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When Fred Thursday collected Morse at his late father's house, his first thought was that the younger man looked paler than usual, exhausted, and perhaps even ill. The lad had just lost his father; the funeral had been early that morning. His sister walked him out to the car and gave him a hug and a kiss. Fred waited at the other side of the car.
"You're welcome in Oxford," Morse told her, "if you need a break from Gwen. There are plenty of jobs in the shops and banks, too."
"I'll think about it. Look after yourself. I mean it." While Morse stashed his suitcase, she came around to the driver's side. Fred tipped his hat. "You must be Mr. Thursday. He's talked about you a lot."
"Fred. And only half of it's true, I promise." Fred extended his hand.
She took it. "Joyce Morse." She made sure Morse was still busy in the boot and lowered her voice. "Look after him, will you? He's too thin. And he's been running himself ragged."
"I'll make sure he rests, and my missus is more than happy to feed him up."
"Thank you. He's the only brother I've got."
Morse was quiet on the drive back to Oxford. He asked what was going on at the station, then dozed off. Fred let him sleep. He woke when they reached Oxford, blinking and looking around. The Jaguar pulled up outside his flat. "Thanks for the lift."
"I'll see you in the morning," Fred told him. "Pick you up at half-past eight. Shame you can't take a couple more days off."
"All I'd do with time off is brood about missing the sergeants' exam," Morse admitted.
"Bad bit of luck, that."
Morse gave a short little laugh. It was not a happy sound. "Especially since I missed it because of a man whose last words to me were, 'I never liked the police.'"
Fred froze, staring at him. "I'm sorry, lad."
"Yes, well, nothing to do about it now." He eased out of the car, still favoring his injury.
"You got that gunshot seen to, didn't you?"
"Straight after the funeral, before you arrived. Shouldn't have waited so long, but it will heal. It'll just take time. Thank you for the lift, sir. I'll see you in the morning."
Once inside, Morse turned on a light, put down his suitcase, and hung up his overcoat. He was exhausted. He supposed he should have a proper dinner, go out to the pub the next street over if he didn't cook something, but it was utterly beyond him. He found a half-empty bottle of Scotch and poured himself a drink. He should eat, he should unpack, he should have a bath.
Instead, he put on pyjamas and went straight to bed.
*****
Morse woke the next morning still feeling exhausted. He was quite sore around his wound, probably from sleeping in the car in an odd position or something. He dragged himself off to shave and dress. After that he made a cup of tea, finishing it just as the Jaguar pulled up outside. He felt badly about how much Fred had been chauffeuring him around lately. Before he left, he pulled on a jumper over his shirt and tie. He couldn't seem to get warm, probably from the winter weather.
Joan had caught a ride in with her dad. She was getting spoiled, she thought. With her dad checking out a car so much lately, she was only taking the bus occasionally. It was nice in the cold, snowy weather. She looked out the window, spotted Morse, and was startled. "He looks terrible, Dad."
Fred looked. It didn't seem possible, but the young detective looked worse than the day before: so pale he was nearly translucent, eyes sunk in tired shadows, and limping badly.
"Won't they give him a few days off? He doesn't look like he should be out of bed."
"He wouldn't take them. Wants to keep busy. He's gutted about missing the exam and losing his dad, although his father doesn't sound like he was a nice sort."
Morse clambered into the car. "Morning sir, Joan. We dropping you at the bank?"
"Yeah. How are you feeling?"
"I'm okay. Just a little tired."
Jakes was in court again for the day, which meant that Morse thankfully didn't have to deal with his snide remarks. He really didn't think he could take it today. He settled in at his desk and started on paperwork.
"Morning, matey." It was Strange, his genial warmth welcome.
"Morning."
Strange got a better look at him. "You don't look well at all. Want me to run you home? I can get that paperwork for you."
"No, I'm fine. Nothing do do at the flat but stare at the walls and think about being stuck on general duties for another year," Morse sighed.
"That's a damned rotten break, mate." Strange still wanted to do something for his friend. "I'll bring you a cuppa. Two sugars, right?"
"Thanks." The tea Strange brought him also had a few digestive biscuits perched on the saucer, which got a bit of a smile.
