A Cop’s Cop

Good luck. The room was ablaze with the sounds of cheery celebration. This was Rich Ambler’s last day on the force. In just a little over two years, he had risen from a rookie patrolman to what could best be described as a walking legend. To his fellow cops, at least his peers, he was a cop’s cop. To his supervisors and his commander, he was a loose cannon. He honestly didn’t know what made him so good at what he did; he just seemed to be naturally good at it. Good at it. Not so much at being a great cop in itself, but he was just so much better than anyone else in an armed, or even hand to hand encounter. When he responded, an armed confrontation would turn in to a shootout. And in a shootout, he would prevail. You could say a cop is part soldier, and part counselor. He was the former, not the latter.

In fact, he was a combat soldier, before he became a cop. His last military unit of assignment was the Army’s Second Ranger Battalion. He was then selected for the CIA’s Special Activities Division, an elite paramilitary group, largely manned by former members of elite military units. And that’s about as much as he remembered, prior to the accident.

The accident. He didn’t remember it. They said he was in very close proximity to an IED when it detonated. It didn’t seem to physically injure him to a great extent, but it erased a whole block of his memory, for a two year period beginning with the accident. It was just like he woke up one day, and found himself wandering around the streets of Daytona, apparently homeless. The thing about it, was that his memory was perfect prior to the accident. Then it stopped. Then it started again, but two years had elapsed. Exactly what the hell he was doing was only a guess. It was anyone’s guess.

Not one to be content roaming the streets like a transient, he looked up the closest thing to a family that he had. The girl he was with up until he left the Army and became a SAD operator. As is frequently the case, family and romantic relationships, and ultra-elite military and contractor assignments with highly classified assignments are generally mutually exclusive. And he chose SAD. Showing up out of the blue at random in Chicago, with no contact in two years wasn’t bound to go well. And it didn’t. She had moved on, but at the end of the day, reluctantly helped him to get back on his feet, letting him bunk out in a spare bedroom and fronting him some money, despite the objections of her non-cohabiter fiancé.

The Army didn’t want him back. Not with a two year stretch of inactivity. Same with SAD. They didn’t even want to talk to him. He was able to track McElroy down, and it was McElroy that told him about the IED incident and that he was sent back to the States for hospitalization. But the paper trail ended there. It was like he vanished without a trace. And nobody in particular was really looking for him.

There was no way in hell he was restarting life by flipping burgers or working in a coffee shop. Maybe he could have been an auto mechanic. He was handy with tools. No, he wanted to be back in the military. The closest thing he could come was to become a cop. He had a good service record, ex Ranger, there was really no need to go in to detail about the accident, or what he was doing for the prior two years, so he pretty much left those parts out. And that was good enough.

He didn’t really like champagne. He was just going through the motions. The party at Murphy’s house was loud, crawling with boisterous revelers that blended together badges, guns, egos, and alcohol. Everyone wanted to be the life of the party. Ambler wasn’t like that. Back in his Ranger days, and even more so with SAD, he would go out on a high adrenaline mission involving lots of spent ordinance and multiple body counts, and spend the evening quietly, nursing a high-end scotch in a quiet, upscale lounge bar. Or at least as close as he could come to that in Afghanistan, which was a warm, smuggled beer in the corner of a dank, odorous mud hut that smelled of body odor and mil spec CLP listening to some streamed alternative rock music over headphones.

Cops go through infrequent hostage rescue training scenarios. SWAT does it more frequently. Ambler and his unit did it night and day, and bad guys were neutralized ideally with a double tap to the head. As far as he was concerned, bullshit center mass torso shots the cops are trained in are just going to get officers and hostages killed. So yeah, when the guns come out, he goes in to auto mode. But the other thing he was really good at, was being a detective. He wasn’t a detective, he was a patrolman, but he was on track to be a detective, and in some cases played better detective while securing a crime scene than the actual detective – much to the chagrin of the actual detectives. That more or less defined his next step, which was to become a private investigator.

He wasn’t naïve. Having a knack and a talent for a certain skill does not in itself make you skilled at it. Training and experience does. The problem here, is he had no formal training as an investigator, just a hell of a lot of OJT. The chances of hanging up his shingle as a private, independent licensed investigator and pulling off a self-supporting income were not good. And a large part of it had to do with the whole licensing issue. So, at least, for the time being, his plan was to join Woodley and Associates. Cops generally hate PI’s, but they frequently cross paths, particularly when the PI’s are performing criminal investigations, which the majority don’t. Consequently, he had an ‘in’ at Woodley and Associates due to his reputation. And he was still fairly young.

