Page 93 of Under Cover

What did they have in common?

Frustrated and intrigued, Crosby started flipping through the files, looking at the pictures, both the promotional ones and the candids taken by investigative forces.

Ten minutes in, he saw a familiar face. Standing at one of Cavendish’s community photo ops, glaring from the background, was none other than Jimmy Creedy.

With a grunt, he texted Garcia.

Who’s on overwatch? I need computer skills right now.

I am. What do you need?

I need facial recognition run for Jimmy Creedy with all the pix of Marcy Beauchamp. I think he might be the connection.

FINALLY, a lead I can research. I’ll get back to you.

Thanks!

In the meantime, get some rest. People are coming after we wrap up the case, and you need to be awake.

Nag nag nag….

It’s done with love, Cowboy, now let me work.

Fine. Love you too.

But how could he rest? There was weight equipment in the spare room—he should get up, stretch, and go in there to work out a little. He was toopumpedto rest. With determination, he gathered the folders, making sure to replace the material in the same order in which he’d found it before stacking them once again. Then he stretched, his back against the headboard of the bed, and yawned, and for a moment his mind let go of all the possibilities of Marcy Beauchamp and Courtland Cavendish and how to nail them both for conspiracy.

And that’s when he fell back asleep.

Wet Work

GARCIA WASall for the cases that ended quickly and quietly, no gunfire, just a troubled person who could be tracked down and brought in to be dealt with by the legal system—particularly when the team had a bigger fish on the line that needed to be caught, skinned, and fried.

“Paperwork tomorrow,” Harding said as everybody stalked onto the SCTF floor. There were curt nods, and Swan, Pearson, Denison, and Chadwick all headed for their locker rooms, where they’d shower if they needed it and lock away their armaments for the time being.

Harding frowned, though, as he saw Chadwick. “Where’s your deadlier half?” he asked.

Gideon Chadwick grimaced and gave Garcia a grim look. “We stopped for food,” he said. “Shake Shack, for Garcia, and we caught our tail.”

Harding and Garcia stared at him.

“And you what?” Garcia asked. “Disappeared him?”

Chadwick gave a bloodthirsty grin. It had occurred to Garcia in the past month that Carlyle’s skill set was that of an assassin, although he seemed a lot less sociopathic than Garcia imagined most assassins could be. But the stealth, the ways of killing silently, the murky “alphabet” training he’d had, it all told a story of covert ops. And the way he’d emerged from the fog the night of Precinct Twenty Four—he’d had a look on his face like a predatory cat with a whopper of a rat in its jaws.

“Tracked him?” Harding asked carefully.

Chadwick nodded. “Permission to take a covert vehicle and be his backup, sir?”

“Do you know where he is?” Garcia asked, not so carefully. He didn’t care if they were partners, like him and Crosby, or partners like Harding and Denison—they were bonded with trust, love, and a dependency that defied analysis or description, and Garcia couldn’t breathe when Crosby was away.

“He’s been keeping in touch,” Chadwick said with a twitch of his lean lips that told Garcia they probably had their own language, just like him and Crosby. “But I would like him to not have to be alone.”

“Would you like backup?” Harding asked.

Chadwick shrugged. “Not so much.” His look grew hooded and almost sinister. “What we would like is… permission.”

Harding raised his eyebrows. “Permission?”