“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.
The room faced north toward the Special Investigations Division. Because of SID’s elevated parking area, Phipps couldn’t see the entire lot, but he could watch cars enter and exit the gate. His observation post left much to be desired: outside the room, he had a five-foot balcony that extended the length of the building, and because all the rooms opened up to the same balcony, he couldn’t use it as a shooting platform—lest he have residents stepping over his prone body. He’d considered concealing himself inside the room and shooting through the open door but soon discovered the opening was an invitation for prostitutes and drug dealers to stop in for a chat. He’d even had a 60-year-old white dude stumble into his room, asking to buy crack; it’d taken Phipps a couple minutes to shoo the pest outside. Even then, the screwy bastard kept walking up and down the balcony, mumbling to himself.
With the door closed, he’d have to fire through the motel window, between the balcony’s iron rails, and through the glass of his target’s vehicle. Dismissing the idea of taking a shot from the room, Phipps had left his rifle in the trunk of his borrowed car and was armed only with a pistol, binoculars, and police radio. He’d been monitoring the sub-fleet that had been assigned to the protection detail but had yet to hear his target’s voice over the radio. He’d hoped to see Thorpe’s truck pull up to the gate—either entering or exiting the offices—and wait for it to leave. Phipps planned to exit his room via the motel room’s southern door, which opened to an interior hallway, hurry down to his car, and follow Thorpe until he found an opportunity to take the man out.