Narc

Woodbury, Minnesota

Copyright Information

Narc
© 2012 by Crissa-Jean Chappell.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Cover models used for illustrative purposes only and may not endorse or represent the book’s subject.

First e-book edition © 2012

E-book ISBN: 9780738733760

Book design by Bob Gaul
Cover design by Lisa Novak
Cover image © Rod Morata/Stone/Getty Images
Editing by Nicole Edman

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Manufactured in the United States of America

For Joyce Sweeney,

And for all the Miami kids
from Kendall to Wynwood.

Part One

1 :
Off–site

The empty room was in Little Havana, above a botánica that sold life-sized statues of bleeding saints. My new “friend,” the undercover cop, and I never met in the same place twice. We were supposed to talk off-site on a weekly basis, just to keep me in character.

The cop was dressed in regular clothes: a T-shirt and jeans, same as me, but his hair was buzzed so tight, you could see the pasty gleam of his scalp shining through it. He wanted to know if I’d been taking notes. So far, all I’d written down were a couple names from school.

“Aaron, this is the best you can do?” he snapped.

I hung my head.

If I could’ve backed out, I would. Believe me. I never wanted anything so badly. That’s the damn truth. If I thought things were shitty in my old life, I had no idea how low I could go. I’d been coasting without a clue. Then came the Incident.

Here’s how it went down.

The Incident, as I like to refer to it, took place a few weeks into my senior year, right after Dad died. I was driving his truck down US-1, the highway that runs through Miami and all the way to the Keys, blasting my music with my little sister, Haylie, riding shotgun. Just trying to clear my head, you know? I was probably going ten over the limit. Okay. Maybe twenty. I didn’t mean to run the light. It was one of those situations where you’re like, should I slow down or speed up?

“Punch it,” my sister said.

I hit the gas.

The siren blended into the radio. I didn’t hear it at first. In the rearview mirror, I caught the blue and red. My blood turned to ice. What the hell was I going to tell Mom? She had enough to handle. I swerved through traffic, as if I could actually shake the cop. How dumb was that? Next thing I know, he’s pulling us over and tapping the window.

“How’s it going, man?” he said.

How did he think it was going?

“Axl Rose, huh?” He fake-smiled at me.

I had no clue what he meant. Then I remembered to cut the radio. For a second, I actually believed that we’d bond over classic rock and he’d let me off with a warning. No dice.

“You got any ID?”

I reached for my wallet.

“Can you guys step out of the vehicle? Make it quick.” He shined a flashlight in my sister’s eyes. “Been drinking tonight?”

“She’s only fourteen,” I said. “Give her a break.”

He made me lean over the trunk, legs splayed, hands flat, while he rummaged through my pockets.

“Got anything on you that’s going to stick me?” he asked.

“Just a pocketknife.”

The cop looked confused. He dug inside my back pocket and fished out a Swiss Army Knife, a gift from Dad. I don’t know why I was carrying the damn thing. It had rusted years ago.

He turned to Haylie. “How about you, sweetie?” he said, grinning.

I wanted to smash that grin off his face.

As his fingers moved across my sister’s jeans, I gritted my teeth.

“What’s this?” He slipped his fingers in her waistband. I was about to explode when he pulled out a plastic baggie, a little over an ounce. I must’ve stared at it for ten seconds before my brain added up the details:

My little sister.

A bag of weed.

Her eyes widened.

She must’ve got it from me. Where else would she get her hands on pot? I’d stashed away the “funeral present” from my friend, Collin, just in case I needed it, but I sure as hell didn’t need it then.

“How much you pay for this?” he asked.

“I found it,” she said.

“You found it.”

“Yeah.”

“Sure you don’t sell that?”

Haylie was crying now, silently, her face slicked with tears and snot.

“Then why is it all bundled for sale?”

She opened her mouth.

“It’s mine,” I said, before she could fill in the blank.

The cop studied my driver’s license. “Hang tight. I’m going to run your name.”

I waited for what felt like centuries. My heart was jackhammering. God, how could I be so stupid? When the cop finally came back, his mood had shifted.

“You’re Rico’s kid,” he said. “I heard what happened overseas. Your father was a brave man.”

“Yes,” I said. “He was.”

“How’s your mom doing?”

“Not good.”

The cop nodded. “That’s your little sister? What’s her name again?”

“Haylie.”

“Haylie. Right.”

If this cop was such good buddies with Dad, why couldn’t he remember my sister’s name? He told her to get in the truck. When she was gone, he edged closer to me.

“Tell you what,” he said. “If you’re straight with me … Well. It all depends. Maybe we can work something out.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, falling right into it.

“This is kind of serious. I could book her for possession of an illegal substance with intent to sell. Or you could go to jail. Looks like you’re about to turn eighteen in a few weeks. What’s it going to be?”

“I already told you. It’s mine. Please. Just leave her alone, she’s just a kid,” I stammered.

If I went to jail, who would watch over Haylie? I glanced back at the truck.

“You go to school?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” I said like a little kid.

“Whereabouts?”

“Palm Hammock.”

His mouth twitched. I could almost see his wheels turning.

“Since you seem cooperative, I’m willing to offer a deal. I’ll dismiss the girl’s charges if you’ll work with me.”

I was freaking, big time, ready to do anything.

“Do you know what the word
informant
means?” he asked. “It means a friend who helps us out. They supply information. We help them out in return.”

The Barney theme song played in my head with new words:

I help you. You help me.

On the way home, Haylie said, “I can’t believe he just let us go.”

“Dad’s got friends in high places,” I said. “Now start talking. What’s with the weed? You’re way too young to be messing with that shit.”

She shrugged. “I found it in your room.”

Right. I turned on the radio. For the rest of the drive, we kept quiet.

A few days later, I drove to the police station. The same cop ushered me into a windowless office in Narcotics, where the lead officer of the team leaned over the conference table and gave me a speech about my “assignment.” Then they took my picture and fingerprinted me like a murderer.

There’s a word for what they did. It’s called
flipping
. In order to drop the marijuana charges, I had to become a new person: Metro Dade Informant Number 2012-1003. The lead officer logged me into the system. He did a background check, pulled my history, and gave me a brand-new file.