Outside the bar at Court Square, Rossiter steadied Friday, who took a deep breath and a wobbly step toward her car.
“Let me drive you home,” Rossiter said.
“I’ll be fine,” Friday said.
Friday lurched toward her car, unlocked the door. She had trouble climbing behind the driver’s wheel. Rossiter looked on, gnawing his lower lip. Finally, Friday gave up getting into the car. She slammed the door.
“I’ll get a cab,” she said.
Rossiter hesitated.
“Six years old,” Friday said with great dignity.
Rossiter gave her a puzzled look.
“Last time I had a babysitter,” Friday explained.
Rossiter raised his hands shoulder high in an okay-okay gesture and tilted his head.
“Call if—”
“If what?” Friday asked. “If I run across any mysteries? The only mystery is why Harry’s locked up and someone like that lawyer, O’Neill, isn’t.”
“O’Neill’s not dangerous,” Rossiter said.
“He was,” Friday said, “to Harry.”
Rossiter headed up the street, stopped, and turned. Friday waved. Rossiter continued up the street. Out of sight.