DEX WAS well on his way to having yet another spectacular clusterfuck of a week, despite feeling pretty confident things couldn’t possibly get any worse than they’d been recently. After all, the last month had been pretty epic in the “screw you” department. It had been so bad, he’d actually been looking forward to the end of his two weeks’ paid leave in order to get back to work. Oh, Dex, you silly boy.
Things can only get better.
Isn’t that what Dex had been told this morning? Well, more like that’s what the song on the radio had been harping about on his way to work. That’s the last time he allowed himself to be reassured by an eighties song. Retro Radio was going to be deleted from his playlist first chance he got. That’s if his head cleared up enough by the end of his shift to let him make sense of all the shiny glowing buttons on the dash of his car. Nothing like a good old fashioned shit-kicking to start your morning on your first day back at work.
It was true he’d been expecting some anger and hostility to come his way after what he’d done. The dirty looks and shoves into lockers or various similarly occupied spaces, his paperwork doubling up as toilet paper in the restroom, his desk drawers filled with everything from doggie chew toys to rubber mice. All of it had been expected. Unpleasant, but expected. The friendly beatings? Not so much.
“Tissue?”
With a nod of thanks, Dex took the little paper hankie offered by Captain McGrier and dabbed his split lip. He resumed his slouching, tonguing the sore spot inside his mouth where he’d bitten himself after the first punch hit. His body was aching and his head was killing him, but at least he was pretty sure he wasn’t concussed.
“Where’d they get you this time?” McGrier’s bushy white brows drew together in an expression that could have meant anything from “I hope Anne’s not making meatloaf again,” to “I’m seriously considering punching you myself.” For a man who only had one facial expression, he was sure tough to get a read on.
“Evidence,” Dex replied. Knowing what McGrier was going to ask next, Dex didn’t bother waiting. “And no, I didn’t see who it was.”
Peterson, Johnson, Malone, Rodriguez, and the IT guy with the Mohawk and face full of shrapnel. What the hell was his name? Nick? Ned? Ned. Dick Ned.
Of course Dex had seen who it was. They both knew he’d seen who it was. Or more specifically, who they had been, but Dex wasn’t about to rat out his own brethren, even if his brethren had happily worked him over moments ago in the isolated evidence locker. Damn. How had he become the most hated guy in the precinct? Even Bill—the guy who ate other people’s lunches from the fridge, was less hated than him.
McGrier sighed heavily, his chair letting out a screeching protest as he leaned his heavy mass back. “You’re one hell of a detective, Daley, but the fact remains, this can’t go on.”
“No kidding,” Dex grumbled. “My dry cleaning bill’s tripled in the last month.”
“You’re the only detective I know who comes to work looking like he stepped out of a goddamn men’s fashion magazine. What the fuck is that in your hair?”
Dex instinctively touched his tousled locks. “Forming cream.”
McGrier leaned forward and sniffed. “And what’s that smell?”
“Citrus mint,” Dex muttered, leaning away from him. “FYI, that was kind of creepy.”
“FYI, you realize you’re a homicide detective, right?”
“What are you trying to say?” Just because he felt like crap didn’t mean he had to look it. Judging by the state of his captain’s office, it was a pretty safe bet McGrier didn’t agree. It was as if the man had an aversion to tidiness. Whenever McGrier called him in, Dex always managed to hover by the door and not step foot inside the Den of Disorder. It was a clean freak’s worst nightmare. Dex’s worst nightmare.
The leaves of the fake potted fern on top of the beat-up filing cabinet were drooping from the thick layers of dust. There were stacks of files—crookedly stacked files—with sheets sticking out every which way on every available surface. On file boxes along the side of the room. On McGrier’s desk underneath three coffee mugs—one of which deserved nothing short of incineration, though the tar-like remnants of what had once been a thin layer of coffee might cause it to explode. How did the man work in this? The whole place was in need o
f a hazmat team.
“You eat Cheesy Doodles at your desk,” McGrier informed him.
How’d they go from hair gel to cheese snacks? “Hey, don’t knock the crunchy cheesy goodness. You’re always eating pistachios—which, by the way, are messier—and you don’t hear me bitching about it.” Dex nodded toward the war zone of tiny shells on the desk in front of McGrier.
“Kids eat Cheesy Doodles. Grown men eat nuts.”
Dex arched an eyebrow and opened his mouth only to have McGrier jab a finger at him. “Don’t you even think about it, wiseass.”
“I was only going to say that grown men eat Cheesy Doodles, too. That’s why they put extreme on the packaging. And explosions. What’s manlier than explosions?” McGrier’s lips pressed together in what Dex translated to be some form of disapproval, so Dex decided to be serious for a moment. “All right, sir, you didn’t call me into your office to talk about my wardrobe, Cheesy Doodles, or my love of nuts.” Well, he’d tried. Judging by McGrier’s scowl, he’d failed. “Fine, I’m sorry. Tell me what this is about.”
“I think you know what this is about.”
Dex couldn’t even come up with a smartass remark. “Yeah, I know. What was I supposed to have done?” No way McGrier would answer that, but Dex liked to play the “what if” game with himself every now and then.
“You did what you believed was right. You need to stop beating yourself up over it.”
He would have thought McGrier was trying to be funny if he suspected for even a moment the man had a sense of humor. “Why would I beat myself up when I’ve got plenty of other people to do that for me?” McGrier was unsurprisingly not impressed with his reply.
“I know you feel like shit right now, and I’m afraid what I have to say isn’t going to make things any better.”