Page 23 of Manner of Death
Tami’s eyebrows jumped. “You do? Like… like plans? The kinds of plans normal people have?”
He shot her a look, but couldn’t help chuckling when she offered an innocent smile. “Yes, Tami.” He pocketed his keys. “In fact, maybe I’ll get lucky and my date won’t get interrupted.” Yeah, that would be the day.
“Oh, really?” She grinned. “Another date? Did that guy from the other night decide to give you another shot?”
The guy from… The other night… What?
But then the piece clicked into place and he remembered Max and their truncated attempt at dinner. Why did that feel like months ago? Probably because the two cases of fuckery that had dropped into his lap had made time go wonky.
Clearing his throat, Bashir pulled on his jacket. “No, I don’t think he’s interested. I, um…” He tugged at one of his sleeves. “I decided to take Detective Villeray up on his—”
“You’re going out with him?” she squeaked. “Are you serious?”
He blinked, caught off-guard by her sudden shift. “Um. Yes?”
She scoffed. “What? Why? You said you don’t date cops. And I thought you didn’t like him!”
“I don’t. And I didn’t.” Bashir shrugged. “But I guess he’s kind of growing on me.”
“Mildew grows on things,” she muttered. “So does fungus.”
He chuckled and rolled his eyes as he started for the door. “Villeray’s a little more charming than either of those things.”
She followed. “Black mold, then?”
“Tami.” He shook his head. “He’s a decent guy. And it’s just a date.” He huffed a humorless laugh as he pushed open the door for both of them. “Maybe it’ll go well. Maybe it won’t. As long as we can get through dinner without anyone dying, I’ll call it a win.”
She frowned but said nothing until they were in the parking garage, at which point she gave him a curt goodbye before continuing to her car. He watched her go, trying to make sense of her sudden one-eighty.
Shaking his head, Bashir got into his own car. She did have a jealous bone when it came to him and they both knew it. He was used to that. And admittedly, what he was doing with Sawyer was out of the ordinary for him. He did not date cops. That was just asking for a relationship where they never saw each other unless they ended up at the same crime scene or in the same courtroom.
He was getting way ahead of himself, though. They weren’t dating. It was one date. It was just dinner, really. By the time the entrees arrived, they’d probably both realize this was never going to last, and they’d just agree to enjoy a relaxed meal with a colleague with no pressure and no expectations. Then they’d split the bill, go their separate ways, hopefully not be awkward and uncomfortable the next time they had to be together in a professional capacity.
Best-case scenario? They made it through dinner without someone dying.
With the way this week was going, Bashir wasn’t holding his breath.
Sitting alone in the restaurant with a half-empty glass of ice water, Bashir had more than a few second thoughts. There was the whole dating cops thing. And the fact that he’d found Villeray more annoying than attractive in the beginning.
It also felt weird, going out on a date in the middle of investigating two bizarre deaths. Bashir kept telling himself that taking a night or even an hour off to do something close to normal was probably what they both needed to tackle their respective angles of the cases tomorrow. Though neither of their jobs were conducive to it, rest was important if they wanted to stay sharp.
Plus, they had to eat sometime. Might as well step away from everything, shut it all off for a while, and return to the cases with full bellies and fresh eyes. Those wouldn’t help much in the absence of things like test results and useful leads, but still.
Though what if Villeray turned out to be one of those cops who couldn’t get through a meal without telling gory tales of his job? Like that one nurse Bashir had dated a few years back who’d been mystified that most people—including his pathologist boyfriend—didn’t want to discuss bodily fluids, functions, or the failures thereof over dinner. Especially dinner in public. To this day, Bashir wanted to shrivel up and die remembering the woman who’d overheard Jesse describing… well, those details didn’t matter, but the point was that she heard more than she wanted to, and her prime rib made a violent reappearance. Bashir had apologized profusely and paid for the entire table’s meal, and he still wondered sometimes if Jesse had ever figured out why anyone—including Bashir—had been upset.
“Stuff like that happens all the time,” he’d insisted on the drive home. “What’s the big deal?”
“It happens all the time to emergency department nurses,” Bashir had explained through gritted teeth. “The general population doesn’t see it on a daily basis, and they definitely don’t go to restaurants like that to hear about it in graphic detail!”
“Pfft. It isn’t like I was talking about—”
“Jesse. Don’t.”
Jesse hadn’t. But the damage had been done, and if Detective Villeray displayed that level of obliviousness at the dinner he’d persuaded Bashir to have with him, it was entirely possible someone would die before the meal was over.
I’m getting too cynical.
Bashir laughed to himself as he took another sip of water. Yeah, he was. But between his appalling excuse for a love life and the sometimes jarring look at humanity provided by his career, well, a certain level of cynicism came with the territory. Probably explained why he was still single at forty-three and—