Cold Blue

by Gary Neece

  “Just make sure you can see one another…and no bathroom breaks or trips to the convenience store alone.”

  Collins’ stipulation prompted an additional retort from Williams. “Does that mean Timothy here wipes my ass for me, or can I actually go inside the restroom all by myself?”

  The two women gave each other unforgiving looks before Collins turned and started back to her car.

  “Cut them some slack, Jennifer. They’re only following orders—same as us.”

  “I don’t appreciate being treated like a suspect, Sarge.”

  “I don’t either,” Thorpe said, in spite of the irony. “You want us to watch this house while you go get another car?”

  “No. I doubt we’re in much danger of getting whacked. I was just busting her balls…besides, me and Timmy here are becoming best buds. Ain’t that right, Timmy?” The man in the suit nodded in agreement. “Have fun with the Ice Queen, Carnac.”

  Thorpe followed Collins back to her vehicle and climbed behind the wheel.

  “Cops don’t care much for the FBI, do they?” Collins asked.

  “She’s like that with everyone. One of the best undercover officers I have, but she lacks a bit in the social-skills department, particularly with other women.”

  “I’m not talking about Williams or this assignment specifically. Every officer is being treated like a potential suspect. That’s enough to create animosity with anyone. I mean, cops in general just don’t like federal agents,” Collins clarified.

  “It’s probably worse among narcotics officers more than anyone else. We’re used to working with the DEA and the way they operate. The red tape those guys are forced to wade through is ridiculous. On TPD, if we want to follow a guy, we follow him. If we develop probable cause for a search warrant, we write and serve it. DEA—if they want to follow a guy they have to write it up, send it up, and wait for approval to filter back down to their field agents, and that’s just to get permission to conduct surveillance on someone. The hoops they have to jump through—it’s a wonder they get anything accomplished. The agents themselves are generally great guys…but the bureaucracy? Ridiculous. I hope the FBI doesn’t operate under the same constraints while protecting us from terrorism; if so, our asses are in some deep shit.” The FBI was famous for their incapacitating political correctness; the comment was a subtle jab. He glanced at Collins and then continued.

  “Every so often, the city will have a spike in violent crime or gang activity. In response, we’ll form a federal task force. Talk about a media stunt. The only differences are a couple of DEA guys ride around with TPD officers, and federal prosecutors get a little more enthusiastic picking up eligible cases. We do the same work we always do; we just keep track of the amount of dope, guns, money, and arrests we make during the time period.

  “At the conclusion, the media announces the fruit of the task force. Everyone thinks the DEA descended on the city and took a bunch of guns and criminals off the street. In reality, a couple more agents rode around with TPD officers who did what they do every day, week in, week out. The feds pick up the overtime bill and get a slap on the back for a job well done.”

  “So it’s a jealousy thing?” Collins said with a broad smile.

  Thorpe laughed. “I guess it is. We do the work and the feds get all the glory. A good street cop will make more felony arrests in his first year than a fed will in his entire career.”

  “Out of curiosity, what’s the opinion of the FBI?”

  “I don’t know. We don’t work as closely with them as the DEA. I guess the general impression is that you guys are mainly accountants and lawyers with a prop pistol on your hip, best suited to white-collar crimes. We have two investigators who work with your antiterrorism unit, but they won’t say shit about what they do. The media tells the public that the FBI and local police share intelligence to fight the war on terror, but from what I see, the information-stream’s current only flows one direction. You all don’t tell us shit. However, that’s a procedure I happen to agree with. Most cops can’t keep a secret.”

  “Yeah, we have enough problems maintaining secrets within the bureau. I can’t imagine eight hundred cops keeping silent about the local motel owner being the facilitator of a terrorist cell,” Collins said.

  Thorpe continued, “Hell, about a year ago, our police chief got on the evening news and admitted to terrorist cells operating in Tulsa. Based on his subsequent statements, he must’ve had a size fifteen federal boot shoved up his ass.”

  Collins laughed. “Yeah, even I heard about that.”

