Cold Blue (34 page)

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 events 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 and 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
.

What was it that his friend knew?

Sunday

February 11

Early morning

THORPE CLOSED THE DOORS ON
Deborah’s barn and pulled his gear bag from the trunk of the Mustang. He climbed a set of stairs to an unused apartment loft and retrieved the AR he’d stashed there before going to work. Tonight he’d destroy the parts of the weapon that could provide damning evidence upon examination.

Loaded with equipment, Thorpe stepped out into the dark cold morning. A couple of lights were on inside Deborah’s house, but it looked as if he’d slip away without encountering the woman. Thorpe crossed the gravel road and began trekking through the woods toward the rear of his property. Despite what he’d told Collins, Al and Trixie had been left outside; he hoped to find both animals alive and well.

Thorpe now had several items on long-term loan from SID, including the pair of night-vision goggles he currently wore. He hadn’t signed out any of the equipment, and eventually they’d be discovered missing. He was surprised the high-priced gear hadn’t disappeared before now. The procedures for checking out equipment at the office had always been lax. Officers and supervisors alike could borrow gear in excess of $20,000 a piece without many checks and balances.

Thorpe used the hands-free NVDs to traverse east and slightly north toward the creek that ran behind his house. The temperature hovered a degree or two above freezing. Wet from an afternoon of melting sleet, the soggy foliage allowed Thorpe to travel silently through the woods.

As he picked his way through the trees, he thought about the conversations he’d had with Agent Collins. Something didn’t track with the woman. She’d invited him for drinks, and while he didn’t consider himself unattractive, he was far from irresistible. Given the body language the other agents had shown, he doubted she routinely extended such invitations. Furthermore, he was fairly certain she specialized in offender profiling.

Just great, he had an FBI criminal profiler for a “partner.”

Thorpe wondered if the free time he’d been given was actually rope with which to hang himself. He also questioned whether other investigators in the unit were being outfitted with GPS tracking devices. Maybe he wasn’t the only officer under suspicion.

The FBI had been involved in the investigation for less than twenty-four hours. The only loose end that could have unraveled so fast was Kaleb Moment. But if the kid had gone straight to the feds, Thorpe figured he’d be sitting in a jail cell right now instead of trekking through the woods with a rifle strapped to his chest. Thorpe decided he’d have to do a little investigating of his own. But first he needed to collect the remains of Thadius Shaw and dispose of them somewhere far from his property.