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The bruiseon the right side of my face was fucking spectacular, and it went really well with the mottled pattern of scrapes and bruises covering the rest of me. At least the ghost had the fucking decency to hit me on the side of my face that hadn’t recently been bleeding from a broken bottle.
Doc had fretted at me for a while about concussions and head trauma, and I told him that while I might not have a skull as thick as his, it took a lot more than a flying coffee mug to take me out.
He hadn’t looked particularly convinced, but he’d let it go.
The Captain had asked me if the blooming bruise had come from Jeremiah Oldham, and I’d had to admit that, no, it had come from his dead wife, who was pissed at me about a jump drive I’d found in a magically locked cabinet in the office.
The living Mr. Oldham had threatened to sue me, personally, as well as the RPD, for harassment and excessive force, although that was absolutely dead in the water since it wasn’t even me who’d arrested Oldham—that had been Gillies, who had done it one hundred percent by the book. The Captain had suggested not-so-politely what the lawyer could do with his supposed law suit.
“What the fuck did youdo, Hart?” Raj asked me, walking up to my desk.
I looked up as Taavi chuffed a hello to Raj.
“This?” I asked, waving at my face.
“Shit, no. I was asking why your name came across my desk, but, sure, now that you’ve pointed it out, what did happen to your face?”
“Faith Oldham threw a coffee mug at me.”
Raj stared at me for a long moment. “You spoke to Faith Oldham before her death?”
“Nope. This was definitely after her death,” I told him.
Raj’s dark eyebrows rose sharply. “Shit.”
“Shit indeed.”
“Hart!” Villanova’s voice echoed across the bullpen.
I stood, slowly, still sore even five days later. “Yessir?”
“Find out what’s on that damn drive, Hart.” Oldham’s lawyer had filed an injunction, claiming we had no right to search the office because… reasons. I therefore had not been given permission—and had, in fact, had that permission explicitly withheld—to look at the drive. I’d behaved myself, but kept it in my desk for the precise moment when somebody threw out that injunction, since it was complete bullshit. It seemed like now was that moment.
“I’m clear, sir?”
“Judge Waters just gave the order.”
“Yessir.”
I sat back down, then pulled the sealed evidence baggie out of my desk drawer.
“You wanna be my witness?” I asked Raj.
He pulled a chair from the empty desk next to me and sat backwards on it, crossing his arms over the back. “What am I witnessing?”
“No clue. Now what did you mean, what the fuck did I do?”
“Harassment and brutality?” Raj asked.
“The mug-thrower’s MFM husband,” I answered. “I literally didn’t touch him, even after he spat in my face.”
Raj blinked. “He spat in your face?”
“Yep. I got five witnesses and a Kleenex in evidence with his disgusting spit on it, too.”
Raj let out a short laugh. “So it’s a waste of my time.”
“God, yes. I’ve done some shit in my career that, while I think it was fully justified, I could see being… ah… sketchy,” I admitted. Like the time I’d tripped a suspect who was being a complete asshat to the arresting officer because he liked the shape of her butt. Or the time I’d overlooked a small amount of weed in somebody’s coat pocket when I was doing a weapons search—he had no weapons. That was before they’d legalized it, and I have no regrets about that one, either. That guy’s brother had been a real piece of work, but the kid was just hitching a ride home from the airport and didn’t deserve to have his life ruined because his brother was a fuckup.
