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 71st 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.