Page 86 of Under Cover
“We all have,” Garcia said, his voice like dust.
“You more than most,” Harman observed compassionately. “I’m going to get very personal with this examination. He may not want you here.”
Garcia nodded. “I’ll leave if he wants me to.” He’d meant it, those months ago; he didn’t care where Crosby put his pecker as long as he brought it home. But he also knew Crosby would have told him if something like that had been needed. He trusted.
“Fair enough,” Harman murmured. Garcia opened the door, and his voice brightened. “Mr. Crosby, how nice to see you again!”
Crosby squinted through his swollen eyes. “I wish I could say I recognize you,” he said, “but I seriously can’t see that much. They weren’t this swollen after the fight!”
“Methamphetamines,” Harman said, his voice still compassionate as he opened his bag and took out a pair of examination gloves. “And I’m sure the fentanyl didn’t help. There was something else in there—I think aspirin, just to make it cheaper—and that also makes your bruising worse. And the Narcan made your heart beat extra fast, pushing blood under your skin. All in all, not a great day to get poisoned.” He grimaced. “The cut on your arm was adragto stop bleeding, and your nose wasn’t much better.”
Crosby groaned. “God, I’m a train wreck. That wasnothow I planned to start my day.”
Harman chuckled. “Nobody does. But yeah, you were in bad shape. It could have been worse. I talked to the boy who helped bring you in. The proximity of all the injuries with the poisoning—that wasn’t good for you either. And Narcan helps you recover from an overdose, but it leaves its own marks, including a racing heart. You were lucky he helped you outside. Any delay in getting you to treatment might have made things much, much worse.”
Crosby groaned. “Man, I gotta get back in there. The Forty Third is vulnerable, and so are my people.”
“We’ve got some news on that,” Garcia said softly. “I get that you might have to go in to protect the Forty Third, but we’re making inroads on the higher-up. We’re close, Crosby. I swear.”
They hadsomuch to say to each other about the op, but Garcia would keep the personal texts and hug them to himself for the rest of his life.
Crosby gave a brief smile. “I mean, not gonna argue. Not the worst thing, taking a few days off.”
“Good,” Harman said, probing delicately at the tissue around Crosby’s nose. “You shouldn’t go running until this is cleared up, anyway. It’s hard to tell because of all the other things jostling around your bloodstream, but I think you may have suffered a mild concussion.”
“I already wasn’t too bright,” Crosby said with half a laugh, but Garcia couldn’t laugh.
“You got out alive,” he muttered, half angrily. “You…. Dammit, Crosby.”
Crosby’s eyes darted toward Garcia. “’S no worries. M’fine.”
Harman took a deep, exasperated breath. “Calix, would you mind leaving the room for a moment?”
“’S fine,” Crosby said. “Knows everything.”
“Does he know your sexual history for the past year?”
Crosby let out something like a distorted giggle. “Yes!” he laughed. “Believe it or not, he knows the whole shebang.”
“Does he know the he-bang?” Harman asked, voice steady.
“Heisthe he-bang,” Crosby told him seriously. “Had one she-bang and one he-bang in the last year. All the bangs were on the PrEP protocol.”
Harman nodded. “Fair enough. We still sent your blood to the lab to have it tested for everything, but it helps to know. Was that the only medication you’re taking?”
“Had some antibiotics this morning, after the stabbing, before the fight,” Crosby said. “And whatever you put in my hand here.” He grimaced. “That stings like a mother, by the way. I mean, it’s dumb, right? My body got hit by a train and poisoned, but that burn on my hand is the thing driving me the most batshit.”
“I have heard that before,” Harman murmured. He stopped fiddling with Crosby’s face and checking his stitches to take his gloves off so he could pull an iPad out of a case from his bag. He tapped some things in with a stylus and then flicked what was going into Crosby’s IV. “Judson, when was the last time you ate before your no-good-very-bad day?”
Crosby grimaced—a grotesque expression on his battered face that probably hurt as well. “I dunno… probably the night before. Yeah, that’s right. I had a broccoli-cheese baked potato from a vendor the night before.”
“Solid choice. Healthy for a cop,” Harman murmured. “Do you always eat so well?”
Crosby grunted, averting his eyes right out of Garcia’s bedroom window. “I… I mean, yeah, if I can. But, you know. My stomach’s been off. Like, way off. Like… like bran muffins and apples for breakfast aren’t enough to take away the burn.”
Harman sighed. “I’m going to get personal here. Are you still comfortable with Calix in the room?”
Garcia would have needed a gun to his head to get kicked out now.