Strange worked at a nearby desk, keeping an eye on him, making sure to take the finished reports and file them so Morse wouldn't have to get up. He remembered how badly injured his friend had been, how much pain he'd been in as Strange had helped him out of the Coke-Norris house. Personally, he thought Morse should have gone straight to hospital and stayed there.
Fred emerged from his office a little before noon, going straight to Morse. The younger man didn't look any better than he had that morning. "Let's go to the pub. You look like you could do with a pint and a meal."
Morse wasn't hungry, but he knew he should eat something. He pushed back his chair and stood. It was at that moment that Morse realized that not only was he not hungry, he felt absolutely terrible. Something must have shown on his face, because Fred grabbed his arm and eased him back onto his chair. As he did so, his hand brushed across Morse's face. He frowned, and once Morse was settled, he felt his forehead. It was cold and clammy.
"You feel like you've got some sort of chill."
"Do I? Explains why I feel so awful, then," Morse answered vaguely.
Fred Thursday went on alert, his parental instincts kicking in. "Awful how?"
"Tired even though I slept, wobbly and dizzy, sick. And I can't seem to get warm." Now that he thought about it, there really were quite a few things wrong with him. "I thought I cramped something sleeping in the car yesterday, but now I'm not sure. It still hurts."
"I thought you saw a doctor about that gunshot."
"I did. He cleaned and re-stitched it, said it would heal. I might have a limp when I'm older. It really hurts, now that I'm not busy." He started shivering despite his jumper and suit jacket. "I-- I really think I'm ill." He sounded surprised.
Fred scowled. He'd seen Morse with ordinary ailments, but something about this just didn't sit right. There was a cold creeping feeling along his spine, like the time Joan's bad cold turned into pneumonia when she was five. "We need to get you checked out." Morse tried to protest, but Fred stopped him.
As luck would have it, Dr. DeBryn happened by. His gaze sharpened. "What's wrong?"
"He's ill," Fred answered. "Tired and wobbly, won't eat. Cold."
"Did you get that gunshot properly treated like I told you?" DeBryn's voice was stern.
"Yes," Morse gritted out. He was getting tired of talking about it. He repeated what he'd just told Fred.
"He's clammy," Fred added.
DeBryn felt his skin, checked his pulse, and frowned. "Is there a room around here we can use?"
"My office."
Morse wobbled horribly when he stood, breaking out in a sweat and turning grey. The other two flanked him and helped him past the other detectives and into Fred's office. They'd just settled him in Fred's chair when he swallowed hard, looking green and desperate. Fred grabbed the wastebin and rubbed his back while he dry-heaved over and over.
"Could be flu. There's a lot of it going around. My bag's in my car." DeBryn hurried out, returning with his medical bag. Morse had finished trying to be sick and was huddled in the chair, exhausted and shivering, arms clamped over his middle. DeBryn popped a thermometer in his mouth and helped him out of his suit jacket. He put on his stethoscope and lifted Morse's jumper, shirt, and vest. "You're bundled up." He warmed the stethoscope against his hand before placing it against Morse's back. "Breathe. Again." He methodically listened to Morse's chest back and front. "Sounds clear, which is good. Flu would be in your chest." He took the thermometer. "96.5. Not infection, then. Lean back in the chair." He gently palpated Morse's abdomen, noticing the winces and little hitches in his breathing. "Are you usually this thin?"
Morse looked down. He looked as he always did, all edges and angles and pale skin dotted with freckles here and there. "Yes."
"Once we get you over whatever this is, I'd like to get another stone on you." DeBryn was serious, his usual snark gone. "I need to check your lower abdomen." Fred cleared off his tidy desk and spread his coat over it to cushion the hard surface at least a bit. They got Morse settled on it and he undid his trousers and lay back. The pathologist examined his wound, carefully removing the bandage. Morse was biting his lip as it was handled. "There's a lot of fresh bruising. When did this start?"
"It's been bruised all along." Morse angled to look at it, wincing at the sight. "I noticed that last night when I changed the dressing. It's worse now." He lay back, crying out when DeBryn palpated the tissues around the wound.
"There's internal bleeding. You're going into shock."
"I'll bring the car round," Fred said.
"It's too late for that." Max DeBryn was already picking up the phone to order an ambulance.
"'M fine," Morse mumbled, suddenly sleepy now that he was lying down.
