"Morning, Sergeant, how was the rest of your weekend?" Lewis was finally feeling healthy, and getting his flat cleaned up put him in a good mood as well.
It was a sorry-looking creature that turned to look at him. Hathaway's nose looked sore, his eyes were red and watery, and he had to blow his nose before answering.
"Well, Sir, I've gained your cold and lost my cat. So, without reservation, I'd say the rest of the weekend sucked royally."
"Aw, James, I'm so sorry about Fiona. Her owner finally showed up?"
"She called me Saturday evening. She's in Kidlington so she never saw the signs. But a friend of hers who knew the cat was lost was in the City on Saturday. She saw one of the signs and took down my number. Of course I had to give her back." He blew his nose loudly, dug a cough drop out of his pocket, and popped it in his mouth.
"Maybe it was a bad idea to call her 'Fiona,'" Lewis said gently. "Tempting fate and all. Should have seen this coming."
Hathaway just stared glumly at his desk. "Yeah, I knew when I first brought her home that it was probably just for a short time. You know, Sir, I think you've finally succeeded in convincing me that predictability is not always a good thing."
"I thought you might see it that way. But I'm sorry your little encounter with chaos had to end so sadly. Would a pint after work cheer you up, or are you too sick to go spread some germs among the unsuspecting public? I'm buying."
"It would be sad, indeed, if I was too sick to take free beer from you, Sir. Or is that being too predictable?"
"Let's call it 'reliable.'" He took a moment to compose his most innocent-looking face. "So, Hathaway . . . should I book that stripper for your birthday after all?"
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