Cold Blue (33 page)

“Those few you mentioned, are they black or white?” Collins asked.

“That’s a hard question to answer without coming off as racist. I suppose it comes down to who you ask.”

“Care to be more specific?”

“Not really,” Thorpe answered truthfully.

“Please indulge me.”

Thorpe didn’t know if he wanted to tackle the query; an honest answer might make him appear more appetizing as a suspect. Ultimately, he found no reason to lie about it. Ninety-five percent of the department felt the same way he did—though some wouldn’t admit it publicly.

“Are there white racists on this department? I’m sure there are,” Thorpe answered his own question. “But overall, I don’t think there
is
friction between white and black officers. Almost everyone on this department is college educated, and they do a pretty good job of judging someone on character rather than race. What friction does exist, in my opinion, was generated by a few malcontents.”

Thorpe could speak for hours on what he thought were injustices against whites on the department, but he also knew blacks could do the same in reference to their perceived injustices. He knew true prejudices were born from an uncompromising belief
you
were the only one who was right. Usually, reality lurked somewhere in between.

“Do you think black officers have any legitimate complaints?” Collins persisted.

“Let’s be clear here. Most black officers aren’t complaining. I’d estimate the percentage to be very small. I can understand some of their viewpoints. I’ve tried to picture myself on a department comprised of ninety-percent black officers. I can see where I could blame my misfortunes on the color of my skin, and I could also see the perception of special treatment being extended to others. I mean, there are some real assholes on this department. I’ve been treated like shit by a few superiors for absolutely no reason—in my opinion. If I were a minority, I can see why I might use race as a possible explanation because, in my mind, no others existed. Since I don’t have that excuse, I have to chalk it up to people having a shitty day or them just being all-American assholes. Also, I’ve seen some whites on this department get away with some crazy shit. But I don’t think it relates to race as much as it does to the good ol’ boy system.

“The bottom line is…if you’re buddies with a sergeant, captain, major, deputy chief, whatever, it’s going to lessen your disciplinary action on this department—depending on how much stroke your friend has. If you play golf with a deputy chief on a weekly basis, there’s going to be some mishaps swept under the carpet. That’s not a black/white thing, though. It depends on who you are and your rank. But if I were a black officer and I was sitting back watching some of this shit, sure…I’d think, ‘Those assholes take care of themselves.’”

Thorpe wanted to change the subject and chose a statement that’d be effective in doing so.
“Maybe these killings have nothing to do with race.”

“For example?”

“Maybe someone’s pissed for other reasons…some of those guys who were killed were downright dirty. Or one of their own is mad about something…maybe it has nothing at all to do with race at all. Baker was white, explain that.”

“All things to consider. But right now our best assumption is a racially motivated Tulsa police officer or officers.”

Thorpe parked a half block down from one of the protective details. According to his information, this particular house was being monitored by one of his investigators, Jennifer Williams, who’d been unlucky enough to draw an FBI agent as a full-time partner.

“Let’s approach on foot,” Thorpe said, pulling the hoodie back over his head as he climbed out of the Ford

He and Collins walked down the street toward the house in question. Thorpe recognized Jennifer’s car parked along the curb; he figured the hard-headed investigator would win the argument with the fed over who drove and which car they took. When Thorpe and Collins were about twenty yards from the rear of the vehicle, Jennifer scrambled out the driver’s side door and into the street with her right hand concealed behind her leg. Thorpe knew the hand held a pistol. A second later, the passenger door flung open, and a suit stepped out onto the curb, empty-handed.

“Don’t shoot, it’s the po-po” Thorpe said—using one of the G-rated terms bangers use for the police.

“Fucking Carnac! How ‘bout a warning first?” Jennifer spat.

“Keeping you on your toes.” Thorpe winked.

“If I’d seen the skirt next to you, I wouldn’t have gotten so damn excited. Only saw your hooded ass in my side-view mirror.”

Thorpe introduced Jennifer to “the skirt,” and Collins asked her what she thought about the security situation.

Never one to mince words, Jennifer gave the run down.

“It’s a complete cluster. We’re sitting out here like ducks. If someone wanted to get in that house, they could plink us off like steel targets…or just go in the fucking back door.”

Collins defended herself. “As I said in the briefing, your presence is more preventative than actual security. We don’t believe the suspect would risk capture by going in the back door with two officers sitting out front. We also don’t believe the suspect means harm to anyone other than his intended target.”

“You
believe,
but you don’t know. You’ll know when SIU is scraping my brains off the asphalt,” Jennifer argued.

“What do you suggest, officer?”

“We should be inside the house.”

“Most considered that too intrusive. Would you want two strangers sitting in your living room all day?”

“We’re not strangers. We’re all fucking cops here. We’re not black, we’re not white, we’re blue. And no, I wouldn’t give a shit. They could sit and fart on my couch if they wanted to. If someone thinks we’re too intrusive, fuck ‘em; let them fend for themselves.”

“That isn’t going to happen,” Collins assured her.

Jennifer looked at Thorpe. “This is bullshit.”

“I agree, but there’s not much we can do about it. If you’re worried about getting sniped, take precautions. Figure out the places a sniper would likely engage you from. Then split-up into two different cars so that both of you can watch the house and still see each other. Position yourself so it’d be difficult to acquire you both as targets in a short amount of time. That should force the shooter to wait for a better opportunity; unless, of course, we have multiple snipers.” Thorpe smiled. “Then you’re fucked.”

He redirected his attention to his new partner. “I doubt Agent Collins here would have a problem with you being in separate vehicles so long as you can account for one another’s whereabouts the entire time.”

“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.