"And then all of us started making clown jokes—"They fit more bullets into the body than you could fit clowns in a car!"—and it was a department joke for ages."

I remembered O'Hara's insistence that this was not a joke to tell a woman over dinner. Clearly, she was wrong. Alisa had started laughing the minute I began with "so, we arrived on scene and found no less than twelve clowns dead" and had listened raptly as I described the bullet trajectory. Guess she was wrong, I thought somewhat giddily.

Today had been pretty amazing, actually, starting with her showing up at the station with a motorcycle stolen from Spencer of all people.

Then when Spencer came rushing in yelling about a thief in our midst with boyfriend troubles, I was able to introduce him to her and watch his face when she informed him I'd saved her life and his motorcycle needed an oil change, dropping his keys in his hands.

I was returned to the present by her humming in thought.

Seeing me give her a questioning look, she explained, "I was simply considering your gallows humour. It's very important for tough protagonists to lighten the mood without resorting to nonsense."

"It's been a while since I took an English class. What's a protagonist?"

"A hero. It's a lead character—like James Bond or Sherlock Holmes or Tom Highway."

"You've seen Heartbreak Ridge?"

"More times than I needed to have it permanently seared in my memory."

I stared at her. "You're serious!"

"Why? Do you like Clint Eastwood?"

"I have every single one of his movies." I said, grinning.

"No way! I used to, but I had to sell them. Santa Barbara is the most expensive place to live in the US. I don't own a car, either. It was impounded."

"You could get a roommate."

"Who would want me as a roommate? And where on earth would I meet one?" She laughed, tossing her silver hair over her shoulder. "I come home late and grade papers. I don't have a life outside of my work."

"Neither do I."

Alisa smiled sadly, "But you've got an amazing job. You're like something out of a TV show. Like Cops."

"Do you watch Cops?" I asked. If she says yes, I might just kiss her.

Victoria had refused to watch Clint Eastwood movies with me and often turned the television off after just one episode of Cops. Of course, she'd never been near a motorcycle either and had religiously dyed every grey hair that ever appeared on her head.

"—and I love to watch the older episodes. Have you seen Bait Car? I love that show. And since I prefer fiction, I must say I enjoy any and all Law & Order." She stopped talking and examined me curiously. "Detective, are you okay?"

"Carlton. You can call me Carlton. I mean, since you insisted on Alisa."

"My friends call me Allie," Alisa informed me with a yawn.

"I've never heard that as a nickname for Alisa before." I said bluntly.

"I had a habit of talking very quietly, and my classmates in high school thought I said Allie. It just stuck, I guess." She rubbed her inner wrists together and glanced at the door. "What time is it?"

"Ready to leave already?"

I'd seen it coming, of course. Women are always leaving. But she'd seemed to be having a very good time, at least a better time than most.

She bit her lip. "I think I should. If I stay too late, my stalker will get the wrong idea about us and…"

"No need to make excuses." I replied stiffly.

Alisa's laughter caught me off guard. "You know, for a brilliant cop, you really can be an idiot. I'm leaving because I had an amazing time and if you get hurt because of me, I'll never forgive myself. And because I can't abide by such clichés."

"You're still in danger. Stay. I've got guns all over this place; you're safer here than just about anywhere else. Plus, I have every Cops episode ever aired and some that didn't air."

"You drive a hard bargain." She smiled. "Thank you, Carlton. Here, I'll clean these dishes for you."

I cleared my throat as she loaded the dishwasher. "After we solve this case… Can I see you again?" I looked away and drummed my fingers on the bar.

"If I survive this case," Alisa sighed, and then shook her head. "I'm terrified."

"I had someone try to kill me once, just like this."

"I bet you weren't at all afraid." She said quietly.

"Mostly bored," I admitted. "Chief kept me locked in a conference room for a while. Want to watch Cops?" I added, as she perched on the couch beside me and rested her elbows on her knees.

"Not really, I'd rather listen to you… What happened?" Allie leaned into me hesitantly.

"Spencer's inadequacy nearly got me killed but distracted him long enough for me to disarm him."

"You genuinely like the kid, though, don't you?"

"What?" I stared down at the top of her head.

"I get the feeling you don't allow nonsense. If you really hated him, you'd have kicked him out ages ago. I have students I do the same thing with. Then there are the students I actually do kick out. Sorry, continue."

"That's really the whole story."

"No, it's not. I was an English Lit professor. Start at the beginning."

"Well, we'd just won a softball game against a bunch of hairdressers and we were eating at the local cop bar when Spencer started to make some fuss about his meal not showing up. He went off to find the waitress and came back while we were singing to McNabb, and prattled on in my ear. I didn't hear much until he said gun, at which point I jumped up and shot at him—with two guns, I might add."

"Two guns? After a softball game?"

"I always have a weapon. There are tons in this place, remember?"

"Why?"

"Just in case, of course. It actually came in handy once—I used the one hidden in that bowl to save my life and Spencer's."

"Is it still hidden there?" She asked, surprised enough to crane her head around to look at the bowl.

"No, I chose new hiding spots." I considered how annoying it'd been to take a whole day away from the station to completely restore my house to the way it was before that Drimmer bastard came in and messed it all up. "Apparently the bread box was too obvious anyway."

"Bread box." She grinned.

"Yes."

"Well, at least I don't have to worry."

I stared at her. "What?"

"About making you go off the deep end. You're already there. Which is good," She added hastily, "I'm already there. Wow. Feel free to fake an urgent call from work and flee right now."

"Guys do that to you?"

"My last boyfriend did it on a regular basis. But mostly because he pretended to be a mercenary to get girls, and he faked calls from mercenary contacts whenever I wasn't paying him enough attention. You ever been stood up?"

"All the time."

"I find that really, really hard to believe."

"Why?" I asked, confused.

"You're an underappreciated real life hero and you've got amazing blue eyes."

"That's not…"

"You're amazing, Carlton. 'The greatest neither fear death nor desire it.'"

"Come again?"

"It's a Martial quote. You were left by your wife, your job is frankly depressing, and yet you manage to do some good in this insane world of danger."

"Yeah, I guess…"

"Modesty really doesn't suit you."

I shrugged and was surprised to find a pair of lips pressed to my cheek and fingers being entwined with mine.

"Still up for some Cops?"

"Always." I replied.

I warned you about the fluff! Look, she's a Bostonian school teacher with a strong sense of classic romanticism and a crazy enamoured stalker, of course she's not going to snog him the day she meets him.

I just had to bring up the clown-deaths-do-not-make-good-diagrams-to-draw-over-dinner. I mean, really, what's O'Hara's problem with crayons? I'd prefer a date at a restaurant with crayons on the table. No, seriously, crayons have been the making of my career. (I got my first work published, an essay about crayons, and now I won't stop harping on about them!)