Cold Blue

by Gary Neece

  Special Agent Ambretta Collins rose effortlessly and took to the podium. Despite her conservative attire, she hadn’t succeeded in smoothing out her curves with layers of wool. And though bundled tightly, one of her most striking features was her black-as-night hair. Thorpe managed to focus on her words as she introduced herself as a special agent out of Dallas and made the obligatory “I’m honored to be working with you” bullshit speech. When the hand job was over, she asked that those in attendance introduce themselves and state their current assignment.

  Thorpe worried he’d be assigned a partner. How the hell would he end this thing if he had a fed beside him all night long? Maybe he’d be spared because he had an alibi for the murder of Cole Daniels. That alone might not be enough to save him; as far as the detectives and the FBI knew, it could be a group of officers involved with the murders. The man to his left quit speaking and all eyes turned to Thorpe.

  “Sergeant John Thorpe…I supervise the Organized Gang Unit.”

  When introductions were over, Special Agent Collins outlined SID’s role in the protection assignment, thanked those around the table for their cooperation, and returned to her seat.

  Major Duncan won a hard-fought battle against the effects of gravity as he un-wedged himself from his seat and waddled behind his pulpit.

  “Right now we plan to work officers in twelve-hour shifts. Twelve hours on, twelve hours off. We’ve outlined a preliminary schedule, and we realize it will need to be tweaked as we move along. Right now we’re not going to be accommodating. Everyone who signed up to work in this division did so knowing work hours, schedules, days off, were all subject to change. Anyone who doesn’t like it can go back to patrol.”

  Threatening to send his investigators back to patrol was Duncan’s favorite pastime—as if being in uniform was a bad thing.

  Major Duncan plopped a stack of paper in front of the supervisor to his left, and with his regular diplomacy, told him to hand out the schedules.

  “As for the TPD personnel in the room, understand this—Special Agent Collins is in charge of the protection detail. What she says goes. I know you don’t take orders from federal agents, but I’m ordering you to follow her directions. Therefore, you can consider her commands to be my commands…”

  Thorpe privately hoped her first command would be to kick The Walrus square in his balls—if someone could locate them.

  “That’s all for now. We’ll be meeting with the entire division in the bullpen in…twenty minutes. Any questions?”

  Treece piped up. “Why are we only guarding black officers? Forgive me if I’m wrong, but Brandon Baker was white the last time I checked.”

  Duncan replied, “Two black officers are dead. One black officer is missing. The only common thread is that all three initiated racial lawsuits against the city. It’s the only connection we’ve made. Baker seems to be the anomaly. If another black officer is killed while we sit on our hands, we’ll be crucified in the media.”

  “Are supervisors going to be assigned a federal babysitter too?”

  Duncan took a deep breath, clearly irritated with Treece’s questions. “I think that was answered already...” Not exactly. “…there obviously aren’t enough federal agents to assign to every officer on a continual basis, but they will be monitoring your activities continuously.” What the hell does that mean? “That’s it for now, you’re dismissed.”

  As everyone gathered paperwork and prepared to leave, Special Agent Collins spoke across the room. “Sergeant Thorpe, would you please remain behind for a few minutes?”

  Thorpe halted his retreat for the door. This can’t be good.

  “Yes ma’am.” He stepped deeper into the room and approached the special agent who briskly rose and offered her hand.

  “Sergeant Thorpe, it’s good to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Thorpe lied.

  “Sergeant, you and I will be working together.”

  “Ma’am, I don’t think…” Thorpe noticed Chief Elias giving him a shut-your-pie-hole look. “And I’m looking forward to working with you.”

  Collins dark eyes said “bullshit,” but a rather full set of lips said, “Good. Please come find me after I’m finished addressing the rest of the division.”

  Thorpe walked away thinking he should’ve leered at her like the others; maybe she wouldn’t have singled him out. When he left the conference room, he found Treece waiting for him in the bullpen.

  “What was that about?”

  “Apparently Miss Collins was offended by the putrid smell in the room. She wanted to launch an investigation into the matter, and she put me in charge. I immediately gave you up and…case closed.”

  Treece laughed. “Eat me. What’d she want?”

  “It looks like she’s going to be my federal babysitter.”

  “Oh, you son of a bitch! I’d give my left nut to ride around with that woman.”

  “You’d give your left nut to ride around with a monkey for an hour if you thought you’d get some.”

  “Not true. I have a rule not to date women who are hairier than me…well, it’s more of a guideline.”

  “Collins seems pretty icy to me.”

  “All women feds are like that. They gotta act tough so they’re taken seriously. Put her in a car with me for twelve hours, and I’d melt her.”

  “The only thing you’d get is a bad case of blue balls,” Thorpe laughed.

  “I already have those.”

  “Don’t worry, I bet you’ll get a nice-looking man in his early thirties to ride around with. Maybe he’ll take care of your problem.”

  “I don’t doubt he’ll try. Hope I get a marshal and not some Sudoku-playing FBI agent, fresh from advanced accounting.”

