Page 75 of Under Cover
Gambini drew alongside Crosby as the medic strode away and grimaced at the slash on Crosby’s arm. “He’s not wrong,” he said apologetically. “What happened?”
Crosby outlined the situation, and Barnes got there in time to hear the wrap-up. Gambini eyed him with exasperation.
“Where’s yourliveperp?” he asked.
“You mean our victim?” Barnes asked facetiously. “She’s in the back of their shop,” he said, nodding toward the department-issue SUV with the cage in the back for perpetrators. They’d been on foot patrol in the area—the shop was a luxury, since it meant they didn’t have to drag their perp back to the station, which was a good eight blocks away.
“Yeah, and where were you?” Gambini asked, voice hard. “Because I’m hearing what Young hereisn’tsaying. He told you he was heading up the stairs. Where were you when he got jumped by a junkie with a meat cleaver?”
Barnes gave Crosby a “thanks for trying” look and sighed. “I was hauling my fat ass up as fast as I could, Cap. What can I say? Too much good living, not enough PT.”
Gambini groaned and tilted his head back, appealing to the heavens. When he looked back at Barnes, he said, “Rufus, I wouldloveto put you on a PT regimen and give you six weeks with your rookie to get back into shape. I really would. But we are short staffed, and youknowhow hard it is to find guys for this department. Division Commander Davies is absolutely hardline on?” He gave Crosby a surreptitious glance, and Crosby suddenly got it.
None of that Sons of the Blood crap. It was impacting her personnel recruitment in this division. Ah.
“I run in the morning,” he said helpfully. He used to run on the treadmill at HQ, but in the last three weeks, he’d taken to running the streets at 5:00 a.m., when it was quiet, since he couldn’t get any fucking sleep in his flop. “You close?”
“Could meet you at the precinct,” Barnes said reluctantly. He looked at Crosby’s wrist—the bleeding had gotten worse, not better—and sighed. “Fair?”
“I’ll bring my gear. Tomorrow?”
“Next week,” said the medic, coming up behind them. “And you, right now, in the bus. I can see your blood trail from here.”
Crosby groaned, and as he got into the bus, he saw the one thing he’d been avoiding. The medical examiner and forensic crew clustering ’round the shattered brick façade and the dead gunman behind it.
It was his turn to close his eyes and gaze up at the sky.
“Cap?” he asked, as the medic lifted his arm and started injecting him with anesthetic.
“Yeah, son?” Gambini was not that much older than Crosby, but Crosby appreciated the attempt at comfort.
“Who’d I kill?”
Gambini’s sigh was as old as he sounded. “Curtis Miller—ex-policeman and addict. You arrested his wife, Janine.” He grimaced. “She used to run the department’s Toys for Tots charity and made a hell of a chicken salad for department functions.”
“Oh Jesus,” Crosby muttered. He wanted to scrub his face with his hands, but—“Ouch!”
“Yeah, you were cut to the bone,” the medic muttered. “Make your Captain go away so I can irrigate this and we can get you to the ER.”
“Meet you there,” Gambini told him.
Great.
CROSBY MANAGEDto text Harding with an update while he was on the bus, and he’d barely pressed Send when Garcia popped up on his screen.
You got what?
Crosby smiled a little, wanting to hold the phone to his chest. They’d texted at night over the last six weeks, making updates on the case, exchanging observations.
Talking about dreams.
About how Garcia actuallywanteda family, but he’d always assumed it was out of the realm of possibility because he’d known he was gay from the get-go.
About how Crosby had been very evenly bisexual but had hidden it because he’d wanted to be a cop more than he’d wanted to be out.
About how Garcia wanted a dog or something, but he was worried about his hours.
About how Crosby would totally be up for a golden retriever and maybe they could hire a walker?
