'd better get moving, Arthur, or I'll be late."

He hung up the phone and turned back to Regan. She was sitting up, one arm crossed across her breasts as she shook out her blouse with her other hand. Dammit. "Regan …"

"I know," she said. "You have to go." She gave him a small smile. "You'd better have a shower, and shave."

"A very cold shower," McCoy said wryly, and won a smile from her. He sat down and took her shirt from her, turning it right-side out and holding it for her as if it were a coat. "If my bike wasn't still in the office car park we'd have a little more time, but it's either the subway or a cab, and at this time of day …"

Regan slipped her arms through the sleeves of her shirt and turned. She brushed her fingers through his hair and then leaned forward to kiss him firmly on the mouth. "As much as you make me lose track of all good sense," she said, "there is nothing that will make me sorry that this is one morning you won't be riding that damn thing."

He smiled, and felt her lips curve against his own as she did, too. "You wouldn't be Regan Markham if there was."

She linked her hands together behind his neck and deepened the kiss for a moment, and then pulled away. "Go. Shave, shower, go stand next to the brass and look appropriately serious."

"Will you be here when I get back?"

"I'm going to go in to the office for a little bit."

McCoy frowned. She canceled my day but didn't think to cancel her own? "What have you got on?"

"Nothing." She let him go and started buttoning her blouse. "Today was a file day, anyway. But I thought I could ask around a little, see where they are with Neil Gorton."

"You're a witness, Regan, even if not to much. You can't touch it."

"I wouldn't. I just want to know … I want to know that they're not going to go ahead with any charges." She felt around beside the bed and found her shoes. "He saved your life, Jack. I'd feel better if I knew he wasn't going to catch any shit over it."

McCoy stood up, and opened the wardrobe. He hunted out a clean shirt, trying to keep his mind focused on the conversation and not on how Regan had looked, flushed and panting beneath him, the sounds she'd made, the friction of her lean body against his … He took a deep breath. "Developing a soft spot for Neil Gorton, of all people?"

"Maybe." Regan said. "I hope he's doing okay. Shooting someone — it's not an easy thing to carry, especially if it's someone you know."

McCoy turned to look at her. "Someone you know?"

Regan was putting on her shoes and spoke more to the floor than to him. "Yeah. That guy, Kuen, he was a client or something."

"What makes you say that?"

She straightened. "I thought he seemed familiar at the time, and then late last night I remembered why. I saw him on the courthouse steps yesterday, talking to Gorton." Regan paused. "To Neil. He asked me to call him that and I should get used to it, I guess. All things considered."

McCoy took a step toward her, shirt forgotten. "You saw Neil Gorton and Lawrence Kuen talking to each other yesterday? At the courthouse."

"Yeah." She blinked at him. "Why?"

"They never gave any sign of knowing each other in the restaurant."

"It wasn't exactly a social occasion," Regan pointed out sensibly.

McCoy shook his head. "What would you do, if someone you knew was pointing a gun at somebody else? Just stand there?"

"I'm not Go— Not Neil. So he froze. Most people would."

"Maybe he did freeze," McCoy said slowly. "But Kuen never looked at him, either. And another thing, Regan — how did he know I was going to be there? I didn't know I was going to be there, until half an hour before. Then Neil rang, and he wanted to meet, and he suggested Debarred, and I thought of Silk Road." He looked down. "And yes, before you say it, I did have ulterior motives."

Regan snorted. "Knew it." She shrugged. "Maybe he followed you from Hogan Place."

"Maybe," McCoy said. He reached for his phone and found a number. "Mike. It's Jack McCoy. Yeah, fine. Listen —"

It sounded thin, even to McCoy, as he laid it out. One man seen talking to another man. Last-minute dinner plans.

"Yeah, I'll tell her," McCoy said, and ended the call. Her turned to look at Regan. "You need to go in to One PP and give a statement. Soon as possible, Mike said."