Текст книги "Cold Blue"

Автор книги: Gary Neece

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Saturday

February 10

Morning

IT WAS 9:00 A.M. WHEN Thorpe’s pager started going off. He’d been asleep for exactly one hour and still had a dead man lying in the woods across from his house. Thorpe returned the page and reached his captain, Don Cory. The captain had “unsettling news.”

“Brandon Baker was killed last night and set on fire, and Thadius Shaw is missing. I’d give you more details, but I have about a hundred calls I need to make. There’s going to be a full briefing at SID at 1300 hours. Everybody’s coming in, regular days off or not. Vacation and comp days are cancelled. Be here.”

The line clicked dead.

Thorpe would be paid overtime to help search for the killers. He conceded to the irony, looked at his watch, and decided to get a few more hours of sack time. His father’s words floated alongside him into unconsciousness.

Sleep is like water son, if you don’t know when you’ll find it again, get as much as you can.

Three hours later, Thorpe packed his gear while watching CNN. Tulsa had become the lead story on the national networks: two black Tulsa police officers had been killed within the last two days and a third had gone missing. The story went on to describe the methods used to kill the officers and brief biographies of their lives. The requisite “experts” were on hand to lend their opinions, and, as usual, the experts were full of shit. They did get one thing right when suggesting the suspect could be a fellow cop or cops, their theory based on the fact that the slain black officers were outspoken about alleged racial inequalities on the department and had been parties to several lawsuits. The hitch in their theory was the murder of Baker, a white officer. Some of these same experts spun a web of possible explanations. One suggested that Baker might have been a collaborator in the black officers’ deaths and had since been silenced. As was the case these days, the reporters preferred to generate news rather than report it.

The story was accompanied by sound bites from TPD’s inept interim police chief, Jason Kampmann. As a general rule, TPD promoted its chief from within. Being one of the first departments in the country that required newly hired officers to hold the equivalent of a bachelor’s degree, TPD was stocked full of competent, educated personnel. Unfortunately, Tulsa’s current mayor didn’t like the fact the chief had civil service protection and couldn’t be completely dominated. Although several TPD candidates were determined to be qualified, he sought and selected a chief from an outside department and made him an “at will” employee. The mayor essentially made the position a political one, in which the chief would have to ask “how hard” when ordered to suck it. The contested arrangement was now in the hands of the state supreme court.

In the meantime, the department was stuck with a chief who had a propensity for falling asleep in meetings and couldn’t figure out how to turn on a police radio. One of his first proposals was to make the force “college educated.” The deputy chiefs advised him he was twenty-some years late with the idea but congratulated him for his enterprising concept.

Now Kampmann, wearing a TPD uniform he hadn’t earned the right to wear, stood on the national stage doing a first-rate impersonation of Captain Kangaroo. Thorpe couldn’t help but wonder how such idiots rose to positions of power in this country. The most important information Thorpe took from the news report was that the Federal Bureau of Investigation had assumed the lead on the homicides.

Great, now there’d be pile of armed accountants in the mix.

Thorpe flipped off the television and stepped outside. He’d left Al and Trixie out last night, and they didn’t seem overly concerned with their surroundings. He doubted Phipps would take another shot at him here; the next attempt would come while Thorpe worked. Looking past his dogs, he was grateful coyotes hadn’t yet dragged Shaw’s body out into the middle of the road. He’d deal with that problem tonight after dark. At least the cold would keep Shaw from getting too ripe.

The first thing Thorpe noticed when he pulled into SID’s parking lot was the deluge of plain sedans and black Chevy Suburbans. Gail greeted him as he stepped into the office.

“Hello, James,” she said, looking up from her desk.

“Miss Moneypenny…you are bewitching.”

“Oh, James, you’re such the flirt.”

“Only with you, Miss Moneypenny…only with you. Are we being absorbed by the Famous But Incompetent?”

“Uhhh? Oh, I get it. The FBI. Seems like it; they’re everywhere.”

