Page 6 of Under Cover

Oh God. Careful what you wish for!

Those eyes—lined with dark lashes, those eyes were blue-gray, flinty, and fathomless in a square-jawed, almost boyish face.

“My name? Judson?” Crosby gave a short laugh. “Damned if I know.”

“Praised,” Gail said, her eyes on her keyboard as she looked it up. “And Crosby means ‘at the cross.’”

Crosby snorted. “So you’re sayin’ I gotta die to get some love around here, is that it?” He wasn’t from New York, but he did sound urban. Chicago, maybe? God, it didn’t matter. His answer was quick and funny, and Garcia’s chest and its butterflies were going to get him killed.

“Yeah,” Gail said, just as archly. “Much like Daddy’s Joy has to die to get some coffee around here. You guys break it up and let him get me some coffee so I can tell you what I found out about our perp.”

Crosby stood and shouldered his way to the coffee bar, winking at Garcia as he drew near.

“I never knew that about my name,” he said. “Go you for asking the unusual question.”

“I live to fuckin’ serve,” Garcia retorted. He was thinking,My God, is that guy tall.Garcia was five nine, maybe, but this guy—he was what? Six three? Oh Jesus. Who went after a guy six inches taller than them, with a chest like a barn and biceps the size of Garcia’s head? What kind of crazy was he made of? And Crosby was wearing a black leather coat over a red turtleneck sweater, and Christ’s birthday, did he smellgood.

But Crosby gave an openmouthed grin, like that had been the right answer, and then poured two giant mugs of coffee. One mug—probably Gail’s—featured a cartoon cat holding a bloody knife and saying, “What?” and the other featured a photo of a bunch of puppies.

“You like dogs?” Garcia asked, and Crosby grunted.

“I used to love ’em,” he said. “Still do, mostly. But my first case here was dog fighters, and I sorta got bit. This was the group’s way of saying most dogs are still adorable puppies, but be careful for that one who ain’t.”

“Bit?” Garcia asked, and Crosby grimaced.

“Don’t ask,” he muttered, but Natalia apparently had ears like a bat.

“Forty-six stitches,” she said. “Two pints of blood. They nicked his femoral artery. He almost bled out.”

Crosby grunted again. “Bit,” he said. “That’s all. Natalia, don’t scare the kid. We want him to stay.”

Oh Lord have mercy. Strong, silent, brooding—and a little bit funny. Aside from Harding’s glass-walled office in the corner, the unit office was one big conference room with six open-ended cubicles surrounding it, and Garcia wished fervently for a broom closet so he could bang his head against a door. This could so end up not well.

“Yeah, but we want him to not be a dumbass like some other dumbasses we know,” she said, looking severely at him and then Gail.

Gail rolled her eyes. “That kick came out of nowhere,” she said defensively.

“I lost five pounds throwing up to the sound of your knee snapping,” Joey said. “I’m with Natalia. Kid—”

“I’m twenty-seven!” Garcia protested.

“And I’m twenty-five,” Joey retorted, “and I’m tired of being the youngest, so you get to be the kid for a while. We are after some lethal assholes. Be aware.”

“And speaking of lethal assholes,” Clint said, bringing everybody back to point, “what do we have on our gambling ring?”

Gail hit a couple of keys on her computer and said, “Clint, hook me up to the screen, would you?”

Clint stood and hit some buttons on a console in the middle of the table, and a screen rolled down at the other end of the room. A few more buttons and a face popped up—a fiftyish white businessman, doughy and self-important, wearing a suit that none of the people in that room could afford, not even Clint, who looked like he made the big bucks.

“This is Newton Sewell,” Gail said. “He’s the leader of our gambling ring, which is centered primarily around high school sports—football and basketball, mostly boys, and mostly legacy schools. You know, the kind of schools that recruit the best of the best of the best so they don’t lose their image of being a good sports school.”

“He doesn’t look dangerous,” Joey said, and everybody at the table groaned.

“Joey, you asshole,” Gail said with heat. “Aren’t you the one who said, ‘Oh, hey, we get to see dogs’?”

“I’m so sorry, man,” Joey said, looking Crosby dead in the eyes.

“Don’t mention it. Ever. Gail?”