  “Quite frankly I don’t want to know. I’d end up moving to North Dakota or something just to get away; live on a ranch in the middle of nowhere,” Thorpe said, only half-kidding.

  “It’s a scary world,” Collins agreed.

  “Look, I’ve talked more in the last thirty minutes than I usually say in a week. How ‘bout you give me a break and knock off the questions for a while?”

  “Just one more—you fight professionally or for fun?”

  “What?”

  Collins pointed at her own eyebrows as she spoke. “I’ve noticed some scarring in and around your eyebrows—common injuries sustained by boxers. Your knuckles look like you go home and argue with a tree every night, and you also have the beginning of cauliflower ear on the right side—not to mention your nose is slightly askew.”

  Fighters and wrestlers take repeated blows to the ears. A deformity can result when sacs of blood collect between the injured cartilage and the skin. Those familiar with combat sports refer to the condition as cauliflower ear.

  “Gee, thanks. Now you know why I wear a hoodie all the time,” Thorpe joked, deflecting the question.

  Collins tripped over her words. “I’m sorry, you’re still attrac… you’re not… it doesn’t look bad. It’s hardly noticeable.”

  “You’re such a flatterer. Had a wild youth, is all. I don’t look for fights, but sometimes they come my way…you analyze everyone like this?”

  “Sorry…bad habit.”

  Shit. Thorpe wanted the woman out of his head. Was she here to gather information on the department, or on him specifically? The coincidences were adding up to the makings of a trap: an attractive FBI agent, who just happens to be a criminal profiler, singled out Thorpe to be her partner. She was not only in charge of the protective detail but was also involved with the investigation itself. She garnered Thorpe’s opinion on departmental race relations, and now she was asking increasingly personal questions. Based on how the other FBI agents behaved around her, Thorpe figured Collins was not a person given to getting cozy with her coworkers. For the finishing blow, she’d begun to say she found him attractive, before clumsily trying to word her way out of the supposed slip. Agent Collins, Doctor Collins, didn’t strike Thorpe as a woman who said a thing without careful forethought.

  No doubt—he was definitely being played.

  “Where to next?”

  Collins read the next address on their checklist. As Thorpe drove, he collected his thoughts and focused on Andrew Phipps. The man had to be seeking an opportunity to strike. But where? He doubted Phipps had access to the operation’s particulars; if he asked too many questions, he’d only draw attention to himself. However, he’d be sure to know the locations of the protective details. Fortunately, Thorpe wasn’t assigned to a fixed position, and he refrained from broadcasting over the radio. His unregulated and undocumented movement would make it difficult for Phipps to isolate him. The man would be forced into shadowing a surveillance team until Thorpe showed his face.

  If Phipps were patient, sooner or later Thorpe and Collins would roll up to a location and the sniper would have his opportunity. Collins might end up with Thorpe’s brain in her lap; that’d force her to rethink whatever theories danced in her head. The situation would become much clearer when crime-scene detectives discovered the note on his headless torso.

  If he survived the night, he needed to spend a few minutes explaining recent even
ts in a hand-written letter. He’d place both his and Leon’s documents in a safety deposit box and then alert his attorney as to their existence and location.

  Thorpe wondered if Phipps would make a move tonight; if so, it wouldn’t be well-planned. Just in case, Thorpe decided to play it safe; from now on, he’d be sure and survey the area around the security detail before approaching. He’d tell Collins he was conducting a risk assessment for each location. She might smell his bullshit, but screw it, better for her to be suspicious than for him to be dead.

  ANDREW PHIPPS WAS HAVING A difficult time. His military deployments had always been in support of a larger force. Now, he operated alone. He’d decided to find a place of cover near a protected officer’s home, wait for Thorpe to show his face, and perforate it with a bullet.

  The difficulty had been in finding a suitable location without being spotted by the security detail. If he drove down the street in an effort to locate the officers, the license plate might be recorded and traced. The friend from whom he’d borrowed the car would talk, and Phipps would have to explain why he’d cruised the area shortly before a TPD sergeant had his head removed by a .308 round. The fact that Phipps was an ex-Recon marine and current police sniper wouldn’t bode well.