“Careful, that’s what people with tinfoil on their heads have been saying for years,” Thorpe joked. “I guess I have a meeting to attend. Arrivederci, Miss Moneypenny.”

“Arrivederci, James.”

Thorpe walked to his office, threw his gear onto the couch, and meandered through the building to the conference room. When he entered the rectangular chamber, he was reminded of a junior high school dance: SID supervisors occupied one side of the room opposite a bunch of uptight looking men in suits, neither group acknowledging the presence of the other. In this case the dance floor was a long, oval-shaped conference table that might as well have been the English Channel.

Thorpe took a seat near the exit and nodded at the sergeant over Vice, Gary Treece, who promptly rolled his eyes, leaned to one side, and loosed a lengthy fart. The SID boys burst out laughing, but the suits didn’t seem to get the joke—very unprofessional.

A couple of guys were close to shedding tears, either from the laughter or the stench, when Deputy Chief Brad Elias strode into the room.

His appearance reversed the direction of gaseous output as assholes collectively sucked up oxygen, tempting Thorpe to check the barometer on his watch to gauge the loss of atmospheric air pressure. The first of a foursome, Deputy Chief Elias was followed by Major Duncan and Captain Cory. An attractive woman wearing a conservative pin-striped skirt suit brought up the rear. She was long, slender and moved with an athletic grace. Her thick black hair was pulled back and wrapped in a tight bun. Thorpe made a conscious effort not to stare.

As the foursome made their way to a podium, Thorpe noticed that the eyes of every other SID supervisor were locked on the raven-haired beauty…cops. There’s an old saying amongst police officers, “You can trust a cop with your money and life, but never leave one alone with your wife.”

The woman had an olive complexion suggesting Mediterranean, Brazilian or some other exotic ancestry. Thorpe noted that not one of the suits gave the woman more than a fleeting glance. Maybe they knew something the undercover guys didn’t. Thorpe sided with the feds on this one topic and refrained from drooling on himself as she pulled up a seat next to the podium. The other TPD personnel in the room had no such concern. They looked like a collection of schoolboys who’d been given a Playboy bunny as a detention monitor. Chief Elias took a position behind the podium and introduced the three figures who sat to his right, including Special Agent Ambretta Collins.

Chief Elias spoke for several minutes. His words felt bridled and failed to disclose the entire scope of the investigation or the FBI’s role in the matter. Toward the end of his comments, he was more candid.

“To be perfectly honest, as of this moment, a member or members of this police department are possible perpetrators of these murders. Therefore, I can’t fully divulge the details of this investigation to potential suspects. I’m not accusing anyone in this room. But you understand our predicament. Regardless, SID personnel will not be involved in the investigation of these murders. Your assignment will be—with the assistance of the FBI and U.S. Marshals Service—to help provide security for specific officers on the department. Particularly, for individuals who’ve initiated litigation against TPD. Again, because we can’t inadvertently assign the killer to guard his next victim, you and your units will be working in conjunction with the FBI and Marshals and more than likely will have an agent or marshal monitoring your activities. We’ll be addressing the entire division at 1400 hours but wanted to get the supervisors on board first. Ms. Collins…”

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 collaboration 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 71^st 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.

Sue led Collins to a booth. Thorpe had been to the restaurant so often that the hostesses knew he’d only sit with his back to the wall in a location where he could observe fellow customers and the entryway. The restaurant was one of the few routines Thorpe allowed himself.

When they reached the table, Agent Collins sat on the side Thorpe had planned to occupy. This left him unsure how to proceed, but eventually he sat next to his new partner, shoulders and hips touching.

“Excuse me?” Agent Collins said, her voice raising several octaves.

“Relax. You don’t have anything I want, except a seat facing the room.” Thorpe smiled. “If you want to keep your distance, you’ll have to sit on the other side.”

Collins stared at Thorpe for what seemed like a full minute before she relinquished and slid over. She redirected her gaze to a menu while a waitress brought two glasses of water and placed a large Sapporo in front of Thorpe. Collins’ eyes—accompanied by a pair of arched eyebrows—again found his.

