Free Last Track, The by Sam Hilliard Page A

Three days later, a fire in Crotty’s apartment destroyed all of his personal copies of the case files.
    When Crotty pressed for an explanation, Rosen claimed that due to budget overruns there was no longer sufficient funding. So Crotty protested. He had good reason to.
    There was a fortune in seized assets available for agency use. On one M2 buy, Crotty employed a three million dollar flash roll—real money “flashed” ahead of a buy to show M2 suppliers he was a legitimate buyer and could be trusted to deliver the entire amount when the time came. Rosen had pushed back from the desk and explained the scope of the investigation had changed course. Discussion closed.
    Crotty got the point. And just in case Crotty misunderstood, Rosen also mentioned his concern about Crotty’s recent investigative tactics. What a shame it might be if those allegations found substantiation, Rosen had said.
    No charges were filed; no case ever was presented for prosecution. Six months later Rosen retired, Maui-bound. Turned out a rich uncle willed Rosen a generous stock portfolio. Yeah, Crotty knew better. And despite his frustration with the outcome, Crotty marveled at how well Rosen had played him. Rosen got valuable information worth a fortune if it was kept in the shadows, with no risk to his safety—right at his front door. He blackmailed M2 and made the investigation go away.
    From that moment Crotty opened himself to the possibilities. He knew the investigation pipeline. He knew the protocol. He knew the evidence, which team had it and how much and what they had. He knew what cases lacked merit, and what might stick.
    Most importantly, he knew what confidential information about underworld figures was worth. He kept the day job, and freelanced at night. Nearly all customers were welcome. Personal or professional affiliation was seldom a basis for discrimination. Call it bribery or treason, he preferred the term competitive intelligence.
    One of the most valuable things Crotty could offer the underworld were names and places. Who was working undercover. When were they most likely alone and least suspecting retribution. Absolute gold to someone unaware he was an investigation target.
    Initially the duplicity had tugged at his sense of ethics. Selling out the first name was rough. He had hesitated. He tortured himself endlessly, second-guessing the consequences, missing sleep and meals as he considered what his decision really meant. Then he got a postcard from Rosen in Maui. A blank card, except for the phrase:
    Life is good. –R
    Crotty had taken one look around his tiny apartment and decided life could be good for him, too. Just not on his salary. And then there was the girlfriend and her needs. He made the call.
    Shortly after revealing the identity of an agent to the leader of a gang he was investigating, the compromised agent disappeared. Maybe the outed agent had quit or was convinced to resign. Maybe he had double-crossed the wrong person. Maybe the thug who bought the profile had liquidated the poor bastard. Maybe it was a coincidence. Crotty always wondered, but he never asked.
    On occasion, the day job called him away from business. Brief diversions, usually. Lately though, the Suits rode roughshod, and harped about quotas. Undercover work defied traditional metrics; it wasn’t like setting up a speed trap and writing tickets. Building cases, working sources of information—these activities took time. Success at them meant knowing the street. The only time some Suits saw the streets were through a limousine window.
    Unfortunately, there were far more new managers than there was logic and experience. Younger, unseasoned, and far less accommodating, green managers seemed bent on some hidden agenda. Many case agents suspected housecleaning, a deliberate process of cycling out older agents for younger models. The net effect: neither the new guard nor the experienced agents trusted each other, and both sides wished the other