  His only option was to move in on foot and attempt to avoid the detail. He’d need to find a nest where he could observe from a distance. If and when Thorpe showed, Phipps would have to be able to take the shot and get to his car before the detail could respond. Even then, the shooting would be broadcast over the police radio in seconds, lessening his chances of escaping the neighborhood undetected. Plus, he’d have to move into position with a rifle. Nosey neighbors are prone to report such sights. Assassinating someone on domestic soil and not getting caught was proving more difficult than he’d hoped.

  If he targeted Thorpe at his home, Phipps would have to deal with those fucking dogs again. And the last time he’d visited, Thorpe had rigged the tree line with a curtain of light. The next encounter might entail booby-traps of a more sinister nature. Phipps didn’t relish the possibility of piercing his feet on punji sticks or losing a leg to an IED.

  His options were almost as distressing as what he’d just heard broadcast over the tactical channel. An anonymous caller reported seeing a man leave the back door of 1506 West Queen Street—his home—and jump the fence. The protective detail announced they were at Phipps’ front door and unable to make contact. Then Thorpe came on the radio and told the officers to force entry.

  What the fuck was going on? They’d soon discover Phipps had slipped out of his residence. Now he’d be forced to explain his whereabouts and reasons for skulking away.

  Shit! And who the hell had broken into his house?

  WHILE THORPE DROVE TO THEIR assorted scouting locations, Collins busied herself with a series of cryptic phone calls. Thorpe hadn’t been able to gather any intelligence from the one-sided communications; Collins’ input consisted mostly of yeses, nos, and uh-huhs. Only one thing had been made clear: he wasn’t a welcome participant to the conversations.

  She’d been engaged in one of those exchanges when the call referencing Phipps’ house was broadcast over the tactical channel. Collins terminated the phone call and told Thorpe to order officers to force entry.

  After issuing the order, Thorpe conducted a U-turn and—aware he could be heading into a trap—responded to their location.

  By the time he and Collins arrived, the security detail had searched the house and found no signs of an intruder, nor had they located Officer Phipps.

  Collins grabbed an accordion folder out of the back seat, withdrew a photocopy of a TPD contact card and phoned Phipps’ cell phone.

  EN ROUTE BACK TO HIS home, Phipps looked down at his ringing cell phone. He didn’t recognize the number and guessed the caller was someone with the department or FBI. He considered not answering, but surmised ignoring the call would create more havoc than picking up. If they weren’t able to establish contact, they’d make a full-scale effort to locate him.

  “Yeah?”

  “Officer Phipps, this is Special Agent Collins of the FBI. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Thanks for asking,” Phipps answered, not bothering to hide his sarcasm.

  “I’m sorry to say this isn’t a social call. We just had a report of a man leaving the back door of your residence and jumping the fence. Fearing for your safety, I authorized officers to breech the front door. The good news is they didn’t find anyone inside. And while I’m relieved to hear that you’re okay, I’m disappointed to learn you purposely slipped away from our protection detail.”

  Who was she to order him around?

  “I told the FBI, I had no need for a protective detail. Plus, they obviously aren’t worth a shit if someone broke into my house right under their noses. Whoever snuck out of there wasn’t me; I’ve been away from home for hours.”

  “Besides the damage our protective detail caused, we didn’t find any sign of forced entry. If someone actually did break into your house, they’re good and would seem to justify us having you under protection. In the future, we’d appreciate you keeping us informed of your whereabouts.”

  “You have no authority over me. I don’t have to keep you informed of shit,” Phipps barked.

  “I have the full cooperation of your chief of police. And I believe he does exercise authority over you.”

  “Not when I’m off-duty.”

  “I’ll discuss the incident with your command. May I ask where you’ve been?”

  What fucking business is it of hers? “You can ask.”

  “Okay, we’ll do it your way. You might want to return home and secure your front door.”

