Senile Squad: Adventures of the Old Blues (24 page)

A TUG OF WAR RAGED INSIDE JAKE: HIS ATTRACTION TO Brittany versus what? He wasn’t exactly sure. For years since his wife’s death, anytime he so much as looked at a beautiful woman, guilt would consume him. Forget about asking her on a date. They weren’t really Jake’s type anyway so it never mattered. Loads of men went after the hotties. Not Jake. Those women were too into themselves and viewed men as an appendage not a companion.

With Brittany, things were different. She didn’t seem to know how pretty she actually was. How could she not know what a knockout she was? And she was kind. She took care of all those old cops as though they were all related, like an adopted grandchild or niece. She visited regularly bringing cheer as well as treats. She gave of herself as well as of her kitchen. No wonder those Ol’ Blues adored her.

Jake stared out his office window and rubbed the back of his neck. So why the confusion now? His relationship with his wife had been beautiful. At the last anniversary dinner, almost in premonition, Sarah had turned the conversation to a path he’d never imagined and didn’t like.
If I die tomorrow, Jake, promise me that you’ll marry again.

Never
, he’d protested vehemently.

Seriously. I want you to. It’s important to have someone in your life. And Abigail…she’ll need a mother—trust me. I’ve seen your efforts to dress her.
They’d shared a laugh at that.
Really, though, she’s going to need a woman’s influence to become the kind of person we want her to be.

Losing them both at the same time, he’d never imagined how empty life could be, so meaningless. Nobody needed him; he was completely and totally alone. It had taken awhile—too hard to leave the graves behind—but his brother had finally coaxed him to move to Omaha. The change helped, got him outside himself again. Working for the Omaha PD made him focus on what it meant to be needed again—if not by his family, by people of the community.

And now this. Brittany awakened a new need—something he’d buried over three years ago: the need to belong to someone and have someone belong to him.

Just the kind of woman you need, Jake,
Sarah’s voice whispered as though speaking in his ear. He sat rod-straight in his chair and looked around. Seeing nobody, he slumped into his seat again and scrubbed his hand across his eyes
. I know, babe, but she could have any guy she wanted. Why would she…

Jake, my love, she’s the kind of woman you need. I want you to be happy. Abigail and I will always be in your heart. It hurts us that you’re lonely; Brittany is who you need…and she needs you. It’s all right; it would bring us joy to know you have love in your life again
.

Jake wasn’t sure he was really in his office or had simply lost his mind.
A mom is important, Dad; you need to have a mom with a dad,
the voice of his little girl said.
Right now you’re just a dad. You won’t be happy without a mom.

Tears prickled at the edges of his eyes. One slipped out to trickle down his cheek. “Thanks, babe.”

Jake sat at his desk a long time processing the incident that had just occurred. Finally he shook his head to clear things and bring himself back to reality. He grabbed the stack of morning press releases. “I am at work,” he muttered.

Reports typed and completed. That only left his departmental rounds before he could give Brittany a call. Excitement shivered up his spine.

His question was the same at each unit. Any notable persons or crimes they wanted released to the public? Robbery, homicide, special victims. One by one each got the same query. If anyone had a name or case, they could get a tip through Crime Stoppers. Anonymous or not the tip line was worth its weight in gold.

Jake accumulated the necessary information and headed to the gang unit. He’d been meaning to contact the sergeant there since they’d busted the purse-snatching ring.

Photos littered the unit’s office. Each snap was categorized according to gang affiliation, area of town, and the information of the various gang members. Jake was always impressed with the sheer volume of information the unit amassed on any single individual. It took a special kind of cop to do what they did.

Most uniformed officers couldn’t stand the sight of gangbangers. They’d rather cuff ’em and stuff ’em than speak to them. Common knowledge on the streets was if you caught a banger for one crime, they’d committed a host of others they’d gotten away with. Detectives in the unit would talk to the criminal associates even though they despised them. The easiest part of their job was to get the hoodlums bragging about themselves, their gang, and their activities and then compile the findings into an intelligence gold mine.

That gold mine blazed at everyone who walked into the unit. Jake was no exception. He smiled at the incessant activity. “Always gathering intelligence.”

The unit sergeant perched behind his desk.

“Hey, Sergeant Scott,” Jake called out.

“Oh, hey, Jake, You startled me for a second.”

Jake reached over the desk and shook his hand.

“What can I do for you?”

“Well,” Jake began, “accept my compliments on the work with that purse snatcher bunch.”

Scott smiled broadly. “Yeah, that one felt good. They hurt a lot of women.”

Jake motioned toward all the photos. “Which gang was it?”

Scott stretched and pushed back in his chair. Pointing from one wall to another and another, he blew out a breath and shook his head. “Funny thing…none of those.”

Jake frowned and snapped his attention back to the sergeant. “None of them? Was this a new gang?”

