Page 41 of Manner of Death
“So, um…” Sawyer scratched the back of his neck. “There’s—” He bit his lip. After a moment, he started to lean forward, probably to put his glass on the table, but then hissed a curse.
“Here.” Bashir took the glass. “You probably shouldn’t be moving more than you have to.”
Through his teeth, Sawyer muttered, “Probably not.” Eyes squeezed shut, he sat back again, “Fuck, that hurts.”
Bashir grimaced as he put Sawyer’s glass down. Sitting back himself, he said, “Anything I can do to help?”
“Not really.” Sawyer fidgeted a little, then slowly pushed out a breath before he met Bashir’s gaze with a less than convincing smile. “I’ll be fine.”
Sure he would.
Bashir opened his mouth to suggest driving Sawyer home so he could rest—they could do this another night—but Sawyer spoke first.
“Listen, I really want this to be a… not work-related thing, you know?” He met Bashir’s eyes. “I don’t want to get into shop talk.” He inhaled as deeply as his pain apparently allowed. “But there’s something I need your input on.”
It was a struggle not to groan with frustration or roll his eyes. There were a number of reasons Bashir resolutely did not date cops—or, well, hadn’t before Sawyer had so smoothly sidestepped all his defenses—and this was one of them. At the same time, though, they were both up to their chins in an absolute circus of weird murders, and there really wasn’t any clocking out completely from something like that.
So, he took a gulp of wine, then put the glass down beside Sawyer’s. Facing Sawyer, he rested his elbow on the back of the couch. “All right. What’s on your mind?”
Sawyer met him with apologetic eyes. “The thing is, I’ve been thinking about these last few murders. About the pattern.”
“You’ve found a pattern?” Bashir asked dryly. “Because I sure as hell can’t find one besides ‘they’re fucking weird.’”
“Yeah, that’s… That’s kind of the pattern.”
Bashir raised his eyebrows.
Sawyer shifted slightly, pausing for a sharp inhalation. God, he really did look miserable. He pulled it together, though, and said, “I don’t think this is a serial killer getting his rocks off by torturing or mutilating people. I think they’re fucking with us.”
“With—” Bashir stared at him. “What do you mean?”
“Well, look at how absolutely bizarre the deaths have been. That’s—I mean, that’s literally the only thing connecting them to each other besides happening within the same time period and geographical area. The fact that the causes of death are weird and hard to pin down.”
Bashir nodded as he spoke. It did make an unnerving amount of sense, especially since the chosen causes of death were anything but protracted. Yellow oleander worked within hours. Certain types of snake venom within minutes. And a bullet through the heart didn’t exactly lend itself to a lengthy monologue of last words.
He regarded Sawyer curiously. “So, you think the killer is fucking with us?”
“Yeah. Like I don’t know if he gets a charge out of watching us try to solve the puzzle, or if he’s trying to get us to trip up, or…” Sawyer shook his head. “I don’t know. But my gut says the motive relates to us more than the victims.”
Bashir hadn’t had nearly enough wine for this conversation, and he drained his glass. “Fuck. So…” He glanced at Sawyer as he poured himself some more wine and topped off Sawyer’s glass for good measure. “What do we do? Bring in every podcaster and true crime enthusiast?” His own question gave him pause. “You don’t think Felix is our killer, do you?”
Sawyer pursed his lips, but then shook his head again as he took the offered glass from Bashir. “No. I think our killer has been in contact with him—and I’ve got my partner following up to see if she can tug on that thread a bit more—but I don’t think he’s a suspect.” He brought up his glass and muttered, “Just a fucking moron with a lawyer who needs to be tossed in the river.”
Bashir choked on his own wine, clapping a hand over his mouth and barely keeping himself from spitting pinot noir all over Sawyer. To his credit, Sawyer looked a little sheepish, though the curl of his lips didn’t offer up much contrition.
The grin came fully to life as he asked, “You all right?”
Bashir flipped him off, which earned him a laugh that had no business being that attractive. Of course that laugh also made Sawyer wince, and Bashir decided he deserved that.
When he was done sputtering, he took another drink and cleared his throat. “You don’t like his lawyer, I take it?”
“Oh my God.” Sawyer groaned and rolled his eyes. “It’s like he paid enough attention in law school to get his degree and pass the bar, but the vast majority of his legal education came from movies. Like he watched the worst of the worst lawyers Hollywood could conjure up, and he said”—Sawyer snapped his fingers and pointed toward Bashir’s TV—“that is the kind of attorney I want to be.”
Bashir laughed. “Do I even want to know who it was?”
Sawyer made unhappy noise, then muttered into his glass, “Devon Larue.”
It was Bashir’s turn for a groan. “Oh, fuck. That guy?”