“Kincaid, evidently exhausted himself, drew a gun, took the safety off, placed it on his chest, and went to sleep too."It's cute," I whispered to Murphy. "He has a teddy Glock.”

“Stop," Kincaid said in a calm voice. "Unclench.""Unclench what?" Murphy demanded."Unclench your ass.""Excuse me?""You're going to trip the beam. You need another quarter inch. Relax.""I am relaxed," Murphy growled."Oh," Kincaid said. "Damn, great ass then.”

“Kincaid rounded the far corner. He was dressed in his customary black clothing again, fatigue pants, and a hunting jacket over body armor, and he had enough guns strapped to his body to outfit a terrorist cell, or a Texan nuclear family.”

“She might be the Archive, but she's still a kid, Kincaid."He frowned and looked at me. "So?""So? Kids like cute."He blinked at me. "Cute?""Come on."I led him downstairs.On the lower level of the Oceanarium there's an inner ring of exhibits, too, containing both penguins and--wait for it--sea otters.I mean, come on, sea otters. They open abalone with rocks while floating on their backs.How much cuter does it get than small, fuzzy, floating, playful tool users with big, soft brown eyes?”

“If you make some comment even obliquely alluding to menstruation or menopause and its effect on my judgment," Murphy interrupted, "I will break your arm in eleven places.”

“Felicia managed to stagger to her feet, open the front door, and limp haltingly to the white limousine idling on the snowy street outside the house. Murphy went to the window to watch Felicia get into the limo and depart."Yeah," I said, deadpan. "The little blond woman has two of them.”

“I... drew out the gun I kept at home, a great big old Dirty Harry Callahan number that weighed about seventy-five thousand pounds.”