Page 92 of Manner of Death
Nan’s eyes flicked up to meet his in the rearview. “You okay back there?”
Despite his best efforts, the pain made it into his voice as he croaked, “I’m good.”
Sawyer gingerly twisted around, his forehead lined with deep, worried creases. “Are you okay? How bad did you get banged up?”
Bashir lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. That was a mistake, because it pulled on muscles that were near the cracks in his ribs, and his breath hitched again. Still, he gritted out, “I’m good.”
Worry shifted to skepticism. “Bullshit.”
Bashir rolled his eyes. Somehow that didn’t hurt. Miracles never ceased. “I’m fine.”
Sawyer’s lips quirked. Then he returned to his seat, muttering to Nan, “Maybe go easy on the stops?”
She huffed something Bashir didn’t catch. To her credit, though, the stops and starts were a lot gentler for the rest of the relatively brief ride.
At the precinct, Bashir steeled himself for a world of pain, and he was still surprised at how much it hurt to get out of the damn car. Could he just go downstairs to the morgue and sleep on one of the slabs for the next few weeks? The stainless steel was cold, so it would be almost like an icepack, right?
He hadn’t even straightened up completely—well, as completely as he could under the circumstances—when Sawyer appeared in front of him. He reached for Bashir’s arm but hesitated as if he wasn’t sure where he could touch without causing pain.
Voice soft, he asked, “How bad is it?”
Bashir grimaced. “You ever broken ribs before?”
Sawyer’s eyes widened and his jaw went slack. “You have broken—what? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“What difference would it make?” Bashir swung the car door shut, which instantly had him wheezing because, hello, Dr. Ramin—twisting motion plus broken ribs equals fuck fuck fuuuck.
Sawyer touched his shoulder carefully. “If I’d known, I’d have taken you—” He paused. “Okay, I guess home is kind of out of the question right now. Back to my place or something. You need to rest!”
“Says the guy who literally just got out of surgery.”
“I’m fine.”
Bashir shot him a point look. Sawyer met it with a stubborn one.
“Jesus Christ, you two are disgusting.” Nan tsked. “Can we please go inside and deal with this situation so both of you can take your carcasses home?”
That sounded like a good plan to Bashir. He took Sawyer’s good hand and laced their fingers together. “Come on. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we’re sitting on a couch with a pizza and a couple of beers.”
Sawyer fell into step with him, both of them moving slowly on the way across the parking lot. “Are we supposed to drink with painkillers?”
“Eh. No. We’re not.” Bashir scowled. “Fine. Pizza and a couple of non-alcoholic doctor-approved beverages.”
“And painkillers?”
“And painkillers.”
Nan rolled her eyes as she opened the door for them. “Seriously, you guys are disgusting.”
“Haters gonna hate,” Sawyer chirped as they walked past her.
She flipped him off. Bashir laughed. Which hurt.
By the time they reached the interview room where Tami was being held, all traces of humor and banter were gone. Bashir was worried sick about his assistant, and God knew she’d been through the wringer lately. Maybe not physically like they had, but mentally? Absolutely.
He just hoped there was a way out of this for her. She was an accessory to multiple murders—the investigators had spelled that out very clearly—but it was possible there were extenuating circumstances that could earn her some leniency. The problem was that she wouldn’t talk to anyone until he was there, so no one could predict her fate right now.
Another cop who Bashir had met over the years—Detective Yang—had been trying to get her to talk, and he met Bashir, Nan, and Sawyer outside the interview room.