Cold Blue (36 page)

Sunday

February 11

Morning

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, THORPE ENTERED
his office to find Agent Collins waiting on his couch. She was dressed casually in a pair of jeans and a dark, snug sweater.

“Blue jeans? You feel bad about outclassing me in the sushi joint?”

“Don’t need a suit for that,” Collins said with a wry smile.

“Ouch. FBI one…PD zero. What’s on the agenda tonight, more of the same?”

“Pretty much.”

“Ready to get going?”

Collins remained on the couch. “Let’s discuss some of your troops first. Give me your impression of them.”

“I can do that in the car.”

“Please.” Collins gestured for Thorpe to have a seat behind his desk.

She was stalling, probably giving one of her colleagues time to hardwire a tracking device to the Mustang. Thorpe sat and defended each and every one of his troops for the next twenty minutes. When the charade ended, Collins announced she was ready to leave. To Thorpe’s surprise, he successfully talked her into taking one of SID’s extra cars. She must have anticipated his request. He wondered if all the division’s surplus units were now outfitted with GPS.

Thorpe retrieved a couple of bags from the Mustang and tossed them into the small backseat of the green Jeep Wrangler. Adding to his suspicion, he noticed Collins had a bag already packed. They both climbed into the four-wheel drive vehicle and discussed which addresses they’d survey during the next twelve hours.

Every officer assigned a protective detail had been granted time off with pay. That meant Phipps had the freedom of choosing a place and time to target Thorpe. Meanwhile, Thorpe remained tethered to a federal agent. In addition to avoiding death, he’d have to deal with the mental probing of the good doctor. He felt the beginning of a headache, a condition he rarely experienced unless administered by someone’s fist. Accumulated stress had exacted a toll on his body and mind. He’d spent half of last night wrestling with the rigid corpse of the late Mr. Shaw while wondering if the FBI were going to pounce at any minute.

Thorpe thought he might have to use his first-ever sick day tomorrow, which would really put the FBI on high alert. They’d surely figure he was on the prowl. But for now, he’d just concentrate on two things: not getting arrested or killed in the next twelve hours.

The Jeep was equipped with a hard top and limo tint. Because of the added privacy, Thorpe didn’t cover his face with the hoodie as he and his denim-clad federal agent pulled away from the office.

“Will we be together all night, or will you give me a reprieve for a few hours?” Thorpe asked.

“Why, you don’t like my company?”

“It’s not that. I just have some people to kill, and you’re putting a cramp in my style.” Thorpe was joking—well, he was pretending to be joking.

How would she react to the comment?

After several moments of silence, Collins finally responded. “Is that one of your attempts at humor again?”

“Was it funny?”

“No.”

“Then it wasn’t. I’m always humorous when I make the attempt.”

“You realize I am a federal agent assigned to this investigation. It’s not in your best interest to make those kind of statements in case one or both of us end up in federal court.”

“Shit, you’ve lost your entire sense of humor overnight.”

Thorpe had a feeling they were being monitored and recorded. She was trying to avoid ambiguous conversation. He decided to have a little fun.

“Agent Collins, what are you doing?”

”What are you talking about?”

Thorpe spoke with feigned agitation. “Agent Collins, please do not grab my crotch again. I have a girlfriend, and while I find you mildly attractive, I am
not
interested.”

“What the hell? Have you lost your mind? I haven’t touched you.”

“Agent Collins, please pull your sweater back down…I don’t want to see those. They are hideous!”

“Sergeant Thorpe! I don’t know what you’re trying to pull but…”

Thorpe cut her off. “Oh my God, pull your pants back up. Holy shit…when was the last time that thing saw a pair of scissors?”

“Sergeant Thorpe!”

“Screaming my name doesn’t do it for me. Damn, it looks like you have Don King in a leg lock down there.”

Collins flushed red. He couldn’t tell if it was from anger or embarrassment. A deep inhalation chambered a bellow, but then a look of recognition washed over her face.

“You think I’m wearing a wire?”