“Bottoms up, Ambler” Police Lieutenant Jackson said, raising a plastic wine glass filled with cheap red wine.

“Thanks” Ambler replied, in a tone of voice that suggested he was replying to a cold formality.

“Contrary to what you think, not all of us upstairs think you’re a bad guy. In fact, nobody does. It’s just, well I hate to say it… political. It’s just how it is.”

“I get it” Ambler said. “But you know what? Some parts of the job I really like, and other parts I really fucking hate. Like the policy bullshit. And that’s coming from someone used to stupid policy bullshit in the military.”

The first week was rough. Not rough physically, or even mentally, but tagging along with seasoned detectives to learn the ropes may have been interesting and educational at first, but novice detectives are like baggage. In an agency like a detective firm, the detectives make money for the firm by billing to their assigned cases. A rookie in training is either billing to the assigned detective’s case, which generally lessens the time the assigned detective can spend on it, or he remains unbillable, making him a pure overhead expense to the firm. The quicker the trainee can transition to a billable detective working his or her own case, the better.

“Hey Ambler” Old man Jenkins said as he approached Ambler’s desk in cubicle room. “Well guess what, you may actually end up landing your own case assignment. There’s a guy in the conference room who came in, and asked for you by name.”

The tall lanky man, who resembled a clean cut version of Frankenstein’s monster, sans the bad skin and Goth appearance, wore a sharply pressed suit. He did not appear to be carrying anything with him. “Rick Ambler.” Ambler introduced himself and shook the man’s hand.

“Ray Stevens” the man replied. “I’ll cut to the chase here. We are investigating a string of murders that occurred across the country, and we need some help. And we think you can help.”

“Wait, wait. Back up. Who… first of all, how do you know me?” Ambler looked thoroughly confused.

“Mr. Ambler, or should I say, Lead Operator Ambler, when you guys leave the Agency, you aren’t entirely forgotten about. Your name came up on the blotter, you’re an ex-cop and a private detective, and well, we need a detective.”

“Who is we?”

“I’d rather not say right now. But… I think you can probably figure it out. But until you agree to help us, we’re just going to have to leave it as plausible deniability. You know how that works.”

“Look, I’m going to be up front with you, Mr. Stevens. I’m really new at this whole detective thing. I’m not trying to talk my firm out of work, but I’m just being full disclosure with you.”

“That is understood.”

“Okay, so, hypothetically speaking, if you were with the Agency, why the hell would the Agency be involved in the investigation of domestic murders? Doesn’t the FBI do that?”

Stevens let out a big sigh. “It’s not like they wouldn’t. But, you hold a card that they don’t. You’re a former SAD operator. You know how they operate. You know how they think. You know what they would do.”

“I don’t understand, how is that relevant?”

Stevens narrowed his eyes, and spoke in a whisper, drawing close to Ambler. “We think the suspect may in fact be a SAD operator.”

“No shit? How the hell an active SAD operator have time to commit coast to coast murders?”

“I doubt it’s an active member.”

“Then why me and not another active SAD member?”

“A couple reasons. First, we don’t know if one or more active SAD members are involved, and secondly, assuming they aren’t, we don’t want to make it known that one of theirs may be a criminal murderer. It’s just bad for morale. You’re sufficiently removed that it wouldn’t be an issue. Plus, I would presume you have some modicum of loyalty to SAD.”

“Well, all right. Then, I guess I’m in. I guess we’ll get some paperwork going and….”

Stevens halted him. “Here’s the thing. About that. You need to work directly for us. Full time. Cash money off the books. There is no way in hell we’re going to involve a civilian, private firm in an investigation like this. You should know that much.”

“I don’t know, Stevens. I just started here. What exactly would I be making?”

“Five times what you’re making here. And you don’t even have to report it. Actually, you can’t report it.”

“Tempting, but I need to think about that one. When do you need an answer by?”

“Prior to me walking out that door, because after I do, I’m going to fly to the location of the next best candidate and have the same conversation that never occurred here.”

“All right. I will accept it. Assuming my mission is to find and capture this guy, who do I turn him over to?”

“We will discuss that later. Meet me at a bar called the Flamenco Lounge at nineteen hundred hours.”

