Chapter 3 #2
Cloister glanced over his shoulder at the varied stalls behind him.
“I don’t know about good,” he said as he looked back at Javi. “But fried I can do.”
Javi fastidiously twisted his fork, wrapping the strings of cheese around the chunk of potato until they snapped off neatly.
“If Gardner is IAU,” he said and pointed briefly at Cloister with the fork. “And we probably shouldn’t put too much weight on intel from Tancredi’s sidepiece…”
Without hesitating, Cloister reached out and plucked the neatly wrapped parcel off Javi’s fork. He tossed it into his mouth and sucked his fingers. Bon put her chin on his knee and sighed heavily. Cloister dropped his hand to let her lick his fingers.
“But if he is?” he said. “That doesn’t mean it’s anything to do with you. It could be coincidence.”
Javi gave him an unimpressed look and, to even the playing field, stabbed one of the deep-fried pickles on the plate in front of Cloister. The batter coating cracked under his fork, and he cupped his free hand out to catch the crumbs as he lifted it to his mouth.
The batter crunched, and the pickle flesh gave under his teeth. It tasted sharp and salty, with a sour, hot aftertaste that caught at the back of his throat.
“It’s possible,” Javi admitted grudgingly as he wiped grease off his lower lip with his thumb.
He weighed the likelihood of it in his mind as he absently reached for his iced tea.
“The sheriff’s been coasting on the political goodwill from ‘cleaning up’ Plenty for two election cycles.
If it came out he’d not done such a good job after all—like leaving a corrupt cop’s wife in charge of the department’s evidence unit—that wouldn’t look good.
He could have sent IAU in to make sure there’s no one else compromised like that. ”
Cloister took his hand back off Bourneville. He wiped it on his leg before he reached for a pickle chip.
“But…” he prompted.
But.
Javi poked at his tray of loaded fries, flicking aside chunks of potato until he found the BBQ sticky chunks of meat.
“It fits Kincaid’s MO too,” he said, his voice stiff and reluctant in his throat as he name-checked the head of the FBI’s Los Angeles division—who was also his ex, his one-time mentor, and the man gunning for what he’d left of Javi’s career.
SSA Tracy Joel might want to see Javi wash out of the FBI, but it was Kincaid who’d wound her up and put her to work. Literally, since he’d made her Javi’s supervisor.
The only question was why.
When Kincaid cut Javi loose after the operation in Phoenix had gone wrong, Javi might have cursed the man, but he’d not been surprised.
Organized Crime had been on the warpath after their informant ended up dead before he could testify.
They had wanted to make an example of someone, and even then, Javi had known better than to think Kincaid would fall on his own sword.
Besides, Kincaid might have encouraged Javi to leverage the informant’s attraction to keep on track, but Javi had still done it.
He’d done it, and he’d been stupid enough not to keep any evidence of Kincaid’s involvement. Back then, that had felt like the worst oversight.
What didn’t track was Kincaid’s sudden focus on destroying what he had left of Javi’s career. If he’d wanted Javi fired, he could have pushed it through back then, but he hadn’t. It hadn’t been out of the kindness of his heart.
That meant something had changed, but what?
Sure, Javi had gotten good press from a few high-profile operations in Plenty. That wasn’t going to springboard him into a position to threaten the bureau’s golden boy profiler.
The crunch of Cloister biting into the pickle dragged Javi’s attention back to the fair. He watched as Cloister wiped salt and grease off his fingers on a napkin as he chewed thoughtfully.
“What good would undermining the Plenty suboffice do Kincaid?” Cloister asked. He’d gotten to the same area of inquiry as Javi, just without the self-interest. “It’s not just to be petty.”
Not just to be petty, no. That would be a bonus.
Javi didn’t point that out. It was probably a sign of some sort of personality defect that he’d admit to Cloister, however reluctantly, that he’d been instrumental in getting someone he’d…liked, at least…killed, but not that he was a bad judge of character.
“Kincaid wants me out,” Javi said. The motive was murky, but that was the endgame.
Kincaid hadn’t said it outright, but in his own sidelong way, he’d made no bones about it.
“Right now, he can apply pressure, but not enough. I screwed up in Phoenix, but I came here, I put in the work, and I made it right.”
That sounded arrogant. Good. That was what Javi wanted. He’d earned it.
Really? The thought squirmed through his brain, the fatty taste of cheese and meat on his tongue overpowered by salt. He could almost taste the blood when he swallowed, the aftertaste of hospital bleach caught in his throat. It’s that easy to make it right?
Javi dropped the fork and reached for a napkin.
Maybe not. He wasn’t cut out to dwell on that, though. The wiring just wasn’t there, so he shoved the memory back in the hole he kept it in and went on.
“The proof that I’ve learned my lesson is my track record in Plenty. If he can find something to discredit the sheriff’s department, that will taint every conviction they’ve touched. Including my ops. And it’ll look like I didn’t learn a damn thing about following protocol.”
“Except there’s nothing for him to find,” Cloister pointed out. He acknowledged Javi’s dubious look with a quick correction. “Nothing that has your name on it. Everything you did was by the book. I was there, and it got on my nerves.”
Javi snorted, but there wasn’t a lot of humor in it.
“That won’t matter.”
That sounded fatalistic, but Javi couldn’t help it.
He’d seen Kincaid do this before—more than once—and it worked.
A word dropped in the right—or wrong—ear, a raised eyebrow about a cop “living it large” all of a sudden, or a dropped hint about someone’s son getting early parole in time for Christmas.
Kincaid always said the end justified the means, and that definitely felt more unfair now that Javi was in his crosshairs.
“So what do we do?” Cloister asked.
“And since when do you listen to me?” Javi asked.
“I do dogs,” Cloister reminded him, “not departmental politics. Unless you want me to set Bourneville on Kincaid—”
“No,” Javi said. It was a tempting thought, but… “No. I’ll just keep doing what I’ve been doing and keep my head down. We don’t even know if Gardner is IAU. If I start trying to counter Kincaid’s moves before he’s even made them, I’ll just do his job for him.”
He’d seen Kincaid do that to people too, stoking their paranoia until it might as well have been on his payroll. Javi was a good agent, a good investigator, but he had a sneaking suspicion that Kincaid was a better asshole.
Cloister reached under the table to rest a big, broad-palmed hand on Javi’s knee. The memory of that hand as it slid higher, callused fingertips scraping over Javi’s skin, popped with unexpected vividness into Javi’s head. He had to catch his breath.
“Whatever happens, I’ve got your back,” Cloister promised him.
It was a good thought, the sort a straightforward man had, and Javi had to fight for a second to keep the annoyance off his face.
“Oh, good,” he said dryly. It looked like his voice hadn’t gotten the “be nice” memo. “That’s a weight off my mind,”
Cloister looked amused as he gave Javi’s knee a pat. “It should be,” he pointed out. “It’s not like there’s a queue.”
That was…true, Javi supposed. He pinched the bridge of his nose, the nip of his nails against the thin skin enough to focus him.
“Sorry,” he grudged out.
Cloister swung one long leg over the bench and stood up. He collected the remnants of his meal from the table, folding the greasy cardboard in on itself.
“I doubt it,” he said mildly as he took the trash and headed toward the nearest weighted-down oil drum repurposed as a trash can.
Javi cocked his head to the side to look under the table at Bourneville. The pride of Plenty’s K-9 department had her nose between his feet as she snorted aggressively at a bug in the grass. Javi reached down to politely scratch between her shoulders, the hair coarse and warm under his touch.
“I know,” he said. “He deserves better.”
Bourneville flicked an ear at him in what was probably dog for “ya think?”