Chapter 14 #2
“Another encrypted phone,” Harding said on a sigh. “I hear you. More concerning, though, is the message. Did you have any idea your sperm donor was involved with the Sons?”
Joey shook his head and shrugged. “No, but it doesn’t surprise me. That fucker tends to control people with blackmail, and the Sons of the Blood are very blackmailable, if you know what I mean.”
“It follows,” Harding said mildly. What he meant—and what they’d all ranted about over the last month—was that someone with the sort of pathology that had them willing to set their house on fire before letting a woman, minority, or member of the LGBTQ community lend them a hose was often weak enough to be involved in any number of sins: From drugs to prostitution to gambling, to name the big three.
At the very least, fraud made a frequent appearance.
Sometimes, Carlyle believed, because racists were too fucking stupid to understand that they couldn’t just take shit that didn’t belong to them without consequences.
“So odds are, some of the guys paying Dad for protection or whatever are on our hit list. Just… you know. Be aware.”
Harding nodded and chewed steadily, setting the sandwich down after he swallowed. “I should have gotten a soda,” he mused.
“I’ll get it, sir,” Joey said, standing up. “That way I don’t have to stare at my own sandwich while I wait for Gid.”
At that moment Gideon stuck his head in. “I’ll get the sodas. I could really use some cold and sweet myself.”
He disappeared, and Harding’s unexpectedly expressive eyes caught Joey’s.
“How are you guys?” he said softly. “This is a lot of pressure for two people.”
Joey blinked, surprised at the question—and also absurdly touched. “He wants to be out to the team,” he said. “But he gets why I think we shouldn’t. I mean, Jesus, let’s wait until Crosby’s safe at the very fucking least, okay?”
Harding shrugged. “It’s sound logic,” he agreed. “But I think the team could handle it—they might boggle, cause look at you, but they can handle you two as a couple.”
Joey shook his head and thought of how Crosby had worn an almost permanent blush the day they’d moved him into Garcia’s spare room.
“Let’s give Crosby and Garcia some attention,” he said after a minute.
“I want them home and safe and this Sons of the Blood nightmare behind us. I mean, this thing with my dad? It’ll come soon enough.
It’s like… like when that dog attacked. Crosby shot the drug dealer reaching for his gun because that was the shot he had.
I shot the fucking dog because that was the shot I had, and that was what I could do.
We know the dog’s out there, Boss. We know he’s gonna bite us in the ass.
But right now we’ve got the Sons of the Blood, and they’re all fucking armed, so we gotta take care of them first. And when the dog sinks his teeth into my ass, I hope the rest of you all have my back. ”
“No question,” Harding said soberly. “Believe it, Joey. Just like with Crosby. We didn’t desert him, we won’t desert you.”
Gideon’s squeeze of his shoulder told Joey that he’d heard and agreed.
He proceeded to set down the soda cans, one of which he pulled out of his pocket. Joey, who was almost done with his latte, gave him a smile even he knew was besotted.
“Carlyle?” Harding said, lips twitching as he picked up his sandwich and prepared to do more damage.
“Yeah, Boss,” Joey said, jerking his attention back with an effort.
“If you don’t want to be out to the team, you gotta not look at him like that.”
Joey realized he had the stupidest expression on his face, sort of a goofy combination of worship and desire and gratitude, and he bit his lip and stared down at his own sandwich.
“Well, it’s not my fault if they figure it out,” he mumbled, unwrapping his sandwich with a sigh. “I mean, we work with detectives, right?”
Gideon’s chuckle warmed him—almost as much as Gideon’s knee, pressed gently next to his own.
“Also,” Harding said, pulling a napkin from the center of the table and wiping his mouth with it, “Natalia knows.”
Joey puffed out a breath, not surprised. Harding and Natalia were partners and, as far as he could see, one of the best couples he knew. Unlike him and Gid, or Crosby and Garcia, they were platonic, but super extra tight that way.
“I do,” Natalia said, coming into the conference room and surprising Joey—and Gideon from his expression—but not Harding.
“And since we all know, I’m going to come eat my sandwich.
I’ve been waiting for this.” She rummaged through the minifridge and came back with her paper-wrapped bundle, as well as a bottle of hand-brewed kombucha.
“So,” she said, elbowing Harding to let her in, “have we discussed Joey’s family yet, because I am dying to dissect his father’s brain. With a butter knife.”
