Page 70 of Under Cover
Crosby nodded and gave a slight smile before making his mouth into a tiny O and singing the first notes of the Rolling Stones classic.
By the time they were both completely dressed, Garcia had called it up on his phone, and much like that night—God, less than a week ago—they were screaming the lyrics at the top of their lungs.
Shelter was, after all, just a kiss away.
GARCIA MADEthem late lunch/early dinner. He sauteed chicken and steamed some veggies and some rice. It was very basic, but he used a nice marinade and made a lot. He wasn’t letting his boy back into the lion’s den with no fuel to sustain him.
Crosby watched him from the counter that divided the kitchen from the living room, his eyes hot, but they were both all business as they talked about the case.
Garcia asked him where he planned to leave the bugs, and Crosby had three places picked already—Creedy’s flat, his desk at the station, and the locker room. He figured he’d leave the other two to place later, when he got a feel for where things would be happening. The hard thing with bugs was the need to replace the batteries. It couldn’t be a place that would seem too suspicious to hang out nearby.
When they sat down for dinner, Garcia gave a very brief, very silent prayer to whatever god his grandmother had prayed to, mostly for safety, a remnant of his childhood, and then turned to what he’d learned while Crosby had slept.
“Okay, so Marshawn Devereaux, Chief of Police for the Brooklyn precincts, is probably not your guy,” he said, shoveling chicken into his mouth.
“What makes you think that?” Crosby asked, leaning just close enough for their shoulders to touch.
“Well, for one thing, he’s Denison’s father-in-law.”
Crosby blinked. “Isn’t Denison’s family…?”
“Black?” Garcia nodded. “Uh-huh. Yeah. So that’s a whole lot of nope.”
Crosby gave a chuckle. “Be sure to tell her he was on our list.” Then he sobered. “But maybe ask him why he was interested in Rick Young, or, you know, have Natalia ask him. Because it would be good to see what kind of motives the average higher-up has when asking about a new hire.”
“Good point.” Garcia bumped his shoulder in emphasis and realized they’d been communicating like this—grunts, half-finished sentences, reading each other’s minds—for the better part of six months.
How had they not known from the beginning that it would lead to this?
Maybe he would ask Crosby that someday when the undercover work was over.
“What about Marcy Beauchamp?” Crosby asked, pushing his plate away.
“Finish that,” Garcia ordered, noting that Crosby had left about half his chicken and vegetables.
“I thought I was hungry,” Crosby said apologetically. He rubbed his stomach. “Turns out it was just stress.”
“Eat it anyway,” Garcia said, trying not to let worry gnaw at him. “Food is fuel, and admit it.” He grinned and made the “all that” gesture at himself. “I can cook.”
That earned him a shy smile and the plate getting pulled back into position.
“Happy?” Crosby asked through a full mouth. He swallowed. “Now what about her?”
“She’s a gray area,” Garcia told him, frowning with what he’d learned. “She works for the commissioner’s office overseeing imports and exports, grew up in California, of all places, and her father was a cop. She served ten years in law enforcement—but not in New York—before climbing the promotion ladder like a squirrel to end up here, but I get the feeling the whole Sons of the Blood thing wasn’t ever supposed to be a Daughters of the Blood thing, so that’s where it could fall apart.”
Crosby grunted. “Yeah, that’s a tough one. The culture in that flat is so toxically male, I….” he trailed away and bit his lip.
“What?” Ooh, this was worrisome.
“I… man, I’m wondering if those guys don’t… you know, fuck with Junior because they don’t want to get all contaminated by girl cooties, if that makes any sense. It’s just… listening to them, listening to the way they talk about women, it’s never by name. It’s always by… you know. Body part. I just don’t see a woman getting to the top of that food chain and then giving it all up for an organization that would sooner gangfuck her bloody than talk to her like a person.”
Garcia let out a low growl. “Yeah, I don’t see it either. But we’ve both seen it happen. We’vebothseen people so poisoned, so resentful and wanting to prove something that they fight against their own best interests, you know?”
Crosby thought about McEnany, who was betraying an office that offered more power and more money in order to further a cause of hatred, and nodded. “Fair. Give her information to Iliana. Maybe she can get a read on Beauchamp for us. Rick Young has no reason to talk to her. It would be weird coming from me. What about Cavendish?”
Garcia frowned. “City police commissioner’s lawyer. I can’t get a bead on his upbringing, though. Attended Harvard Law, so that’s something, but I have no idea if he’s a lawyer legacy or a cop success story. There’s nothing here. I’ve been tracking down his write-ups in law review journals and stuff, but I don’t even know if he’s got a wife. I mean, lots of briefs, lots of bailing the NYPD out of the fire for everything from police brutality to closing down precincts, but I have no idea which side he’s on. A lot of this shit’s settled out of court.”
Crosby grunted. “Look, you know when I was being debriefed for the Brandeis trial?”