“Sushi just doesn’t taste right without Sapporo. You going to report me?”

“Actually, a beer sounds good. Waitress, please bring me one of those.”

“Step one, establish trust. Check.”

“Are you going to be a smartass this entire assignment?” Collins asked, with a hint of hostility.

“I’ve been a smartass my whole life; I don’t see any reason to change now.”

“So this is normal behavior?”

“Unfortunately…yes.”

Collins put down her menu and faced Thorpe. “You know…every TPD officer and official I’ve come into contact with has been incessant in their questioning me about this case. You, on the other hand, haven’t asked me one question. Why?”

“Would you tell me anything I haven’t already seen on the news?”

Collins kept her eyes locked on Thorpe but paused before answering. “No.”

“There’s your why,” Thorpe remarked. “Thanks for being honest.”

“I believe in diplomacy, when I’m dealing with people who may be thin-skinned. But I didn’t think I needed to be anything but blunt with you.”

“Where did you get your psychology degree?” Thorpe asked, taking a shot in the dark.

“Is that another joke or a legitimate question?”

“Legitimate question.”

She again paused before responding. “Florida State University.”

“Is that where you received your undergraduate degree or your doctorate?”

“Undergraduate.”

“Where did you get your doctorate?”

“Boston University,” Collins answered with reluctance in her voice.

“Those who earn their doctorates usually insist on being referred to as ‘doctor.’ It generally supersedes ‘agent,’ and absolutely overrides ‘miss.’ Why don’t you want people to know you’re a doctor?”

“Sometimes it puts people on the defensive. And considering the circumstances, I thought the title might make officers… paranoid.” Collins finished the sentence with a wry smile. “How did you know I had a doctorate?”

“I didn’t.”

“One of those Carnac feelings again?”

“Just fishing.”

“You’re very deductive.”

“Please, let’s keep this professional.”

“But you’re not funny.”

Thorpe laughed. “So you think a person like—oh let’s say me—might be paranoid if the FBI blew into town to investigate a series of murders where the most likely suspect is a cop. The ‘me’ finds out his FBI partner—who claims to be in charge of protection—is most likely a criminal profiler. Now why would anyone find that worrisome?”

Collins took a long pull from her Sapporo before turning and facing Thorpe. “Frankly I didn’t expect to be having this conversation within the first hour of riding with you. For someone who doesn’t ask a lot of questions, you somehow deftly reversed this discussion so I’m on the defensive. I bet you’re one hell of an interrogator.”

Collins paused and now seemed to be very carefully choosing her words. “How ‘bout we jump to the end of the path you’ve been leading me down. Yes, I am part of the investigative detail. Yes, part of my assignment was to garner your trust and get you to open up about potential suspects. That’s all I can reveal at this time, and, believe me, I wouldn’t be telling you this if I didn’t think you already had that much figured out. I hope you appreciate the honesty.”

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“By the way I really am in charge of protection, so let’s focus on shoring that up first. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Still on duty and with work to do, they ordered sushi rolls and nursed their one beer. During the meal, the conversation mostly centered on TPD operations, chain of command, and various specialty units.

Before the two left, Collins excused herself to the ladies room, and Thorpe removed a notebook and pen from the interior of his jacket.

He wrote, Feb 10. The man who killed me tonight is Officer Andrew Phipps. He, Cornelius Johnson, and Sergeant Carl McDonald are the only three left responsible for the death of my family.

ANDREW PHIPPS EXPENDED A LOT of effort to get a room in the Sheridan Commons. The three-story motel sat across from the offices of the Special Investigations Division where Thorpe worked. First, though he had declined protection, Phipps had to slip out the back door to avoid a two-man unit guarding his home. Then, because his car was parked in his driveway, he had to borrow a vehicle from a friend, claiming he didn’t want to drive his own for fear he might be recognized and killed. Finally, Phipps had given a prostitute a hundred bucks to rent this thirty-dollar, third-story room, give him the keys and disappear.