When we return, Sam's back at his apartment having Chinese food and scribbling notes on a piece of paper -- either he's sussing out the AAA Check Cashing case or his run-in with the Mars rover is going on his Dead, Unconscious or Crazy List. But who's peeking out from inside the doorway, calling a name that's lighter than air? Who's popping round to bring Sam lasagna? Everyone knows it's Windy. She is, disappointingly, clothed this time around, taking away her most compelling character trait. Anyhow, it's your typical lasagna -- pasta, tomatoes, ricotta cheese, some zucchini, a little marijuana, other herbs and vegetables. Sam would like very much to back up to the part about the marijuana-laced pasta dish. "You know I'm a cop," Sam tells Windy cautiously. "Then you must get the really good stuff," she replies. No generic, off-brand grass for our man Sam. Anyhow, Sam would like to spend less time ingesting marijuana and more time picking what's left of Windy's brain in regards to that thing she mentioned about sending messages to loved ones through the clouds. "Do the clouds ever respond?" he asked. They do not, Windy tells him. "I never hear from the clouds," she says, "but the stars -- they won't shut up." Uh... huh. How much marijuana did you say was in that lasagna again? "Because the stars speak for the lonely blue hearts," she continues. "And the lonely blue hearts tell the truth." And with that Windy is off -- off to flit and float through this great big wide world of ours. Or possibly to go and get high. Well, high-er to be entirely accurate.
Things are decidedly less quirky and free-spirited the next morning at the 125th Precinct where Sam's arrival is greeted by the other detectives about as warmly as Joe Lieberman at the next Senate Democrats get-together. I believe the words Carling uses include "sneaky little rat tail." Sam wants to know what's going on. "Look at him play possum," Carling snorts derisively. "Rats, possums," Sam mutters. "What did I tell you about analogies, Ray?" Technically, he's mixing metaphors, but even more to the point, it seems that someone's secret conversation with Lee Crocker is no longer a secret. At that moment, Hunt emerges from his office, his moobs barely constrained by his wife-beater undershirt. "Did you really think it wouldn't get back to me?" Hunt sneers, shutting the door in Sam's face. Carling looks like a kid on Christmas morning. And the gift he's just received is the abject humiliation of his enemy. Try giving it to your loved one this holiday season.