Thorpe parked a half block down from one of the protective details. According to his information, this particular house was being monitored by one of his investigators, Jennifer Williams, who’d been unlucky enough to draw an FBI agent as a full-time partner.
“Let’s approach on foot,” Thorpe said, pulling the hoodie back over his head as he climbed out of the Ford
He and Collins walked down the street toward the house in question. Thorpe recognized Jennifer’s car parked along the curb; he figured the hard-headed investigator would win the argument with the fed over who drove and which car they took. When Thorpe and Collins were about twenty yards from the rear of the vehicle, Jennifer scrambled out the driver’s side door and into the street with her right hand concealed behind her leg. Thorpe knew the hand held a pistol. A second later, the passenger door flung open, and a suit stepped out onto the curb, empty-handed.
“Don’t shoot, it’s the po-po” Thorpe said—using one of the G-rated terms bangers use for the police.
“Fucking Carnac! How ‘bout a warning first?” Jennifer spat.
“Keeping you on your toes.” Thorpe winked.
“If I’d seen the skirt next to you, I wouldn’t have gotten so damn excited. Only saw your hooded ass in my side-view mirror.”
Thorpe introduced Jennifer to “the skirt,” and Collins asked her what she thought about the security situation.
Never one to mince words, Jennifer gave the run down.
“It’s a complete cluster. We’re sitting out here like ducks. If someone wanted to get in that house, they could plink us off like steel targets…or just go in the fucking back door.”
Collins defended herself. “As I said in the briefing, your presence is more preventative than actual security. We don’t believe the suspect would risk capture by going in the back door with two officers sitting out front. We also don’t believe the suspect means harm to anyone other than his intended target.”
“You believe, but you don’t know. You’ll know when SIU is scraping my brains off the asphalt,” Jennifer argued.
“What do you suggest, officer?”
“We should be inside the house.”
“Most considered that too intrusive. Would you want two strangers sitting in your living room all day?”
“We’re not strangers. We’re all fucking cops here. We’re not black, we’re not white, we’re blue. And no, I wouldn’t give a shit. They could sit and fart on my couch if they wanted to. If someone thinks we’re too intrusive, fuck ‘em; let them fend for themselves.”
“That isn’t going to happen,” Collins assured her.
Jennifer looked at Thorpe. “This is bullshit.”
“I agree, but there’s not much we can do about it. If you’re worried about getting sniped, take precautions. Figure out the places a sniper would likely engage you from. Then split-up into two different cars so that both of you can watch the house and still see each other. Position yourself so it’d be difficult to acquire you both as targets in a short amount of time. That should force the shooter to wait for a better opportunity; unless, of course, we have multiple snipers.” Thorpe smiled. “Then you’re fucked.”
He redirected his attention to his new partner. “I doubt Agent Collins here would have a problem with you being in separate vehicles so long as you can account for one another’s whereabouts the entire time.”
“Just make sure you can see one another…and no bathroom breaks or trips to the convenience store alone.”
Collins’ stipulation prompted an additional retort from Williams. “Does that mean Timothy here wipes my ass for me, or can I actually go inside the restroom all by myself?”
The two women gave each other unforgiving looks before Collins turned and started back to her car.
“Cut them some slack, Jennifer. They’re only following orders—same as us.”
“I don’t appreciate being treated like a suspect, Sarge.”
“I don’t either,” Thorpe said, in spite of the irony. “You want us to watch this house while you go get another car?”
“No. I doubt we’re in much danger of getting whacked. I was just busting her balls…besides, me and Timmy here are becoming best buds. Ain’t that right, Timmy?” The man in the suit nodded in agreement. “Have fun with the Ice Queen, Carnac.”
Thorpe followed Collins back to her vehicle and climbed behind the wheel.
“Cops don’t care much for the FBI, do they?” Collins asked.
“She’s like that with everyone. One of the best undercover officers I have, but she lacks a bit in the social-skills department, particularly with other women.”
“I’m not talking about Williams or this assignment specifically. Every officer is being treated like a potential suspect. That’s enough to create animosity with anyone. I mean, cops in general just don’t like federal agents,” Collins clarified.
“It’s probably worse among narcotics officers more than anyone else. We’re used to working with the DEA and the way they operate. The red tape those guys are forced to wade through is ridiculous. On TPD, if we want to follow a guy, we follow him. If we develop probable cause for a search warrant, we write and serve it. DEA—if they want to follow a guy they have to write it up, send it up, and wait for approval to filter back down to their field agents, and that’s just to get permission to conduct surveillance on someone. The hoops they have to jump through—it’s a wonder they get anything accomplished. The agents themselves are generally great guys…but the bureaucracy? Ridiculous. I hope the FBI doesn’t operate under the same constraints while protecting us from terrorism; if so, our asses are in some deep shit.” The FBI was famous for their incapacitating political correctness; the comment was a subtle jab. He glanced at Collins and then continued.
“Every so often, the city will have a spike in violent crime or gang activity. In response, we’ll form a federal task force. Talk about a media stunt. The only differences are a couple of DEA guys ride around with TPD officers, and federal prosecutors get a little more enthusiastic picking up eligible cases. We do the same work we always do; we just keep track of the amount of dope, guns, money, and arrests we make during the time period.
“At the conclusion, the media announces the fruit of the task force. Everyone thinks the DEA descended on the city and took a bunch of guns and criminals off the street. In reality, a couple more agents rode around with TPD officers who did what they do every day, week in, week out. The feds pick up the overtime bill and get a slap on the back for a job well done.”
“So it’s a jealousy thing?” Collins said with a broad smile.
Thorpe laughed. “I guess it is. We do the work and the feds get all the glory. A good street cop will make more felony arrests in his first year than a fed will in his entire career.”
“Out of curiosity, what’s the opinion of the FBI?”
“I don’t know. We don’t work as closely with them as the DEA. I guess the general impression is that you guys are mainly accountants and lawyers with a prop pistol on your hip, best suited to white-collar crimes. We have two investigators who work with your antiterrorism unit, but they won’t say shit about what they do. The media tells the public that the FBI and local police share intelligence to fight the war on terror, but from what I see, the information-stream’s current only flows one direction. You all don’t tell us shit. However, that’s a procedure I happen to agree with. Most cops can’t keep a secret.”
“Yeah, we have enough problems maintaining secrets within the bureau. I can’t imagine eight hundred cops keeping silent about the local motel owner being the facilitator of a terrorist cell,” Collins said.
Thorpe continued, “Hell, about a year ago, our police chief got on the evening news and admitted to terrorist cells operating in Tulsa. Based on his subsequent statements, he must’ve had a size fifteen federal boot shoved up his ass.”
Collins laughed. “Yeah, even I heard about that.”
“Quite frankly I don’t want to know. I’d end up moving to North Dakota or something just to get away; live on a ranch in the middle of nowhere,” Thorpe said, only half-kidding.