Page 9 of Under Cover

“Naw,” Garcia said, snorting in disgust. “I swear, they’re the reason Pop-Pop died first. Because that spring in the back was not sending a very positive message!”

Crosby laughed outright. “My roommate’s furniture is heinous,” he said. “It’s all plastic and chrome and plywood, but somehow expensive, right? Like, designer? I mean, I sleep on a mattress on a wooden box when I’m there, and… ouch.”

“Where’re you at when you’re not there?” Garcia asked, and it sounded… well, casual, but studied casual, and Crosby tried not to think about that, because they had to work together. This? In the car like they were doing? This was getting-to-know-you shit, that was all.

“Gail’s couch,” Crosby answered, blowing out a breath. “Or her roommate’s bed, but mostly Gail’s couch.”

“Wait.” Oh God, Crosby could hear it in his voice—he was going to go there. “If you’re banging her roommate, why are you sleeping on their couch?”

“Because,” Crosby told him, blowing out a breath, “what Iliana and I have isn’t really an overnight thing. It’s a booty call. But Gail needs transpo and a friend from work to help her out while she’s got the cast and all, so I get the couch. Every now and then I get the booty, but mostly, I’m there for the couch.”

Garcia let out a disbelieving bark of laughter. “Seriously?”

“It’s more comfortable than where I actually live,” Crosby said, cheeks burning. “And I have no idea where to live in this city that’s affordable.”

“Well, it’s not like Chicago’s cheap!” Garcia said, and Crosby shook his head.

“Yeah, well, all my spare cash is going to New Mexico,” he told Garcia. “My folks got the house and the moving expenses, but I’m making the payments and handling the bills. I mean, we get paid decent—more than a detective, for sure—but I’ve got expenses. We’re almost there.”

And the atmosphere in the car lit up with electricity.

The neighborhood Crosby had pulled into had seen better days. Once a block of lower-middle-class clapboard homes with stone foundations, all but two of the houses on the block had boarded-up windows and doors. The two that were left were cared for—the lawns were mowed and the hurricane fencing was upright if rusty—but hanging on by a thread. The house they passed had a roof that had three months to see if it would take another winter. The house at the end of the block had needed to rip off the porch overhang, and the debris was stacked neatly on the side. These weren’t people who didn’t care, Crosby thought. These were people who didn’t want to leave their homes but had run out of cash and were running out of options.

Damn. It was possible Jesse Campos was running numbers because he and his brother had nowhere else to run.

“Front or back?” Crosby asked, stopping in front of a vacant place two houses down.

“Back,” Garcia said. “Going in hot?”

Crosby shook his head. “Not unless he gives us a reason to. Like Harding said—desperate, but not like the guy who shot his buddy in the face.”

“Deal.”

Crosby nodded to Garcia, who slid out next to the curb before Crosby opened his door and slammed it shut, drawing attention to himself so Garcia could slip between the two vacant houses next to them. The neighborhood had trees—big ones—that were still thick with leaves in the beginning of September, and they helped shield Garcia as he made his way along the back. These kinds of neighborhoods didn’t usually have back fences—all the kids and the dogs and everybody could run around and play in the summer.

Or at least they probably had during happier times.

Crosby reminded himself that these weren’t happier times and ventured up the cracked walkway to the porch that might not fall down on his head but might still collapse around his ankles.

Crosby trod lightly up the stairs, and standing to the side, he gave three sharp raps against the brittle door. “Jesse Campos?” he called. “We need to talk to you—”

“He’s making a break!” Garcia called from the back. “My left!”

Which meant Crosby’s right.

He cleared the porch in one step and leapt over the pile of debris, heading for the backyard. The walkway between the houses was maybe six feet wide, and Jesse, running full bore while looking over his shoulder, didn’t even see Crosby as he stepped to the side, stuck out his arm, and caught the poor kid in the chest.

Jesse went down on his back and stayed there, eyes enormous, struggling to breathe.

Crosby dropped to one knee, rolled the kid over and cuffed him before he could recover. Then he sat the kid up with gentle, firm movements and leaned him against the peeling green siding of the house.

“Jesse Campos?” he asked. The kid was stocky but still trim, with wide cheekbones, pale skin, and limpid green eyes.

“Jesse?”

Crosby turned slightly to see a pudgy man in his thirties with a preschooler on his hip come into the side yard.

“Hey, asshole!” he called. “Get off my brother. You didn’t identify yourself—”