  Thorpe shook his head, walked to his office, sat behind his desk, and studied his new schedule. He’d been scheduled an 8:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m. shift, but noticed the rest of his squad would be working evenings and nights. He’d obviously been chosen to partner with Agent Collins prior to the supervisor’s meeting; he wondered why. At least his nights would be free to operate—and he needed the darkness. As Thorpe sat at his desk in contemplation, he caught movement in his doorway. Special Agent Collins stood at the threshold.

  “May I?”

  Thorpe motioned for her to enter, and from parent-ingrained conduct on being a gentleman, rose out of his chair.

  “Have a seat.”

  Collins settled on the edge of a couch cushion.

  “Sergeant, I could tell by your reaction that you’re less than thrilled having to work with me. Fact is, most everyone is going to be paired with someone until they are cleared as potential suspects. Those who aren’t assigned agents will still get periodic unannounced visits. If not me, you’ll be with someone. A benefit for you will be that I’m also working in conjunction with the investigative unit. I’ll be splitting my time between that aspect and protection. As a result, you’ll find yourself with ample time away from me. If you think I chose you because you were the only one in the room not ogling my ass, you’re mistaken. I just need to know if we’ll be able to work together, or if I need to have you…reassigned?”

  Collins dark brown eyes were locked on Thorpe’s. The gaze wasn’t exactly challenging, but damn near. Thorpe heard some things he liked and some he didn’t. If forced to have federal oversight, it might as well be with a person who’d keep his evenings free and who’d be tied up on other assignments for half the regular shift. Collins spoke directly and to the point, which was good, but she also appeared to be sharp. He didn’t want to be saddled with a Lieutenant Columbo—just one more question.

  “Ma’am, you don’t need to have me reassigned. Nothing against you personally…I’m just not used to having a partner. I’ve been working on my own for several years now and have gotten accustomed to it. Also, though you graciously keep referring to us as working together, I know, in reality, I’ll be working for you. But you’ll have no problems from me, and I’ll do my best to make this col
laboration work.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate your professionalism.”

  “May I ask why we were paired together?”

  Collins paused before responding. “Detective Hull has a very good reputation in the investigative community. He, as well as others, has a lofty opinion of your capabilities. Plus, as I mentioned earlier, you will be working without an…escort…for extended periods of time. Taking that into consideration, you were one of the few SID supervisors with an airtight alibi—at least for one of the murders.”

  “I see.”

  Agent Collins rose off the couch. “I need to address the division. I just wanted to ensure we were good to go. Thank you for your time, sergeant.”

  Thorpe added, “Please call me John or at least Thorpe if you must.”

  “All right. Since we’re on the subject I’d prefer to be called Agent Collins…not ma’am.”

  “Habit. See you after your speech, Agent Collins. Oh…and if you thought the supervisors were bad, you’re in for a real treat with the investigators.”

  “I’m sure.”

  Collins walked out of the office, and Thorpe couldn’t help but watch her leave—only to have her figure replaced by another—Treece. The Vice sergeant stood gazing after Collins. He winked at Thorpe.

  “Carnac, you’re an asshole. Ready for speech number two?”

  The second meeting was more of the same, just on a larger scale. There were grumblings from investigators who would be forced to can their work, let search warrants expire, and drift away from informants. Sometimes when investigators took long breaks from undercover work it took some time to get reestablished. But most understood the situation and accepted the setbacks. The most grousing occurred when officers realized they were considered potential suspects and would be subjected to federal oversight.

  When Agent Collins was called on to speak, the murmured whines turned to whispered expletives and not-so-subtle elbows to ribcages. Chief Elias, a bear of a man who enjoyed the art of intimidation, expanded his already impossibly broad chest and rose from his chair. Peace was restored.

  Following the briefing, most of the gathered personnel were sent home and given times to report back. Thorpe met briefly with Agent Collins, who was off to yet another meeting downtown. The two exchanged phone numbers and agreed to meet around 7 p.m. Until then, Thorpe would be without a chaperone. He decided to go to his office and shuffle through his email, phone messages, and case assignments—most of which would be put on hold until the current situation passed. Thorpe would like to deal with the mess in his woods, but he didn’t have time, and it wasn’t yet dark.

  Saturday

  February 10

  Evening

  BY 6:30 P.M., THORPE HAD finished clearing the scutwork out of his inbox. Everything was being put on hold. Suspending his workload felt great now, but once this thing ended his case assignments would look like a mountain range erupting from the once-gentle plains of his desk. By then, though, Thorpe figured he’d be dead or in prison—so why worry about it?

  While he continued to wrap up his affairs, Thorpe grabbed the remote and tuned his wall-mounted television to a national news program. It didn’t take long for the network to loop back around to the “Terror in Tulsa.”

  A prominent leader in the black community expressed his opinions on the matter and advised he’d be making a personal visit to Tulsa to ensure the “black voice” was heard. He listed the slain men’s numerous racial allegations against the department and argued that their deaths validated those claims. He went on to express his sorrow to the families of the fallen officers but declared they did not die in vain.