Well isn’t this the breaks. More than one person went out of their way to clear a slot for Ambler at Woodley & Associates, both within the PD and within Woodley itself. And what does he do? Quit after his first week. It’s like burning a bridge as it is being constructed. In retrospect, he was now beginning to regret his decision. Five times his normal pay is great, but this is presumably a one-time gig, then he’s back to finding another day job, and now without the support of his peers.

If life wasn’t fucked up, it would be boring. That was precisely the line that one of his Ranger buddies used, during the lowest periods, such as when they lost Charleston and Brinks in a single firefight. Maybe he was growing too comfortable. He could see why Stevens picked the joint. It was classy, but more importantly, it was quiet and had discreet booths tucked away in an expansive room for the express purpose of discreet meetings. This was Chicago. The server girl smiled at Ambler as she brought him a cold draft beer. Her low cut outfit was as alluring as it could be without being slutty. He was intriguing to her. What was he? Late twenties? Early thirties? He’s not some old Italian in a suit on a power trip, nor is he a businessman out on the town with his mistress.

He looked down at his cell phone. It was seventeen fifty, and Stevens showed up. Ten minutes early. He didn’t know Stevens’ background, but he was probably ex-military, where protocol dictates that you show up ten minutes prior to your appointed time or you are late.

Stevens eyed him with a slight scowl. He changed his attire to a more casual outfit with a dinner jacket. The dinner jacket kind of made him look like an old man – older than he probably was. But on the other hand it was probably about right, for this place. “Well that’s presumptive” Stevens muttered as he took a seat at the booth, with a leather satchel at his side.

“What” Ambler asked. “Surely you don’t mean the beer.”

“I mean exactly the beer.”

“You’re the one that picked the drinking establishment. Had we met in a coffee house, I would have ordered a coffee.”

“Fair enough. I guess I should have been more specific.” The server came by, and took a brief order for a gin and tonic. “First things first.” Stevens fished out a couple plastic cards and pushed them to Ambler. “The green bank card is how you will draw your salary. The red one is for making expense purchases, like airline tickets, rental cars and motels. And yes, there is a limit. Put them away.”

“I thought you said cash?”

“Not literally cash. We literally use cash when we are paying off informants in third world countries. They are as good as cash. We use offshore banks that are untraceable. I recommend you set up a personal offshore account to transfer your salary.”

“Sounds complicated but okay.”

“I’m sure you are a bright boy and you can figure it out. Anyway… here… is your mission. Don’t open it up here. Open it up in private. What we have is a list of three murder victims, as well as everything we have on them. Your assignment is to find out who their killers are. The killings will look unrelated, but we think they are – for reasons you don’t need to know, but that knowledge alone is all you need.”

“I wouldn’t even know how to begin” Ambler responded.

“You’re a… oh right. A rookie one. I can’t hold your hand in this. You need to figure out an approach. Personally, if it were me, I would start by finding out everything the local police know. And then look for commonalities. But that’s just me.”

“What’s the time table?”

“You have a month to play with on our nickel. You solve it in a week, you get paid a month, You solve it in a day, you get paid a month. If you need more time, you better show some pretty compelling progress.”

“Okay I’ve found the killer, what next?”

“Terminate him. Make him disappear.”

“What if I don’t find him?”

“Then you don’t get a fifty thousand dollar bonus for finding him. And by the way, we have to agree that he is the killer to get paid. You might want to consider that caveat before you terminate him.”

“Presumably the whole point is to find him before the cops or FBI does.”

“Bingo, Mr. Holmes. If it happens, it is what it is, but now you know the value of eliminating him before they do.”

“How do I get a hold of you?”

“Glad you asked.” Stevens pulled out a cell phone. “Burner phone. Special government edition. Use it only to call me. The only number that is programmed in it. Get your own burner phone for everything else. I’d recommend turning off your personal cell phone when you are out and about. And the burner phones as well, except when you need to use them.”

“When do I start?”

“Clock just started right now. Be mindful of that if you order another beer.” Stevens downed his gin and tonic, and exited the lounge.

“Another?” The girl asked.

“Sure” Ambler said with no hesitation.

“Um, would you mind settling your tab now? I’m about to go off shift, and….”

“Yeah, yeah, I understand. Sure. You uh, want to hang out here after your shift?”

A devilish smile appeared on her face. She was a redhead. Medium height. Thin but curvaceous. “Sure. We can discuss company if you want.”

