Valentine Mireau had been at the counter since before the crash with a cup of coffee that had gone the colour of the sink.
He had heard the door and the change in Cabot's voice and had decided, on that evidence alone, that the new coordinator was going to be interesting. Then he turned round to check.
What he found was a woman standing at the edge of the wet floor, taking inventory: Hannigan down on one knee with a paper towel, Langsford not getting up, Cabot in the white coat with a hand already at the bridge of his nose.
"New coordinator?"
Mireau said.
Cabot said yes. Mireau let the pause sit for exactly as long as it was useful.
"How long did the last one survive?"
"Eleven months,"
Langsford said.
"Fourteen,"
Hannigan said, from the floor.
"Eleven."
"She went on maternity leave."
"Exactly,"
Langsford said.
"She escaped."
Mireau drank his cold coffee and enjoyed all of it. Then he gave her the once-over that Cabot would have called unprofessional — head to shoes, three boring seconds — and looked past her at Cabot, because being caught looking was half the point of looking.
"Of course,"
he said, to the speech about professional respect.
"That sounded sincere,"
Langsford said.
"Fuck you, Langsford."
Cabot was still staring at the three of them. Mireau put his cup in the sink, took the surgical list off the counter and got out of the room before anyone could hand him a mop — which was, on somebody's first morning, the kindest thing he had to offer.