"No, you're not. You didn't get that gunshot seen to properly, and now it's causing real trouble," Fred scolded gently. He hurried down the hall to inform CS Bright that Morse was going to hospital, and that he would be accompanying the younger man.
Morse was sure he'd never live down being carried through the CID on a stretcher by two ambulance attendants. There were curious faces and murmured questions.
Jakes was back from court. "Job too much for you, Oxford boy?" he jibed.
"He has complications from that gunshot the other day," DeBryn snapped. Jakes shut up and looked chastened. Bright was talking to Fred Thursday as the DI put on his overcoat and hat.
"Give us a ring when you have him settled."
"I will, sir."
Fred rode in the front of the ambulance with the driver, while Max stayed with Morse in the back.
DeBryn had called the hospital and spoken to the surgeon on duty while they waited for the ambulance. When they arrived at Cowley Hospital, Morse was whisked off for an exam and tests, the pathologist stubbornly at his side. Not long after, he returned to the waiting area to update Thursday.
"The wound was closer to a major vessel than anyone realized and nicked it. He's likely been bleeding all along, but if he'd stayed in bed it would have healed on its own. Instead, all the moving around worsened the injury and it finally reached the tipping point. They've started a transfusion and they're taking him into surgery to repair it, then it will be IV antibiotics and strict bed rest. He'll be miserable for a few days, but he's young and otherwise healthy, so he should be fine. And hopefully learn his lesson."
Fred phoned Bright to let him know. Then he rang home. "Win?"
"Fred? What is it?"
"Morse collapsed at the station. Turns out that wound he'd gotten was worse than it looked. They're taking him into surgery now. I'm going to stay and wait for the lad. Be awfully lonely to wake up on his own after surgery right after losing his dad."
"Poor boy. You do that. I'll come over as soon as I can."
"You don't have to, pet."
"He could probably do with a mum. I'll leave a note for the kids, tell them there's leftover shepherd's pie in the fridge."
"They'll probably just go out to the chippy."
*****
When Morse awoke he was floating in a haze of sedatives and painkillers, enough that the container of blood attached to his IV didn't even faze him. There was an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. Win was sitting by his bed, knitting. He reached for the mask, having trouble with his coordination. Win lifted it away from his face so he could speak.
"You didn't have to come," he rasped.
"We weren't going to let you wake up alone in hospital. Fred's getting tea. There was a PC Strange by to inquire after you and Dr. DeBryn consulted with the surgeon. Is there anyone we can ring for you?"
"Only my sister Joyce, but I don't want to worry her. She's had to deal with Dad and our stepmother, and I don't want her to think she has to come down here."
"Fred will reassure her. What's the number?"
Morse gave it to her, then drifted in and out of awareness. Win noticed him shivering in his sleep and fetched more blankets for him, tucking him in and stroking his hair back from his face. Asleep, he scarcely looked older than Sam; that and hearing from Fred that he'd lost his mum as a boy went straight to her heart. Fred called Joyce, letting her know what had happened, but that Morse would recover, and promised to keep her informed. The Thursdays took turns staying with him until visiting hours were over. Win made sure he was tucked in for the night before they left, giving his shoulder a squeeze and telling him to sleep well.
When he awoke the next morning the sedatives had completely worn off and the oxygen mask was gone. He was still on strong painkillers though, which made him a bit fuzzy-headed. He wasn't allowed anything by mouth yet, but he didn't care; he had no appetite.
Win stopped by to check on him, bringing him the day's Oxford Mail and a pen. "Fred said you enjoy the crossword."
"I do. Thank you."
She'd also brought his suitcase, neatly packed. "I hope you don't mind that Fred and I went through your things," she said apologetically. "There are pyjamas for when they let you out of hospital gowns. And socks-- I thought your feet might get cold."
"Thank you," he answered gratefully. He tried to bend forward to put on a pair of socks, but gave a little gasp at the pain.
"Here, dear." Win put the socks on his feet-- "they're like ice," she fussed-- and tucked them back under his blankets. "And you've got underthings and proper clothes for going home. Is there anything else you need?"
"There was a poetry book on the bedside table."
"I'll bring it by tomorrow, if that's all right."
"I hate to put you to any trouble."
"It's no trouble." Win stayed until Morse started getting drowsy, when she tucked him in again and left him to rest. He slept for a few hours, then woke and read the paper and started on the crossword.
