Cross sits in the dark of his parked Town Car, staring at the screen of his just activated burner phone (the impatiently torn packaging sits shotgun in the seat next to him). He'd gotten his hands on the number for Kenneth Gilroy without too much trouble; it's not a hard thing to do when you know where to look, who to ask, and how to do so. The hard part is actually sending the message, starting over, coming to a whole new dance. Cross sighs without thinking about it, a bad habit. "Fuck it," he mutters, annoyed with himself, and sends the message:
"KG--New in town. Just got in from LA and hear you're the one to talk to. Can we meet? The name is Robert Cross."
With that sent Cross sits in the dark, focusing on not breathing.