Joey snickered into his sandwich, and the rest of lunch was spent in a pleasant game of “revenge,” and the grim fantasy did a lot to alleviate some of the brain-crunching stress he’d felt when his phone had buzzed that morning.
THE GAME wasn’t so funny when Crosby got brought in beat to shit and mostly dead from a drug overdose slipped into his water.
He was brought to Garcia’s place, hooked up to an IV, mostly unconscious for nearly three days, and the entire unit decided they’d had enough.
Joey and Gideon had been interviewing a civil engineer who kept finding bodies in the Hudson over the course of his work day when Gideon had gotten the text that Crosby had been brought in and was in bad shape.
Joey saw from his eyes that something was wrong, read his silent “Crosby,” and felt his blood run cold.
So he’d been about to blow the poor engineer off, but that felt dishonest. The NYPD was supposed to interview him, but they kept shuttling his problem down to SCTF.
Where the fuck were all the bodies coming from?
Clint thought that was a very good question, but their dossier was incredibly spotty because nobody in the NYPD was taking him seriously, and the FBI had to be asked in on a case and hadn’t been.
The SCTF was their fallback, but by the time somebody from Clint’s squad got there, the staties had already taken the body to be autopsied and locked the feds out of it.
So it wasn’t the engineer’s fault. He was just trying to do his job, and he’d been grilled by the SCTF three times, all about stuff they should have had in the fucking dossier.
Joey was going to tell him—a solid guy, mostly bald, with a degree in civil engineering and a New Jersey accent—that this was not his day, again, when the guy said something that made them both perk up.
“Yeah, I know I keep finding bodies, and you suits keep saying ‘So what,’ but you know, I got a theory about why they keep ending up here.”
Gideon cocked his head, and Joey kept his peace. Gideon liked things like this—the physics, the how, the where, the why.
“Hit us with it, Mr. Rau,” he said.
“Well, see, my job is to clear out the floor of the Hudson to either build the ferry docks or make sure the ferries can get through, right?”
They both nodded.
“So we get sand and silt buildup from the same places on account of the currents. I figure the bodies gotta come the same way. You look at where the currents of the river are coming from, you’ll see where the bodies are coming from, right?
I mean, I got maps and computer readouts and shit—but that’s so I know which parts of the river are building up so I know where to direct my guys.
But you can use that same shit to figure out where an object’s gonna come from, and aren’t you guys the ones who get the forensics reports?
I mean, there’s engineers at the transportation commission who could help you do the math, right? ”
Gideon and Joey stared at him.
“Absolutely right, sir,” Gideon said, thinking about it. “You are absolutely right. I mean, I’m sorry. I feel like we should have thought of this before, but I’m thrilled you got there, right?”
“You gonna do something about this?” the man asked.
“’Cause I seen the same tattoo on some of these guys—and some of ’em are suits, but some of ’em are working guys.
They all got their insides carved out and stuffed full of rocks so they stick to the bottom of the river, ’cause people don’t count on my outfit to scoop ’em out, you know? ”
“What’s the tattoo say?” Joey asked. “Like, Special Forces or something?”
Their guy snorted. “Like wannabe, right? S-o-B. Big S, little o, big B.”
Joey and Gideon locked gazes.
“Shit,” Joey said.
“Motherfucker.”
No wonder the NYPD was mucking up the case and muddling up the federal involvement.
“You know who that is?” their guy asked.
“Sir,” Joey said, pulling out his card, “you have been the victim of a massive bureaucratic fuckup. We’re sorry this keeps happening to you, and you only get us when we’re run ragged from something else, but that is going to fucking change.
Here’s my card. Next time you find a fucking body, you contact us.
Not the NYPD. Not the FBI. You’ve done part of our job for us, but that’s not fair.
You’re busy trying to build shit, and that’s a good thing.
Keep doing that. In the meantime, send everything you got to this email.
” He pulled out his pen and circled Gideon’s email on their business card.
“That’s my partner here. He’s hella fuckin’ smart—he’s gonna take everything you just said and make the goddamned bodies stop. ”
They could only hope.
Their guy went from beleaguered and frustrated to much, much happier. “That’s great,” he said. “I mean, I get it if you gotta see a couple more—there don’t seem to be much of a shortage, you know what I mean?”
“Sadly, yes,” Gideon said, nodding. “Just remember—you call us. Leave the NYPD out of it for now.”
“Will do,” Mr. Rau told them. “Thanks, guys.”
“Jesus,” Joey said as they walked away. “That guy should be on our team.”