Free Deception (Southern Comfort) by Lisa Clark O'Neill

a maze of desks that were partitioned into supposedly soundproof cubicles, Josh nodded to a few detectives who were busily taking phone calls or typing out reports, heading unerringly toward his space at the back of the bullpen.  Since most of his work – which included the two dimensional reconstruction of crime scenes, composites of wanted criminals based on the descriptions of witnesses or victims, and both two and three dimensional facial reconstruction of decomposed and unidentified victims of violent crimes – meshed with that of the homicide department, he’d been given a cubicle near that particular group of detectives.  Offering a cheerful “good morning” to Mac Washington, a big bear of a black man with a stern countenance, resounding bass voice, and a toy poodle named Frou-frou, Josh deposited the stack of sketch pads he’d been carrying onto the corner of his desk before booting up his computer.  His particular machine – a laptop, so that he could utilize it in the field when the occasion called for it– was both newer and more powerful than those on the desks of his counterparts, as it contained a lot of extra programs including AutoCAD and Corel Draw, tools he used for various image enhancements, that his fellow flatfoots just didn’t need.
    Draping his jacket over the back of his chair with one hand, Josh loosened his tie with the other before settling himself at his desk.  Catching Mac’s surreptitious glance and raised brow, he figured the red, lilac and tan striped Ferragamo tie wasn’t earning him any more points than his lavender oxford, but hell, the man had a dog named Frou-frou, for God’s sake, so he really didn’t have room to sneer.  But given the fact that Mac was ab out six-five and an easy two fifty, he figured the guy could wear a tutu to work and no one would say anything. 
    At least if they wanted to keep their teeth.
    And Josh had a weakness for nice clothes.  He admitted it.  Didn’t apologize.  Some guys had their boats or their power tools or their motorcycles, and he had Ralph Lauren.  A couple Armani suits of which he was inordinately fond.  And he’d been known to get excited over a really great leather jacket, or yeah, that butter-colored cashmere sweater when he discovered it was on sale.
    Hot damn, that had been a find.
    He realized some of the other guys regarded him a little suspiciously, but then let them think what they wanted.  He’d crested that particular hill eons ago when he’d told his dad he wanted to study art, and all that dust had eventually settled.  The uber-macho types around here would just have to get used to the fact that he could dress nicely, smell good, know pointillism from chiaroscuro and still be a man. 
    Masculinity safely in hand, Josh leaned back in his seat and logged onto his computer.  There was the usual slew of email, some crap about budget cutbacks, and a document he’d been waiting for from the CPD’s insurance carrier.  The new insurance company had been duking it out with both him and his old carrier over some of his physical therapy sessions, making noise about pre-existing conditions, and his insurance-related headache made him think once more of Sam.  Justin had been a little reticent to go into too many details, being of the opinion that if Josh wanted to know he should ask Sam, but he’d managed to wrangle enough info out of the good doctor to figure out that Sam was drowning in medical debt.  She was apparently fighting an uphill battle over the fact that she and the insurance company which covered her brother’s policy had very different opinions about what constituted adequate long-term care, and so she’d resorted to pretty much prostituting herself in order to keep her brother where she felt he needed to be.
    Shit.  He rubbed a weary hand across his face.  Stripping wasn’t exactly prostitution, and he had no problem with it in and of itself, but Josh was having a hard time thinking about Sam