Zoey/Cho and noir or steampunk (this one is noir)
Cho sits in the uncomfortable chair next to the detective's desk, fingers folded in her lap, an expression of calm confusion on her face, as though she can't imagine why she's been called in, though of course she knows full well what Zoey was actually up to last night and has been expecting this call to provide an alibi all day - yes, they were together, listened to the phonograph, played some cards, talked of hopes and dreams which are none of your business, sir, and that's all she has to say about it, arms crossed, full red lips pursed and daring as he blows a cloud of cigarette smoke between them and she refuses to bend, annoyance dripping from every scant inch of her frame as she recounts the night that actually passed a week ago over and over again, forwards and backwards and sideways without a hitch and if he's waiting for her to slip up he's going to be sorely disappointed, because Cho doesn't slip, and that's why Zoey counts on her.
Hours later when her friend is finally let into the bullpen, sparkle in her eyes telling Cho that they're right on track, and she shrugs those meaty paws off of her shoulders to take her small friend in her arms, kisses on cheeks and rolled eyes and complaints about these stupid gumshoes looking for anyone they can bully into taking the fall instead of actually trying to do their jobs and every person in the room knows it's a crock and every person in the room knows they still can't touch her. It'll be months before it's safe enough to head for the bolthole, count out the haul, drape themselves in jewels and dream about the future that's never coming, because they both know that no one ever gets out of this life, but that doesn't mean they'll stop trying.