“Not really,” I said, shaking my head, and heading for the refrigerator. “I don’t think about it at all. It’s like you and your digital recorder. Just another piece of the work. But on the other hand, maybe yes, I guess it does sometimes. Sometimes I have to use it on someone who’s made a huge mistake and drew his piece before he thought about it. Bothers the hell out of me. As it should any cop. Especially when someone dies.”
I turned, reached up over the central counter, and pulled down a large iron skillet. I found a metal bowl, cracked open the eggs, and then turned and found the ingredients to make a quick hollandaise sauce. As I prepared the food, Debra watched me with appreciative eyes and strolled over to sit down on a barstool beside the counter.
“My, my. What a domesticated sce