The sergeant shook his head. “Nope, just a bunch of nit-wit football players who got their kicks from taking money from Hispanic women at the first of the month. Most of those idiots didn’t even need any money; they came from families with decent incomes. They just wanted the thrill of stealing and getting away with it, stupid pricks!”

“So,” Jake began and pointed his finger around the room. “You found all that out without any of this intelligence?”

“Actually,” Sergeant Scott said and looked directly at Jake, “your office is the one that figured out who the suspects were.”

“What?” Jake turned back to the sergeant in puzzlement. “My office?”

“Yeah. A tipster off the anonymous line gave us awesome information. Not the usual,
Hey police, I know who is stealing those purses.
It was someone with intimate knowledge of that neighborhood. The guy knew everybody on the block including the troublemakers.”

“Really?” Jake asked.

“Yeah,” Scott said, “he pieced together victim similarities that went beyond race, sex. He talked about how many times the women had been victimized in the past.” He shook his head. “It was uncanny— stuff we usually look at. Obviously no one knows who it was, but the guy literally told us how to solve the case. Gave us the time frame for the next robbery, the type of school the suspects attended, and get this—he’s the one who told us that they were football players.”

“Sounds like he told you guys how to conduct the investigation,” Jake said. “Pretty wild.”

“I know.” Scott threw his hands into the air. “I’ve never seen anything like it—ever.” He glanced up at Jake. “Any way you could find out who he was?”

Jake laughed and shook his head. “Nope,” he said flatly. “No caller ID on the Crime Stoppers phone. It’s one way we keep anonymity and that’s the key to our success. I couldn’t find out if I wanted to.”

“No way at all? I’d sure like to shake his hand.”

“The only way I could find the identity of a tipster would be to ask if he wanted to be identified and get him to talk to the Crime Unit he provided the tip for. Sometimes we get people that will do it, but most of the time they don’t want their name involved.”

“Yeah, I suppose.” Sergeant Scott nodded. “I’d give my right arm for a cop with those instincts. It takes decades of experience to hone investigative skills like that.”

Jake smiled in agreement.

“See you tomorrow.” Jake turned to leave; the sergeant sent him off with a nonchalant wave. Jake walked out of the gang unit office and turned the corner.
It takes decades of experience for investigative skills like that.
Like those of a retired cop?

Nah! All he’d ever heard from older cops was how badly they wanted to retire and get out of their crazy job. The image of the collection of Ol’ Blues came to mind. Jake shook it off. Those guys were so old, they didn’t care about Omaha crimes. Jake shook his head and chuckled.

The Sarge, Smitty, Tiny, and others he’d met were still sharp, even though they were pranksters—evident from the devious grins on the Sarge’s and Smitty’s faces when he bit into Brittany’s cookie and about barfed. Was there something more than met the eye there? The place was filled with walkers, canes, diapers, and medical personnel. No way anybody there would be involved. He paused outside his office door and reconsidered. Shaking his head, he returned to his desk. Nope. No way those codgers were involved. No way at all.

At their stage of life, they wanted to play cops and do some good in their community, not do street surveillance and undercover investigation. The memory of an oatmeal-raisin cookie stuck in his throat brought him back to Brittany. “I’ve got to give her a call,” he murmured, a familiar shiver curling in his belly.

Looking right and left, Jake went to his phone. Monica wasn’t around so it was the perfect time. He pulled Brittany’s number out of his pocket and stared at the dial pad. This was going to be harder than he thought. He sucked in a steadying breath and punched in the digits. Hard but not impossible.

Standing in the middle of her kitchen, Brittany noted the disaster she’d left behind in her haste. Mixing bowls, utensils, and crumb-coated cookie sheets lay in disarray. Flour still dusted her laminate counter… and the floor. “Wow, I was in some kind of a rush.”

Running a sink full of hot water, she added a hefty dollop of dishwashing liquid. It still amazed her that she’d so readily bought into the fantasy that the Ol’ Blues were helpless and old. Well, they were old, but hardly helpless. They played their parts well and functioned among the criminal element so smoothly it defied logical thought. At the pen they’d gone from weak and disabled to agile and vigorous. It still seemed almost unreal, but her respect for them—and the job they did—had grown exponentially. They were cops through and through. Gathering intelligence one minute, laughing at her forgetting to turn off her video recording, then switching back to brainless kids playing red light, green light. They were simply amazing.

Brittany picked up the plastic container of cookies. That was odd. The container usually came back empty. This was almost full. On closer examination, the texture didn’t look quite right, so she took a bite. Inside her mouth, her taste buds revolted and she spit it into the empty side of the sink. Coughing and gagging, she rinsed her mouth out. “What?”

The ingredients still littered the counter: butter wrapper, cinnamon, pudding box, salt, soda, flour, oatmeal and raisin containers. Wait a minute…where was the sugar? Realization dawned. Sugarless cookies! She must’ve measured salt instead of sugar. No wonder it tasted so horrid; no wonder her mouth had puckered in mutiny!