She still looked pissed.

“Aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Is someone listening to us?”

“No.”

“If there is—they’re laughing their asses off.”

“You’re a prick. I thought you’d lost your damned mind.”

Collins face began to regain its natural color, and Thorpe heard her giggle as she repeated, “Don King in a leg lock. Ugh, you’re an asshole.”

“Admitted. What would you do if one of your FBI buddies talked to you like this?”

“I’d chew his ass up one side and down the other. I’d let him know if he ever did it a second time, it’d be his last.”

“That’s what I figured.”

“Based on what information?” Collins asked.

“Based on how your coworkers act around you. They treat you like you’re a real…”

“Bitch? They might be right.”

“How ‘bout me… going to write me up?”

“You? No. I have to work with those guys…” Collins had a slight smile as she completed her thought. “You, on the other hand, I’ll never have to see your sorry ass again.”

“Unless it’s in federal court.”

Thorpe doubted Collins honesty; he figured the conversation was being monitored. Plus, she’d forgiven his outburst way too easily. Thorpe pictured a room full of suits all nodding their heads when the word “bitch” was mentioned.

A dispatcher making an announcement over the protective detail’s sub-fleet interrupted their verbal Judo.

“All units be advised a large group is gathering outside the rally at the Main Station. Officers on scene are requesting additional units. The crowd is growing in size and in animosity toward police.”

In response to the recent killings, a famous figure in the black community had scheduled a press conference at the Main Station to be held tomorrow. Hoping to capitalize on the national attention, the KKK had organized a rally at the same location for today.

Klansmen were experts at getting police officers injured and sued while at the same time getting protestors arrested. Because officers have a sworn duty to protect all citizens, they are called upon to provide security for these idiots while they spew their bullshit. Klansmen claim ulterior motives, but their true intentions are to prod protestors into such frenzy that they do something stupid. Unfortunately, there are always more than a few willing to fall victim.

Demonstrators often wrongly assume that the police agree with the Klansmen’s views since they’re providing security. Regardless, cops are the only thing standing between them and the devils in the pointy hats. This results in protestors battling officers while Klansmen speed away with their first-cousin wives at the wheel. If cities would just refuse to provide security, there wouldn’t be public protests by hate groups like the KKK or Westboro Baptist Church; stupid they are, suicidal they are not.

For this rally, mounted patrol and uniformed officers had been assigned as security but not in sufficient numbers. The ongoing protection details had strained resources. Command had hoped the event’s early hour would keep things relatively peaceful. Based on radio traffic, Thorpe figured those hopes had been dashed.

Despite the call for help, Agent Collins grabbed the radio and advised all units on protective detail to remain in position.

Thorpe took exception. “If a cop gets hurt because they don’t have enough bodies, there’s going to be hell to pay.”

“And if a cop gets killed because we abandon our posts there’s going to be hell to pay.”

“At least let the relief units start.”

“Fine.”

Thorpe picked up the microphone and instructed those units to start to the rally to assist on-scene officers. Thorpe then changed directions toward downtown.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Collins asked.

“We’re headed to the officers in need.”

“No, we are not. We will continue with our assignment.”

“Well, I’m going to help those officers. Do you want me to let you out?”

“Sergeant, who is in charge here?”

“You are.”

“Then you
will
turn this car around and continue with our current assignment.”

“No, I will not. Now unless you plan on physically restraining me, this argument is over.”

Thorpe risked a glance at Agent Collins, who stared straight ahead with a clenched jaw.
At least for the moment, the jaw was shut
.

Thorpe traveled down the Broken Arrow Expressway, taking the Inner Dispersal Loop around the south side of the city. He exited onto Denver Avenue and turned north. When he reached 6
^th
Street, he found a blockaded intersection. Vehicles couldn’t travel in front of the Main Station. A half-block from the agitated crowd, Thorpe jumped the curb and parked.