  “I’m en route. I expect the FBI to pay for the damages.”

  “If I were you, finances would be the least of my concerns.”

  “Is that a thr…”

  The line went dead before he could finish his sentence.

  Bitch.

  THORPE HAD NO DIFFICUTLY DECIPHERING this phone conversation.

  “And people call me a bitch,” Collins mumbled as she lowered her cell. “What an ass.”

  He couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, I haven’t sent Phipps a Christmas card in quite some time.”

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  “You don’t want to hang around till he gets home and chew on his ass some more?”

  “That wouldn’t be productive.”

  “No, but it’d be entertaining.” Thorpe would have liked to see Phipps eye-to-eye. Then again, it might not be a good idea to have Collins witness the interaction.

  “Where to?”

  “Back to SID. We’re done for the night; tomorrow we’ll pick up where we left off.”

  The drive back to the office was a quiet one. Perhaps anger had clenched her jaw. Thorpe pulled into a space, grabbed his gear bag, told Collins he’d see her tomorrow, and was making his way toward an extra car when her mouth started working again.

  “You want to go grab a drink somewhere?”

  Oh yeah, he was being played all right; now that her mouth was working, she’d try and loosen his with alcohol and hormones. Pretty solid plan, really.

  “No, thanks, I need to let my dogs out before they make a mess of the place.”

  “Tomorrow night, then?”

  “Sure,” Thorpe relented, as he used a remote to unlock a Ford Mustang convertible.

  Collins nodded at the Mustang. “Is that your assigned car?”

  Quit with the freaking questions already.

  “No, I drive a different car home from time to time…paranoia, remember?”

  “How could I forget?”

  Thorpe drove out the gate, made the block and parked. Not long after, he spotted Collins exit the lot in her Crown Vic. When she was out of sight, he drove back up the ramp and parked next to his truck. It took him less than two minutes to find a GPS tracker attached to the undercarriage of his assigned pickup. Thorpe left the device where he’d found it a
nd then inspected the Mustang. He couldn’t find a tracker but suspected one would be affixed to all the extra vehicles in SID’s fleet before the end of shift tomorrow.

  They were on to him.

  Driving home, Thorpe called Jeff.

  “What’s up?”

  “You still awake?” Thorpe asked.

  “Are you kidding me? I’m not going to be getting any sleep.”

  “We had a man date, remember? Where you want to meet?” Thorpe knew Jeff wouldn’t be able to go out; he was only giving him hell.

  “You can’t be serious. I’m going to be working twenty-hours a day for the rest of my damned life.”

  Thorpe laughed. “Relax, man. Hey, you need anything from the store? I’m dropping by your house to check on the little lady.”

  “Yeah, pick up some milk. I don’t think I’m going to get off for another ten or twelve hours.”

  Not much of a comeback, Thorpe thought. “Okay, maybe we can grab lunch during the week or something.”

  “I doubt it, but I’ll give you a shout if I’m able to break away.”

  The line went dead.

  That was awkward.

  Less than five percent of a conversation’s meaning is conveyed through the spoken word. The other ninety-five percent is comprised of time, space, pitch, cadence, body language, facial expressions, eye movement, and so on.

  Thorpe couldn’t see Jeff’s face, but the conversation had been littered with red flags. Having picked up the distress codes in Jeff’s speech, Thorpe focused on the words he’d used. First, Jeff had told Thorpe to “pick up some milk.” Jeff detested milk. As a stand-alone statement, it appeared to be a sarcastic response to Thorpe’s jab. But Jeff had gone further, saying he’d be working another ten to twelve hours. “10-12” happened to be the department’s ten-code officers used to inform others they were not alone. Jeff had been cautioning Thorpe that someone was listening in.

  Was it as innocuous as a person standing next to Jeff while he spoke or something more alarming, like Jeff suspecting—or knowing—that Thorpe’s line was tapped? Jeff also said he wouldn’t have time to meet for lunch. Everyone makes time to eat.