Page 10 of Under Cover
“SCTF,” Crosby said, flipping his leather jacket back with one hand to show his badge. “And we weren’t here to arrest him—yet. We need to ask him some questions.”
“James, go back inside,” Jesse said, voice cracking. “Man, take little Jimmy and go back inside.”
“James,” Crosby said, “is there anyone inside who can watch the boy? This pertains to both of you.”
“Naw,” James said. “His mom split last year. Just the three of us since, yanno?”
Crosby thought so. He looked at Garcia, who glanced at the kid. “I’ll take him,” Garcia said, holstering his weapon. Crosby nodded. Usually he was on for kid duty, but James and Jesse seemed to be responding to Garcia. Crosby checked on Jesse.
“How you doing? Can you breathe yet?”
Jesse struggled for wind before nodding.
“Good. Let’s get you up off the ground. Now, I’m keeping you cuffed until I’m sure you won’t bolt, because we gotta get through this. You and your family, you might be in danger. You understand?”
Jesse’s face, which was flushed and blotchy from the run behind the house and his subsequent capture, turned suddenly gray.
“He’d do that?” Jesse asked, and like that they were in the meat of the case. “I…. He just shot poor Ryan. One minute the guy was raving about how we were costing him money, and the next….” His voice hitched, and he looked beseechingly at his brother. “He accused us of skimming, James. We never skimmed. We wouldn’t do that. We didn’t wanna work for this guy forever, right? So we didn’t skim. We just worked our territory and did our jobs.” He gave Crosby a horrified glance, and then, as though it occurred to him what he’d admitted to, turned his face to his shoulder. “Oh shit.”
“We’re not from Vice,” Crosby said. “And we’re not here to bust your balls. Did you know Sewell took out Julian and Rita Carpenter after you and Roger took off this morning?”
The horror on Jesse’s face told him everything he needed to know. “Julian?” Jesse squeaked. “And Rita? They were on my route! They were nice people! You can’t think I had anything to do with—oh God! Their kids! They had these two kids. Sweetest boys. Always wanted to give me a tip. Their dad kept back a few bucks so they could hand it to me. I mean, not what you wanna teach your kids about gambling, but tipping the runner—that’s manners. The kids. Sewell didn’t get the kids, did he?”
“No,” Crosby said, looking from James to Jesse. “No, he didn’t. But you said they were on your route? Why would he go after them?”
“They did a lot of business with him,” Jesse said. “He’s got maybe ten top clients. I had two, Ryan had a couple, Kyle’s got some. Sewell’s got a real chip on his shoulder about guys with more money. The Carpenters, they were both in TV. Writers. They had some cash, but….” His voice broke. “They were nice. James, they were so nice. They… remember those clothes I brought home for Jimmy? Those were from them. I told ’em how Jimmy was growing like a weed, and they had bags they were giving to thrift stores. It….” His voice broke. “They gave James work. He’s a landscaper, and he’s not getting work since the crash. And they had him redo their backyard. It’s why we can afford to fix the porch. God.”
“Jesse, you’re rambling,” James said, his voice both compassionate and frightened. “You need to let them ask you things.” James had the body and face of a high school football hero gone to seed. His cheeks were round, and his neck was steadily disappearing, but Crosby could hear it in his voice—James was good people. “Are we in danger?” he asked.
And he was apparently smart people too.
“You might be,” Crosby said, matter-of-fact. “If you want, grab some stuff for the kid, and we’ll get you set up in protective custody and a safe house until we apprehend Newton Sewell. In the meantime, me and Jesse need to have a conversation about Sewell’s biggest clients and who Jesse thinks he’ll go after next.”
It took James ten minutes to clear out the house, and in the meantime, Jesse spilled like a waterfall. Fifteen minutes later, Crosby was following Harding’s texted instructions to a safe house where he’d have the local police present to take the Campos men into protective custody, and Garcia was sitting next to him, chuckling softly to himself.
“What?” Crosby asked. “What’s the laughter for?”
“You. You really had me worried there. ‘I’m not that fast and I’m not that smart.’ Jesus, buddy, way to bury the lede.”
Crosby scowled. “What lede?”
“You read that sitch and those people in a heartbeat, man,” Garcia told him. “You don’t need the damned guns. You got the instincts of a pro.”
Working a Case
GARCIA LIKEDthe way Crosby’s cheeks went a little pink at the compliment—like it meant something to him that Garcia thought he was good at his job. Garcia couldn’t help it, though. The way Crosby had dealt with the runner, the big brother, even the little kid, making sure he wouldn’t be scared and had his favorite stuffed animal with him as they gathered the family up to take them to safety—all of it. All of it had impressed him.
In the bad place in Florida, he’d watched families get bullied by the cops for having a shitty lawn.
Now it could be true that Crosby was a totally different guy with someone a little darker skinned than the Campos family; Garcia had seen it happen. But so far, he’d been completely aboveboard with Garcia, and Garcia highly doubted that his coworker, Natalia, would have been so worried about Crosby’s forty-two stitches if he’d been a dick to her in any way.
And Garcia sort of doubted that anybody who stood up to Chicago PD because of a bad shoot against an obviously innocent kid wouldbea dick to someone because of their skin color. In spite of Crosby’s “too dumb to know better” routine, nobody was that dumb. Odds were pretty good he’d known it was going to be a rough ride when he saw his partner shoot an unarmed Black kid in the back.
Yeah, Garcia had read up on it. The official report on the incident had been sketchy at best, but Garcia could read between the lines. Crosby’s bitter recitation had only confirmed what Garcia had guessed: Crosby had been screwed, but not nearly as bad as the dead kid and his family, so Crosby wasn’t going to bitch.
Oh, this could be bad. So bad. So deliciously, decadently bad.
But it was too soon to so much as scent the wind to see how he’d taste. Garcia hadn’t survived that hellish year in Florida—or the last four in the ATF—without once outing himself to screw up his dream job posting now.