This was exactly what Thorpe had feared would happen, and he felt personally responsible for having set events in motion. This was not about race. This was about some crooked-assed cops, a few of whom were black, who’d made a fatal error. Unfortunately, Thorpe couldn’t get on the news and announce the reason behind the killings. But if an innocent person were hurt—and God forbid it be a fellow officer—he’d never forgive himself. He had enough blood on his hands already.

Investigators with the Intelligence Unit usually integrated themselves into volatile crowds. Whether it was the KKK, biker rallies, or those “Occupy” idiots, the Intel guys were in the mix looking for troublemakers before they could instigate civil disobedience—today’s politically correct name for a riot. In addition to infiltrating the crowd, one or more usually filmed its members. The department liked to have video that contradicted a demonstrator’s edited version of events. Because SID had been depleted by the formation of protective details, no such provisions were available for this rally.

Thorpe concealed a radio inside his jacket and ran the ear-bud out his collar. He left the Jeep, walking briskly toward 6
^th
Street with Collins in hot pursuit. Thorpe rounded the corner on the south side of 6
^th
and noticed additional responding units. They included a couple of unmarked cars. He recognized two day-shift narcotics investigators pile out of an Impala. Thorpe flagged them over.

“What’s up, sarge?”

“Stay next to me. Look for troublemakers. And let’s try not to get our asses kicked.”

On the north side of 6
^th
Street, Thorpe saw a man with a red beard in a white robe with dark sunglasses preaching hatred behind a podium. The man’s pulpit sat atop the first of three sets of concrete stairs. He was surrounded by four hooded friends with so much pride they chose to hide their faces. Uniformed cops covered the steps in front of and behind the Klansmen. The Mounted Patrol Unit—six officers on horseback—completed the detail. The police presence continued to grow.

Thorpe and company approached the protesters from behind. Though the crowd was racially diverse, the majority was black. Most of those assembled appeared peaceful, but a small core had trouble on their minds.

“Agent Collins, circle around, get your identification out, and join the officers across the street,” Thorpe ordered.

“I’m coming with you.”

“I need you away from here. I’ve seen this before. There are some in this group looking for any opportunity to cause trouble. And believe me…you’re an opportunity.”

“I can take care of myself,” she said, clearly insulted.

Thorpe swung around and pointed his index finger at Collins. “I’m sure you can. But if someone decides to cop a feel, and we have to take him down, the fight’s going to be on. Then all those officers across the street will have to come over here to save our asses. And if one of them gets hurt, it’ll be on you.”

Collins conceded to the logic; she nodded and took a circular route toward the uniformed officers. When she neared the line of blue, she displayed her identification and was allowed inside the perimeter. Thorpe watched her climb the steps and assume an elevated position where she could observe.

A few minutes ago, the man behind the podium had been citing FBI statistics in an effort to show that blacks commit far more crimes against whites than vice versa. The tempered comments had been but a warm up. The speaker had ratcheted up his rhetoric; he now spouted inflammatory remarks along evolutionary lines.

Thorpe felt pride as he looked upon the stoic faces of the officers, many of whom were black, protecting a man even as he insulted them. Thorpe’s pride in his fellow officers was tainted with personal shame, because he knew it was his actions that had tarnished one of the finest police departments in the country.

Thorpe estimated the crowd to number three hundred plus, with fifty or so having the potential to make real trouble. They were the young and angry, and most of them had worked their way toward the front of the pack. Within this assemblage, Thorpe identified an even smaller clique of five. Each one wore long white t-shirts visible below their coats. All but one hurled racial insults at the officers across the street. It was the quiet one in the group who most troubled Thorpe. Younger than the rest, maybe sixteen or seventeen, the kid paced like a caged predator. He appeared to be working up the courage to do something he shouldn’t. Whatever he was planning, it bothered him so much he’d disconnected from his surroundings. His attention had turned inward.

Thorpe risked moving through the crowd to get a closer look. The three undercover investigators managed to maneuver within several feet of the clique. The quiet one continued to pace behind his buddies, sweating despite the cool weather. Thorpe noticed the kid’s eyes flash downward on two separate occasions.