It’s Lewis. She is going to be late for the morning meeting. “That’s the third time this week, Cheryl. What’s up?” There is silence on the line. Frank can’t legally ask what she wants to. “I’ll be there soon’s I can, LT. Sorry.” “A’ight.” Frank gathers the squad. Except for Lewis, all her cops are on time with fresh faces and not one hangover. A pang hits her for the old days; Jill’s “on time” had been ten minutes late, Briggs would have been struggling not to barf up last night’s booze, Bobby would have been haggard and sleepy from walking the twins around at two in the morning, and she’d have had to scold Darcy about trimming his mustache and his hair. She can’t help but marvel how plain damn vanilla this new breed of detective is. Braxton updates his grocery store shooting and she stuffs a sigh; even their cases are dull. Lewis barges in and pulls up a chair. Her hands shake when she opens her laptop and she is a god-awful shade of gray. Tatum is talking about his latest domestic.