Jim Strange stopped by to check on him, as did Max DeBryn. "I warned you that you needed to go to hospital."
"I know. With everything else going on, it just kept slipping down my to-do list."
"Morse, when it comes to your health never let things slide down the to-do list. It's too important."
"I've had that fact driven home for me."
"Good. The surgeon said he drained so much blood he was surprised you weren't in worse shape. I don't want you on my table, Morse. Passed out beside it is bad enough."
"That only happened the once!"
"Still. Can I bring you anything?"
"I'm set. Win Thursday's bringing one of my books tomorrow, and Jim Strange dropped off an Ian Fleming novel. Said I needed some light reading, but that he was afraid Doyle might give me too many ideas."
DeBryn looked at the clipboard on the foot of his bed. "Looks like you're responding well to the treatment. They'll send you home with several days' worth of antibiotics and painkillers, but not before your appetite starts to return. You'll be here a few days."
Fred stopped by on his way home. "You look better than you did yesterday. Feeling better?"
"Much, thanks."
Fred held out a paperback. "Courtesy of Dorothea Frazil. I had a couple of questions about a case, and when I told her you were laid up in hospital for the week, she sent it along."
It was a collection of Oxford Mail crosswords, enough to keep him busy for weeks. "I'll have to thank her. Did I miss anything today?"
"Just Bright calling a general staff meeting to make sure everyone understands that on-the-job injuries are to be adequately seen to when they occur. He even had a form typed up for us all to sign. In triplicate. I'm sure when you return to the nick, he'll make you sign three or four different copies."
"I'm never going to live this down, am I?"
"But at least you'll live, Morse. That's the important thing. You gave us all quite the scare."
*****
Morse improved over the next few days. He was allowed out of bed, urged to take regular walks around the ward, and felt up to picking at food. Fred and Win visited daily, and when he started eating, Win quizzed the nurses on what he was allowed, then brought him homemade soup that evening. It was far more appetizing than anything the hospital had on offer.
"When the hospital releases you, you're still going to need looking after. Fred and I talked about it, and you're coming home with us."
Morse tried to protest, but got nowhere. When Fred checked on him at the end of the day, along with the latest news from the station, he told Morse that yes, he would be recovering at the Thursday house. "It's perfect timing, really. Sam's going on holiday with a few friends for a week, so we'll have the space."
The hospital released him two days later, and Fred and Win were there to take him home. Fred carried his suitcase upstairs for him and showed him where everything was. The activity surrounding his discharge had tired him, so he dozed until teatime, sleeping through Joan's arrival home. When he woke, he splashed some water on his face and headed downstairs. Fred was reading the paper and Win and Joan were busy, Joan setting the table and Win finishing up tea.
"You're awake. I was just about to send Fred up to wake you."
"Hi, Morse."
"Hello, Joan." Morse was suddenly self-conscious of his sleep-rumpled shirt and his hair that he hadn't been able to wash for days. He probably smelled like the hospital, too. Joan was wearing a pretty jumper and stylish capris, with a colorful scarf tied in her hair.
Win handed him a glass of milk stout and sent him off to the lounge with orders to drink up. "We'll have you fat and rosy in no time," she added.
"Or at least drunk and cheerful," Joan told him.
Supper was a hearty beef pie with a perfectly flaky crust. Joan entertained them with a funny story from work and teased her dad. "He was at loose ends without you, Morse. He doesn't work as well with Jakes. And someone else is driving Bright these days, so Jakes can't drive him."
"Strange is driving Bright a lot, I've noticed," Morse told her.
"Better him than me. That funny little man, with his decorations and his hat! I wouldn't be able to keep a straight face around him."
"Joan," Fred reproved gently.
"Oh, Dad, that hat's almost as big as he is!" Morse spluttered into his stout. "You won't wear your uniform unless they force you, but I'll bet he sleeps in his! And his hat. I wonder if Mrs. Bright likes it when he comes to bed in his hat," she added mischievously.
"Joan Winsome Thursday." But it didn't carry much weight when Joan was giggling and Morse was trying not to, hiding his face in his glass.
"It's okay, Dad. Morse knows what I'm talking about." As Fred gave Morse a look, the younger man raised his hands in surrender.
