“Smart helps though,” she grins, shrugging, the last of her tension fading.

She gives him a shrewd look. “Forensic psychologist, so you’ve got like, degrees and shit. Working for the NYPD, which means you make shit. Which means you’re totally a trust fund brat, aren’t you.”

She throws up her hands in something vaguely like a shrug. “What do you do for the cops anyway? You’re too educated for them to turn you loose on pickpockets.”