By the time he and Clements made it back to his office, the three of them were clustered around Della’s terminal—Della at the keyboard, the aliens at her back. Mel pointed a finger. “Harmony of the races.” He offered a bag to Clements. “Doughnuts? I’m hungry, Burnett, I didn’t get any lunch. Don’t you guys ever send out for sandwiches?” “This is homicide, Yo. In homicide we eat tacos in the morning, and doughnuts in the afternoon.” “Tough guys, huh? What you eat for dinner?” “Arson detectives.” Clements sat on the edge of Mel’s desk and leaned close. “Typical cop, I bet. All talk, and no follow-through.” David had the unique pleasure of seeing Mel blush. He sorted through the doughnuts—all caramel, chocolate, and white powder. No plain ones. He looked at Clements. “You think Cromwell torched his club?” She licked caramel icing off her fingers. “Hard as hell to prove. His alibi holds.” Warden flicked an eye prong at Clements. “But of course this human be the responsible party, Yo Free.