"I'm staying out of it." Although his eyes were sparkling.
"I'll let you off this time, but only because that's the first time he's laughed in days."
"And what's your opinion on uniforms, DC Morse?" Joan asked him solemnly, although her eyes gave away that she was still playing.
"They have their place, but I'm glad I don't have to wear one every day," he admitted honestly, hoping she didn't ask about wearing them to bed. In his days as a constable he'd run into women (and a few men) who really fancied a man in uniform, and it had been awkward to politely extricate himself from the situation.
After tea, they spent the evening in the lounge with the telly. Win knitted, Fred smoked his pipe, and Joan settled onto the sofa next to Morse and looked over his shoulder from time to time while he worked a crossword.
"Gulden," she suggested at one point.
"Sorry?"
She pointed to one clue. "'The Student Prince's principal'. Old German money. Schilling won't fit, and Thaler has the 'l' in the wrong square."
"You're right." He wrote it in. "Thanks," he added, giving her one of his shy smiles.
*****
The next evening after tea, Joan led him into the kitchen to help her with the washing up. Win fussed, but after resting all day Morse was glad to make himself useful. Joan washed, he dried, and they chatted about music. Joan asked about classical and opera, and he found out that along with the Beatles, she liked Motown.
After they finished, Joan tilted her head to look at him. "I just realized that I don't know your first name."
Morse winced. "Detective."
"Oh, come on! Is it really that bad?"
"Yes."
"I was at school with a boy named Ezekiel. Is it worse than that?"
"My mum was a Quaker and my dad was a great admirer of James Cook. It's worse." He could feel his cheeks warming, but some of that might have been the stout and a hot meal inside him.
"Now you have to tell me, or you're just a tease."
"Well," Morse leaned back against the counter. "Quakers like virtue names: Patience, Charity-- my mum's name was Constance. So they named me Endeavour."
Joan's mouth dropped open. "They named you after the ship?" He nodded. "I'd have gone with James. Then again, I suppose it could have been worse. If your dad had admired Darwin-- "
Morse thought about it. "Put it that way, I can't complain." He couldn't help but laugh.
As their laughter faded, he remembered something from what felt like a long time ago. "That night at the Moonlight Rooms, when we were both there?"
"Yes?"
He lowered his voice. "I never told your dad about Jakes. I told him I was inquiring about the case, but he thinks you were there with me."
Her answer was equally quiet. "And he hasn't run you off? That's a first."
"I-- I just thought you should know. In case Jakes and you-- "
Joan wrinkled her nose. "There isn't going to be any 'Jakes and me'. Too grabby. I'm not saying it's not okay under the right circumstances. But on a first date, out at a proper nightclub rather than one of the student dives, it gets annoying to keep moving a bloke's hands off your bum. Especially when he doesn't get the message the first time. Or the second." Her voice went back to a normal volume. "Well, Detective Morse. There's trifle in the fridge. Shall we celebrate your impending promotion?"
"What promotion? Without passing the sergeants' exam, I'm stuck on general duties."
"Dad's not happy about that. He really wants you as his bagman. I'm sure he'll come up with some clever way to get Bright to agree. And then we'll celebrate your actual promotion. That will probably require cake."
*****
Morse got well enough to start feeling restless. He made sure the front walk and the patio in the back garden were swept of snow and sanded, stayed out of Win's way when she was tidying, and insisted on running the hoover for her.
Once, when it was snowing again not two hours after he'd swept and sanded, he asked her to show him how she made tea.
"It's nothing, really."
"It is. I always scald it, or use too much, or something."
So she showed him how to measure the leaves, and general amounts for each type, while he made mental notes of what kinds were in the cupboard.
He held skeins of yarn for her to wind. "You're good at this," Win told him. "The kids fidget, and Fred starts wanting a pipe. He'll hold still if there's a match on, though. I try to get all my skeins ready to wind when I know there's cricket or football coming up on the telly. Even then, I have to keep reminding him to hold his hands still."
Despite the household ban on talking police business, Morse was desperate for news, so they compromised. Fred would tell him the highlights of the day over Scotch in the dining room before tea. After that, the ban was in effect again.
One evening, Joan got home before Fred. Morse had asked her to stop by his flat to collect the post. "Your flat is a tip," she told him.