  “Their deaths have irrevocably unmasked the tyranny that is the Tulsa Police Department.”

  Normally this would piss off Thorpe to no end, but he had known it was coming and had no one to blame but himself.

  His phone rang, and Agent Collins’ number glowed on its screen.

  “Have you had dinner yet?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “I haven’t had a thing to eat all day. If you don’t mind, I’ll drop off my car at SID and we can go grab something. Are you close?”

  “I never left the office.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Thorpe slipped a tattered leather coat over his hooded gray sweatshirt and went outside to meet Collins. When he stepped onto the parking lot, he pulled the hood over his head. The motel across the street provided the only suitable sniper’s nest. If offered a limited view of the southernmost portion of the elevated lot. Thorpe didn’t plan to venture into the kill zone but chose to conceal his face regardless. Snipers make a person paranoid.

  “Could you drive since you know your way around town?” Collins asked.

  “Sure. I’m parked over here.”

  “I was hoping we could take my car.”

  Thorpe conceded but would have preferred to drive an SID car.

  Collins tossed him the keys to the gray Ford Crown Victoria and walked around to the passenger side of the vehicle. Thorpe saw an investigator climbing out of a nearby Suburban. He was accompanied by a federal escort.

  “Hey, Carnac, I’ll trade you babysitters,” the investigator yelled across the lot.

  “Nah, yours looks constipated.”

  As Thorpe entered the Ford, he caught a glimpse of a smile on Collins’ face. A crack in the armor; at least she has a sense of humor.

  “Where to?”

  “You pick. It’s your town. Let’s just skip the chains.”

  “You like sushi?” Thorpe asked, as he adjusted the seat and mirrors.

  “I like sushi.”

  “We’ll go to Fuji’s. On Saturday nights, it’s tough to get seated at most places, but I know the people there. We should get right in.”

  Fuji’s, located on the southeast corner of 71st and Memorial Drive, was Thorpe’s favorite sushi joint. More importantly, there were no views inside the restaurant from the street. He turned south on Sheridan Road and drove in silence.

  “This is going to be a long assignment if you never speak.”

  “I’m letting you set the pace, Agent Collins.”

  “Okay. Why did that man refer to you as Carnac?”

  “You read my file yet?”

  Collins paused briefly before answering. “Yes.”

  She’s being honest so far. “You read about my shooting?”

  “Yes.”

  Thorpe released the wheel and mimicked air quotes with his index and middle fingers. “‘Psychic powers’ told me there was an armed suspect behind the door.”

  “How did you know?” Collins asked with what seemed to be genuine curiosity.

  “I didn’t. You know the feeling you get when you think you’re being watched, or you think you’re not alone?”

  He felt Collins turn her head to study him. “Yeah.”

  “I had that feeling—a strong one—and I trusted it.”

  “Huh…interesting.”

  “I figure I heard, smelled, or saw something that didn’t register consciously. But who knows?”

  Thorpe guided the Ford south onto Memorial. Memorial Drive on a Saturday night was not a place to travel unless one was between the ages of thirteen and eighteen and looking for a race, a fight, or members of the opposite sex. Thorpe hoped if he were being followed, his tail would become lost in the sea of adolescent drivers.

  Arriving at Fuji’s, Thorpe pulled into a strip-center parking lot and found a space near the restaurant’s front door. He removed the keys from the ignition and held them out to Collins.

  “Thorpe, what’s going on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you drove all the way here with a hood pulled over your head, and you spent more time staring in the rearview mirror than you did on the road in front of you.”

  This woman is going to be a pain in the ass. “I’m an undercover Gangs Unit investigator driving a plain Ford Crown Victoria with government plates. This car screams ‘police officer.’ Since you’re
so observant, you probably noticed passing several cars with occupants dressed suspiciously like gang members. If one day I’m standing in an alley making a dope deal, I sure would hate to get a bullet in the back of my head because they remember studying my face behind the wheel of a cop car.”

  His explanation was total bullshit, but hopefully Collins would buy it. In reality, he hoped to avoid being on the wrong end of a .308 rifle round.

  “Are you always this paranoid?”

  “Agent Collins, I believe we’ve established my paranoia has already saved my ass at least once.”

  “Touché.”

  The woman was definitely observant. Not good.

  The two walked inside and slogged through the waiting customers. The pair garnered an inordinate amount of interest: she was dressed in a smart business outfit while he wore a ragged leather jacket, worn hoodie, blue jeans, Harley Davidson motorcycle boots and the beginnings of a beard.

  Thorpe spoke to Collins loud enough to be overheard by the waiting patrons.

  “I guess everyone’s thinking I could do better.”

  A couple of women giggled; the men redirected their gaze, finding something of apparent interest near their feet.

  “Hey, John, we have a corner booth.” It was Sue, the hostess. As with most employees at the restaurant, Sue was Japanese.

  “First-name basis. Are you Norm to their Cheers?” Collins asked with friendly sarcasm.