<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua'"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#99ff99">"Agent Sullivan doesn't count," Cat told the sergeant with a sharp smile.  "He's just along to fetch my coffee and look intimidating.  Aren't you, sweetheart?"  She said it in the same syrupy sick tone that most men the sergeant's age would address a diner waitress, or their secretaries.  "If you want to talk to the FBI, that'll be me -- Mister Clarkson."  She deliberately did not refer to him by title, and wouldn't until he addressed her with what she considered due respect.  "Special Agent Catherine Gabledon, FBI.  This is my aide, Agent Gabriel Sullivan."  She waved her hand dismissively at Gabriel.  "Now, if we're done with this little pissing match -- there's a dead cop here, and he deserves a hell of a lot more of my energy than you do."<br/>
<br/>
She shouldered past the sergeant towards the hive of activity she knew would be the body and crime scene techs.  In contrast to how she spoke to the sergeant, the words she exchanged with the CME - chief medical examiner - and each of the CSIs were polite and deferential.</span></span>