be sneering.
“Nope, I’m on my way back to work. I already ate and I’m really late.” Carly moved to walk around him toward the door.
“But who did you eat with? Were you here by yourself?” He fell into step next to her.
“Look, I’d love to visit with you, Derek, but I’m really late!”
“All right, all right. Take it easy, okay?” He took a big gulp of beer as Carly left the restaurant to hurry back to the station.
* * *
As the rest of the night ticked by, Carly brooded over her dinner conversation. She couldn’t decide what was worse: Jeff’s being right or Jeff’s being crazy. Sergeant Altman sat next to her at the front desk compiling the month’s statistics and muttering under his breath about how much he hated the paperwork.
“Hey, Sarge, you ever work undercover in vice or narcotics?” Carly figured he’d appreciate the distraction.
“I worked vice years ago. You know, back in the bad old days.” He looked up from his work and winked. “I walked the Boardwalk.”
Carly smiled. The Boardwalk was part of the history of Las Playas. Twenty years ago, when the city was a Navy town, no less than thirty raucous sailor bars lined the Boardwalk. The cops from that era who were still on when Carly started were the cowboys, the old-style patrol men , many of whom thought any problem could be solved with a good whack from a nightstick. Weekends in downtown Las Playas back then were known for parties, drinking, prostitutes, and sailor fights.
“You must have been a rook.”
“I was, but I was big and stupid, so they sucked me into the detail as soon as I passed probation. Of course, police work was a little different then. I wasn’t really undercover; I just frequented the bars with my partner to make sure everyone behaved.” He leaned back to get nostalgic. Carly hoped to hear some good stories.
“We broke up fights, stopped grafters, and shut bars down, but hardly ever took anyone to jail. Police work sure has changed,” he said wistfully. “Now you can’t hardly tell someone to move along without filing an hour’s worth of paperwork.” He stared off into space, lost in thought.
“Well, have you ever seen undercover work change people?”
“Change how?”
“I don’t know—make them paranoid, delusional.”
“Most cops are paranoid. At least the good ones are. But yeah, I have seen guys change after working undercover. Remember Sergeant Knox? He dyed his hair a different color every two weeks and never drove home the same way after spending time on that federal task force. And Gates—I’d be willing to bet that his time undercover chasing pedophiles is what made him eat his service revolver. Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know; just curious.”
His phone rang and Carly returned to her paperwork. She wasn’t about to tell Altman about Jeff. She knew the names the sergeant had mentioned. Sergeant Knox taught at the academy when she was hired. He never smiled, always looked over his shoulder, and had the reputation of being able to conceal more weapons in his clothing than anybody else in the department. She remembered the hair-color changes too. He was bizarre but not dangerous.
Gates was a sadder situation. He’d worked vice for years, then returned to patrol to finish out his career. She’d worked with him one night and remembered him as quiet and very conscientious about the job. He’d taught her some tricks about eliciting the truth from reluctant suspects during interviews. There was no hint he was having any problems. Two months later he drove his car to a remote location, parked, and shot himself in the head. Undercover work caused that?
Was Jeff manifesting some kind of undercover burnout? The Jeff she’d known was a fun-loving, dedicated family man, never weighed down or affected by the job. He had plans to coach his son’s baseball team. As she remembered Jeff playing catch with his son, an unpleasant thought followed. Nick and I had plans too.
Jeff’s
“Nope, I’m on my way back to work. I already ate and I’m really late.” Carly moved to walk around him toward the door.
“But who did you eat with? Were you here by yourself?” He fell into step next to her.
“Look, I’d love to visit with you, Derek, but I’m really late!”
“All right, all right. Take it easy, okay?” He took a big gulp of beer as Carly left the restaurant to hurry back to the station.
* * *
As the rest of the night ticked by, Carly brooded over her dinner conversation. She couldn’t decide what was worse: Jeff’s being right or Jeff’s being crazy. Sergeant Altman sat next to her at the front desk compiling the month’s statistics and muttering under his breath about how much he hated the paperwork.
“Hey, Sarge, you ever work undercover in vice or narcotics?” Carly figured he’d appreciate the distraction.
“I worked vice years ago. You know, back in the bad old days.” He looked up from his work and winked. “I walked the Boardwalk.”
Carly smiled. The Boardwalk was part of the history of Las Playas. Twenty years ago, when the city was a Navy town, no less than thirty raucous sailor bars lined the Boardwalk. The cops from that era who were still on when Carly started were the cowboys, the old-style patrol men , many of whom thought any problem could be solved with a good whack from a nightstick. Weekends in downtown Las Playas back then were known for parties, drinking, prostitutes, and sailor fights.
“You must have been a rook.”
“I was, but I was big and stupid, so they sucked me into the detail as soon as I passed probation. Of course, police work was a little different then. I wasn’t really undercover; I just frequented the bars with my partner to make sure everyone behaved.” He leaned back to get nostalgic. Carly hoped to hear some good stories.
“We broke up fights, stopped grafters, and shut bars down, but hardly ever took anyone to jail. Police work sure has changed,” he said wistfully. “Now you can’t hardly tell someone to move along without filing an hour’s worth of paperwork.” He stared off into space, lost in thought.
“Well, have you ever seen undercover work change people?”
“Change how?”
“I don’t know—make them paranoid, delusional.”
“Most cops are paranoid. At least the good ones are. But yeah, I have seen guys change after working undercover. Remember Sergeant Knox? He dyed his hair a different color every two weeks and never drove home the same way after spending time on that federal task force. And Gates—I’d be willing to bet that his time undercover chasing pedophiles is what made him eat his service revolver. Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know; just curious.”
His phone rang and Carly returned to her paperwork. She wasn’t about to tell Altman about Jeff. She knew the names the sergeant had mentioned. Sergeant Knox taught at the academy when she was hired. He never smiled, always looked over his shoulder, and had the reputation of being able to conceal more weapons in his clothing than anybody else in the department. She remembered the hair-color changes too. He was bizarre but not dangerous.
Gates was a sadder situation. He’d worked vice for years, then returned to patrol to finish out his career. She’d worked with him one night and remembered him as quiet and very conscientious about the job. He’d taught her some tricks about eliciting the truth from reluctant suspects during interviews. There was no hint he was having any problems. Two months later he drove his car to a remote location, parked, and shot himself in the head. Undercover work caused that?
Was Jeff manifesting some kind of undercover burnout? The Jeff she’d known was a fun-loving, dedicated family man, never weighed down or affected by the job. He had plans to coach his son’s baseball team. As she remembered Jeff playing catch with his son, an unpleasant thought followed. Nick and I had plans too.
Jeff’s
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