Franco 1 - Bleeding Out 25 Her detectives were used to the click of Frank’s Italian loafers, and when she padded into the squad room in sneakers, they were surprised to see her. “Dude-ess,” Noah greeted affectionately, and Johnnie dropped his feet off his desk, grinning a little too broadly. He didn’t have time to cover his folded newspaper. Ike lifted a finger on a phone call, and from the typewriter Diego greeted, “Ess-say.” She exchanged hand signs with him and slapped Noah’s shoulder as she passed to her office. “You’re RODded, babe. Go home,” he called. “You closing everything?” she rejoined, meaning had he handed all the cases to the DA. “One hundred percent.” “Then I’m outta here,” she called back, settling into her old chair, realizing how good it felt. Feeling a sense of purpose in directing other people, guiding them to resolve the final, mysterious destinies of strangers—strangers to the nine-three but vivid memories alive to the survivors of their cases—all of it felt fine.
