Page 18 of Under Cover
“Unless Toby’s out at a gig,” Crosby confirmed. “Then the whole menagerie just sort of follows him out on the town. That’s three, four times a week.”
Toby may have had a perpetual party in his apartment, but he rarely, if ever, partook of it. He actually slept regular hours, in his own room, usually alone, and he worked hard drumming up gigs and negotiating top price for them. When the money had started flowing in, Crosby had been first on his invitation list to come out and party in the city, and Crosby had taken him up on it, back when he worked in Chi-town. When the SCTF offer had come up, he’d called Toby asking for apartment advice, and Toby had extended a hand. The situationwasn’tideal—and Crosby was sure Toby could use his bedroom to set up his equipment and work, practice, whatever, but neither of them complained, Crosby figured, because the basics hadn’t changed. Crosby was still a stand-up friend who had protected Toby and his friends on more than one occasion, and Toby was still a really decent guy who hadn’t let fame and experience change him.
“Toby’s cool,” Garcia said, sounding sincere. “But I swear there was a guy out there smoking something the ATF doesn’t even have a name for yet.”
“Was the window open?” Crosby asked, a smile twisting his mouth.
“Yeah.”
“Sometimes that’s all I can ask.” He appreciated the smile. “How’s work?” The truth was he resented the hell out of being laid up.
“We miss you,” Garcia said, so much feeling in his voice that Crosby felt warmed.
“They been treating you okay?” Crosby knew his team wouldn’t leave the new guy out to flounder—they hadn’t lethissorry ass sink, right? But he also knew that his streak of protectiveness toward Garcia hadn’t faded during the two weeks in the hospital, or this last week on bed rest either. The new guy had been snarky, funny, and well, fun to look at, although Crosby would keepthatthought to himself.
What hecouldadmit, though, was that after three weeks off duty, he really missed the damned job.
The hunt and chase was fun in a way he hadn’t known could happen in law enforcement. A lot of a patrolman’s life was walking or driving beats or handling petty crimes or domestic disturbances. This job was higher stakes, usually, and once they had a perpetrator in their sights, they were all bullets from the same gun. There was no rousting people, no giving poor people crap because rich people said so, no worrying that standing up to do the right thing would get him on somebody else’s bad side. The right thing was the right thing with the SCTF. If he’d even known the job had existed when he’d been in Chicago, he’d have hunted for it himself.
“Yeah,” Garcia said, smiling slightly. “Thanks for telling Gail about the food thing, though. The eating thing. We were out on the job three days ago, and I guess my face got a little pale, and suddenly three people were shoving protein bars into my hand. As soon as the case was over, Chadwick stopped at a burger joint for ‘no reason at all.’” He held up his fingers in air quotes. “It was like everybody knew, nobody was going to say something, and damned if I wasn’t going to get fed.” He gave Crosby a wink. “Best group of people I’ve ever worked with if the last few weeks are to judge by.”
Crosby nodded, pleased. “Yeah. I’ll second that. I’m glad they’re treating you right.”
“Well, they want to treat you right, and Gail said you were having a hard time getting to PT. I get it. The elevator here would make my lungs burst too if I had to ride that thing down to street level and call a cab. Anyway, we have a solution for you.”
“Yeah?” He was suddenly feeling a little more awake and, at the same time, more relaxed than he’d been since he’d gotten back from the hospital.
“Yeah. Gail’s back.Sheneeds PT too, but she’s good for on-site stuff and showing me the ropes—who to talk to, what to look for. We figure that if we give Chadwick and Carlyle a feeb buddy—”
Crosby suppressed a snort at the disrespectful appellation of the FBI, and Garcia twinkled those dark eyes at him and kept going.
“Anyway, they get a feeb buddy to train other divisions of SCTF folks and maybe do some SCTF magic themselves, and I get Gail to maybe slow my roll into the division until she can run without throwing up. And you get to run point on our ops, like Gail did, since Harding informs me that your ‘I’m not that fast and not that smart’ routine is pure bullshit and you have a minor in computer sciences to back up your double major.”
“I’m a meatloaf,” Crosby joked. “Everybody knows it. My first gig I got taken out by puppies, remember?”
Garcia snorted and leaned forward on his elbows so their faces were very, very close. “You’d get to come in, run point, and use your off time in the gym with the spotter who works with the feebs. Your brain works fine, and Gail needs to not be running balls-out, so she can back you up when you need to rest. What do you think?”
Crosby’s eyes burned as he contemplated another four to six weeks lying there like a lump while Toby tried to channel Andy Warhol through a new music mix.
“Sounds like a plan,” he rasped. “Did you and Harding cook that up?”
“Whole team,” Garcia said softly. “Gail came back and said you were miserable. We didn’t want to let you suffer. Yeah?”
“Like I said—best team on the planet.” He smiled and closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted. “What happens if there’s no need for a point man? I do paperwork?”
Garcia laughed. “You sleep, big guy.” He stood and did that hair pushing thing, and Crosby wished he had the balls to capture his hand and keep it on his face. It felt so good. Warm and reassuring. God, it was nice to be cared about. “Just like now,” Garcia finished, his thumb giving a careful brush against Crosby’s cheekbone.
Crosby wanted to say something—acknowledge the tenderness, thank his new partner and friend for the solution to what was going to be a four-to-five-week problem,something—when Garcia withdrew his hand and said briskly, “Enjoy your nap, right? We’ll all be seeing you in a week, ’cause that’s the earliest Harding could get you approved back for duty. Take it easy, right? Don’t breathe too deep, and I promise if the DEA raids this place, I’ll back up your complete ignorance of all that stuff in the front room, sweartagod.”
Crosby might have laughed—he wasn’t sure—but he did know he was asleep before Garcia closed the door behind him.
GARCIA DIDN’Tseem to think the time away or the temporary change in assignments was any sort of divider between them. As far as he was concerned, they were still partners after that one eventful day. The morning Crosby returned, taking Gail’s spot as point man when everybody was out, Garcia greeted him with a new coffee cup that said, “Let’s keep the dumbfuckery to a minimum today” and was filled with something fresh-ground and cinnamon-y with what tasted like real cream.
He closed his eyes and inhaled first, then gave Garcia a look that probably carried far too much gratitude.
“You let Joey make the coffee, didn’t you?” he breathed.
“Well, yeah!” Garcia grinned. “We let Joey make the coffee, let Gideon find the places to eat, Natalia orders the pastries, and Gail has healthy snacks—protein bars, cheese sticks, beef jerky. She’ll hook you up.”