"I was out of town.Then I was in hospital. Doesn't that count?"
"I dumped the milk that had gone off, and emptied the bin." Joan had hung up her coat and was sorting through the little pile of envelopes. "Advert. Gas bill. Electric bill." She handed the envelopes over one by one as she read them off, keeping the others away from him. "Advert. Sweepstakes. Bank statement-- I should have looked at that to see where you can afford to take me." She was moving gracefully around the entry, keeping just out of his reach as he followed her.
"Oh, am I taking you out?" He smiled, enjoying having a playful moment. It reminded him of being young and lighthearted and silly with Joyce, but with a delicious frisson that had never been present with his sister.
"Unless you're planning on inviting Peter Jakes."
"I prefer my dates with fewer whiskers than I've got." He made a playful grab for the envelopes, not trying too hard. They were laughing, neither in a hurry for the game to end.
"Advert. Something from the Signal Corps."
"Reunion, probably."
"Aaand-- " this was why she' drawn it out, made a game of it. That and how good Morse looked when he smiled and laughed. "Something from the police. Are you wanted by the coppers? Are there warrants out for you? Stealing Jaguars, I'll bet."
"You've caught me out. I'm Toad of Toad Hall when it comes to Jaguars. Can't walk past one without taking it for a spin." Laughing at the idea, Joan relented and handed over the last envelope. "I really have no idea what this is." He opened it. "In light of my valuable work of late and overall improvement, Bright's approved a pay rise. Not as much as a sergeant earns, but enough to make a difference. It's not a promotion, but it's a step in the right direction."
"Congratulations!" Joan gave him a kiss on the cheek and darted upstairs, leaving Morse in the entry with the post in one hand, the other touching where she'd kissed him, and a dazed expression on his face.
That was how Fred found him a few seconds later when he opened the front door. "Morse?"
"Bright complimented my work and gave me a pay rise ," he breathed.
"Good on you." Fred hung up his hat and coat and continued through to Win in the kitchen. "Hello, pet."
"Fred!" She gave him a kiss. "Pull the door to." When he did, she lowered her voice. "You just missed the sweetest scene in the hall. Joanie teasing Morse, handing over his post one by one, both of them laughing and chasing each other around the hall. And her looking over his shoulder while he read his letter. He's such a gentle, steady lad, but so shy-- I think they could be good for one another."
"Building castles in the air, pet?" Fred asked affectionately as he stole a taste of the stew simmering on the hob. "Don't get ahead of yourself. But he is a good man, and has the makings of a fine detective."
"I much prefer him to that Jakes fellow that was eyeing her," Win said decidedly.
"DS Jakes? Eyeing our Joan? I'd never noticed. Best keep an eye on that one."
That night before he went to sleep, Morse penciled an old poem he remembered onto the flyleaf of one of his books.
Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that health and wealth have missed me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kissed me.
He carefully erased 'Jenny,' replacing it with 'Joanie'.
*****
By the time his week with the Thursdays was up, Morse was feeling mostly back to himself. He was missing work and the station, and there had been an odd little case at Wolvercote that he was eager to look into. Win wanted to keep him longer, fretting that he was still too thin, and made sure he knew he was expected to join the family for dinner every Sunday. And that she would be sending sandwiches along with Fred every work day.
Joan had been right: his flat really was a mess, he had to admit, spending his last day off excavating and disinfecting, getting in fresh milk, bread, and eggs, finally deciding the place was decent.
The next morning when he arrived at work, Bright immediately handed him the 'I will get any work-related injuries seen to immediately' paperwork to sign. Then he handed Morse a second set of paperwork for his pay increase. "Congratulations, Morse," he said with as close to warmth as he got with the young detective.
"Thank you, sir." Morse signed everything.
"You're assigned to DI Thursday. Learn everything you can from him. And try to keep the flights of fancy under control."
Morse managed not to bristle or laugh. "I'll do my best, sir."
Then it was time to check out a Jaguar and go pick up his boss. Joan was there, too. "Can I get a lift in, Detective Morse?"
"If it's all right with my boss," he smiled, still a little shy.
"Oh get in, you silly lass," Fred told her fondly. He handed a sandwich to Morse. "Wednesday."
"Ham and cheese," Morse and Joan chorused.
"Indeed. Let's go, Detective."