She led him down a long corridor that reminded him of the Hall, into a large room that was subdivided into cubicles.

Al Nolan, a white male in his late twenties, was opening a Wendy’s bag and putting the contents on his desk. He wore a bowling shirt with the name Ralph stitched over the right pocket. His long brown hair didn’t look too clean and was pulled back into a ponytail. “Al,” Ms Hammond said, “this is Inspector Sergeant Abe Glitsky…”

Nolan held up a hand. “Hey, it’s my lunch hour. You mind?”

Glitsky heard Ms Hammond’s intake of breath. “Lunch is supposed to start from twelve to one-thirty, somewhere in there, Al.”

“Well, at noon I had to take my car down to the garage, and the guy didn’t have a clue what was wrong, so I had to leave it and take the bus back. You know the buses.” He, too, shrugged.

“You know, Al, that sounds to me like two and a half hours of your own time.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t get to eat yet.”

Glitsky butted in. “They paying you for this?” Turning to Ms Hammond, “Excuse me.”

“Hey, what? I’m not supposed to eat? We’re entitled to lunch.”

Ms Hammond, getting impatient, said, “And what do you suppose the state of California gets to ask of you in exchange?”

Nolan chewed a few fries. “In exchange for what?”

“In exchange for your lunch break?”

“Hey, I do as much work as anybody here. More than some.”

Glitsky just waited.

Ms Hammond smiled. The warmth was gone. “You know, Al, that’s just not true.” She laid a hand on Glitsky’s arm. “Mr Nolan is on the state’s time now, sergeant. If his eating bothers you, he’ll throw his”-she paused-“afternoon snack away.” She turned and was gone.

Nolan rolled his eyes. “Her time of the month,” he said, and gestured for Glitsky to pull up a chair. “Who we talking about now?”