Page 8 of Under Cover
“You’re making this awfully personal,” Garcia said.
“I’m just saying. Taking out the runner in a fit of temper was cold. And then going into that house to take out the father or mother who owed him money was cold, but it was also methodical. We’re looking at a true sociopath here. People aren’t people to him. They’re a means to an end, and his end is paying off his Wall Street debt and playing some more.”
Garcia let out a low whistle. “I mean, I’m used to working with scumbags, but this guy—he’s elevating the art, you know?”
“I do,” Crosby agreed. “But that’s why I think finding at least one of the runners is important. I don’t even know if Sewell will target them, buttheyknow who his biggest clients are and who owes him the big bucks.”
“Well, sucks that all his clients are on the other side of the island,” Garcia said, staring moodily at the acres of grass-covered landfill they were passing.
“Yeah, but that’s where Clint and Natalia are,” Crosby said. “We get the runner, he gets us the info, we pass the info to the people close enough to get the bad guy. It’s a good system.”
“It really doesn’t bother you?” Garcia asked. “Who gets the bust?”
“Our team gets the bust,” Crosby said, nodding fiercely because he believed it. “Our team gets the big bust, and we get the big cases and the big toys and the autonomy. No bosses telling us which puddle to piss in, you know?”
“God yes.” Garcia gave a truly visceral shudder, and Crosby sensed a story.
“Bad?”
“Not this last guy in the ATF, no. Collins was decent. But I worked a small-town police force for a year out of the military. Bad. Man, it was fuckin’ bad.”
Crosby grunted. He knew from bad. “Bad at the top?” he asked. “Or bad through and through?”
“Dumb,” Garcia spat. “Racist. Brown kid always did it. White guy always told the truth.”
Crosby swallowed and nodded. “Yeah.” He didn’t want to talk about this—God, he didn’t. But he was a big dumb white guy, and he’d readily admitted to not being the fastest or the smartest. Garcia needed a reason to trust him.
“Chicago cop,” he muttered. “Partner shot a kid in the back.” For the rest of his life, he would have that horror movie playing in his mind, including the wide, surprised eyes of the unarmed sixteen-year-old who’d been cutting through a neighbor’s backyard because he was late getting home. “I testified against my partner in the deposition, because it wasn’t a fair shoot. I started getting death threats, and my parents started getting death threats. And then Clint Harding called, and my parents got a nice condo in New Mexico and I got placed with all these frickin’ law enforcement geniuses because Harding felt sorry for me, I guess. I’m a meatloaf who can handle a sniper rifle. I’m sorry. You should’ve gotten someone good.”
“Were you able to testify in court?” Garcia asked.
Crosby shook his head. “They didn’t even indict the fucker. If you ever see a forty-year-old Irishman asking for ‘Mudson,’ do me a favor and let me know, because he’s got a bullet with my name on it.” Collie McEnany—he’d made some of those death threats face-to-face.
“You don’t want me to take him out for you?” Garcia asked, eyebrows raised.
“I don’t know. Work with me for a week and make your own decisions.”
“You’ve got a criminal justice degree with a double major in history and a minor in comp/sci,” Garcia said, squinting at him. “Why the meatloaf routine?”
Oh. Well, Garcia had apparently done his homework on his teammates. Crosby hadn’t even known he was coming.
“’Cause that shit didn’t come easy,” Crosby told him honestly. “I’m so thick sometimes. I… my department, my captain, they kept telling me, ‘You’re gonna do the right thing, right, Crosby?’ and I was like, ‘Of course.’ Then I talked to the lawyer and my union rep and the internal affairs guy, and before I even had a chance to get crosstown to my apartment after the deposition, my phone was blowing up with death threats and bullshit. And until right that moment, I thought ‘Do the right thing’ meant, you know,doing the right thing.It wasn’t until my parents started getting calls that I realized ‘Do the right thing’ meant, ‘Don’t make us shoot innocent people because you know the difference between a fair shoot and hitting a sixteen-year-old in the back with a forty-five for running while Black.’ I mean, it takes a special kind of stupid to not see that coming.”
Garcia grunted, and Crosby thought that was agreement, but then he said, “I don’t think it’s stupid.”
Crosby didn’t know what to do with that. “How’d you get recruited?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. I did one tour of Iraq, that shitacular year in Florida?”
“Small-town,” Crosby said, making sure.
“Yeah. And when I was in Florida, I blew a drug case wide open, and the ATF took pity on me. And then, to secure my loyalty forever, they stationed me in Manhattan, right when my nana was offering me her house in Queens.”
“Oh my God,” Crosby said with a laugh. “Someone fuckin’lovesyou!”
“You understand!” Garcia crowed. “And I’ve spent the last four years getting rid of flowered wallpaper and avocado recliners in between, you know, doing my job.”
“Were the recliners comfortable?” Crosby asked, only partially facetious. God, his roommate had horrible taste in furniture. He sometimes thought the only reason he let Iliana treat him like a flesh-covered dildo was because of that couch.
