"That's a big help," said MacCauley, confronting the other man, who was strangely tense. He thrust the tablet at him. "Now what do I do?"
Kittrell scanned it briefly, and relaxed a bit. "It looked bad to me," he explained. "There was that damned Kiddie with a knife in his hand. He had it up to throw at you—or me. Can't take chances."
Mac sighed, resigning himself to continued hard luck. "We all make mistakes, I guess," he said. Then, hardening: "But you've made your last boner on this case. From now on stay the hell away from me. I don't like you and I don't like the way you do things." He moved toward the door. Kittrell, lounging across it, obstructed his path—just enough to stop him.
"Where're you going?" the bigger man asked.
"To report this," Mac snapped. "You'll get out of it all right."
"Don't report it."
"Why not?"
Kittrell grimaced distastefully. "Too much red tape. What the devil, who'll know we were here?"
Mac snorted and filled his lungs preparatory to telling Kittrell just what he thought of him. There was a sweetish, balsam-like taste to the air, like the smell of a fir forest.
Or like the smell of narcophene.