Page 46 of Manner of Death

“And he’s figured this out in the…what, five hours since he left the station?”

“I know it’s probably bullshit, but…”

Sawyer dropped his hand and looked over at Bashir, still reclined on the couch, deliciously rumpled and so fucking hard it made Sawyer’s mouth water. “I’ll be there in fifteen,” he said tiredly, then ended the call. “I…am so sorry about this.”

Bashir, because he was awesome, was more sympathetic than annoyed. “It sounds like a uniquely irritating sort of emergency.”

“It is.” He couldn’t say anything else about it, but he knew that Bashir had heard enough. “I really, really don’t want to have to leave, though.”

Bashir got to his feet. He stalked across the living room with hungry eyes, grabbed Sawyer’s face in his hands, and proceeded to kiss the breath out of him. “I don’t want you to go,” he said when they finally parted, “but I get it. And you should know that when I go to take care of this—” he stroked himself through his jeans, and Sawyer groaned “—I’ll be thinking of you.”

“You’re going to kill me,” Sawyer breathed.

That dimmed the light in Bashir’s eyes a bit. “I hope not,” he said quietly, then stepped back. “Hey, at least we made it through dinner this time.” He tipped his head toward the wine bottle. “Are you okay to drive?”

Sawyer thought about it, then nodded. “I’m good. I only had about a glass and a half, and I finished that a while ago.”

“All right. Drive carefully anyway.” Bashir smiled. “Maybe next time we’ll get through dessert, too.”

“We should do dessert first next time,” Sawyer insisted. Bashir grinned, and Sawyer left with a lighter heart than he’d thought he would. Work was a stumbling block, for both of them, but so far…

So far, they’d handled it. Now if he could just get a chance to handle Bashir.

Sawyer spent a long and tedious night reviewing footage from an irate and extremely loud Felix about how he was being stalked now because he’d had two potentially-the-same generic black SUVs drive past his house in a single hour.

In the end, he was able to talk the man down from both his demands and his threats, but he seemed committed to finding something to hold the police department directly culpable for. “For all I know, it’s a cop who’s trying to intimidate me, and you’re covering for him!” Felix said more than once. “You can’t stand that I’m getting close to the truth of this case before you are!”

“Is that what you really think?” Sawyer asked.

“I know it!”

“Does that mean you’ve become aware of new information since we last spoke…”—he checked his phone— “seven hours ago? Because if so, you’re withholding evidence from an investigation.”

“Don’t make me call my lawyer!”

No, God forbid Sawyer made him do that.

A late night turned into an early morning thanks to a hit-and-run at four a.m. The department—unexpectedly understaffed thanks to a sudden and unseasonal bout of the flu running through everyone—was pulling detectives to fill in for beat cops. Sawyer woke up to sand in his eyes and the desk sergeant in his ear. “You sure you’re not sick?” Sergeant Reyes asked after Sawyer groggily said he’d be there. “I could call Detective Walker instead.”

“Mmno, her wife just came home. I’ve got this.” As he rolled out of bed with a groan—Bashir had been right, he shouldn’t have laid down to sleep because now his back was pissed—and fumbled into some clean clothes, he kind of wished he was sick, though. Hit-and-runs were some of the worst crimes to investigate, in his opinion; they stank of avoidance and desperation and always carried terrible consequences, no matter who was at fault. And this time, with one of the club-going party girls dead on the scene and another still unconscious in the ICU, there was very little to go off so far.

But…actually, there was one faint silver lining to this very grim cloud, and that was the prospect of seeing Bashir not even half a day after they’d parted. It even made listening to Huerta go on and on about tire treads and the statistics of wear and tear in various environments tolerable.

Until the pathologist arrived. It wasn’t Bashir.

It was Boyce.

Oh, fuck my life.

“Dr. Boyce,” Sawyer said as the man walked over, shooting for professional and…eh, close enough.

“Thank you for demonstrating your ability to recall my name,” the bald pathologist said sourly as he knelt next to the body.

Thanks for demonstrating your inability to recall mine. Or, more likely, he just didn’t care to bother using it.

Awesome, this was off to a great start…if they were filming a cop show like the one his sister wanted to produce. As it was, Sawyer needed to have a working relationship with this asshole, so he didn’t pursue the disrespect. “Lena Reid, twenty-two, struck in a hit-and-run after leaving Club Tango about—” He checked his phone. “Fifty-five minutes ago. Witnesses say she died instantly.”

Dr. Boyce spent a few long moments inspecting the body before replying. “That would track with what looks like a broken neck. Vehicle make?”

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