We can discuss company if you want. Uh huh. Granted, some tail would have been nice, but with a three thousand dollar per night price tag… thank you, but no thank you. She probably doesn’t fund that Lexus or Mercedes on drink tips. Which, uncomplicated his life slightly, as he could now turn his attention to the task at hand. The first victim, Roanoke Virginia. Mosef Abdul. Killed in an apparent home invasion robbery gone wrong. Afghani immigrant. Social worker by trade. The second victim was in Wichita, Kansas. Derek Bish. Former Navy SEAL, manager at a local gym. Killed in a drive-by shooting, possibly collateral damage in a targeted gang shooting. The third victim was in Las Vegas, Nevada. Terry Kenan. Victim of an apparent pedestrian hit and run. All three were killed in a seven week period, three years ago. Ambler was thoroughly puzzled. None of the names rang a bell. What was the commonality? Two were military, one was not. Afghanistan? A cursory Internet search revealed nothing other than the fact that the crimes happened, in Roanoke and Wichita. Nothing came up on Kenan, except a search of his person indicated he was deceased. It was clear that Ambler would have to physically go to these places if he was to get any kind of useful information.

Distance wise, Roanoke and Wichita were more or less a push. Vegas was a bit out there. All three are far enough apart that driving there would take up some time, so Ambler decided to fly to Roanoke and try his luck. It seemed almost too easy. Hi, I’m a private investigator hired by the family of Mosef Abdul, looking in to his death. Did you catch the guy? No? Mind if I go through your case files? Knock yourself out, we could use the help. It seemed pretty open and shut. He wasn’t living in the greatest of neighborhoods, and these kind of guys are known to keep large stashes of cash, and someone tossed the place looking for something before he was shot. Whether cash was stolen was unknown, it’s not like he kept an inventory of his valuable written down on top of the dresser. ‘Feel free to go through the case files’ did not extend to ‘Feel free to take them out of the file room to run them through a copier,’ so Ambler did his best to meticulously photograph as much as he could on his cell phone. The meat of the files, the report, photographs and witness interviews (there were no witnesses, just canvasses of neighbors) were within a couple dozen pages, and could be photographed quickly enough. Most were printouts of electronically filed reports but there were some handwritten notes. The tip file was an entirely different matter. Ambler decided to go through them manually and see if anything jumped out. There were dozens of tips. None led anywhere. In all, the effort seemed fairly useless.

Wichita was on the other hand an entirely different matter. Ambler was politely told that it was still an open case and therefore they were not willing to share any information to the public, and they considered him as public as any other Joe Blow out there, without trying to sound too condescending. Derek Bish. Ex-Navy Seal with a good service record, upstanding member of the community, it was likely a gang hit gone wrong. Suspects? Local gangs. Evidence? Well, if we had any, if you get my drift…. As much as Roanoke seemed like a dead-end waste of time, at least he left Roanoke with something. One thing that was clear during the Roanoke visit, was that there didn’t seem to be any indication of a tie with any other crimes, local or not. It would be impossible to know if that was still the case with the Wichita incident, as tight lipped as the local cops were.

It’s now day four, and Ambler found himself in Sin City. Las Vegas, Nevada. He kind of wished that this happened in California, SOCAL in particular. Some beach time would have been nice. Although, it’s not like the Nevada desert lacked beach. It was all beach, and mountains, just no water.

It occurred to Ambler that maybe, just maybe, he was taking an entirely wrong approach. He lucky, extremely lucky, in Roanoke, and then got the not entirely unexpected door shut in his face in Wichita. A better approach might be to hire local talent. A local PI, with connections, but, that presented problems in itself. If he hired a PI to solve the case, the PI might, quite possibly solve the case. And that would create an OPSEC issue, plus now that presents an entirely new set of issues if he were to terminate the perp.

After weighing the various scenarios carefully, he decided to approach some local investigators with ‘I’m working on behalf of the family back east and I need to give me everything the police have.’ And leave it at that. It was certainly being treated as a criminal incident – a felony hit and run, but not necessarily as an intentional homicide. The risk of that getting out of hand was slim.

It took seven interviews, but finally Ambler decided he found his man. Which, in this case was a woman. She seemed to be pretty confident that she could prevail on that relatively simple task, it wouldn’t break the bank, and the dynamics of her being a woman would, in two out of three cases, be an asset in working with the City detective. Meaning, if the detective was a man, that would be an asset, and if the detective were a woman, she could either be kind and accommodating to another woman, or a complete, total, bitch.

How long was this going to take, realistically? A couple hours of actual work, tops. Getting to it was more of a scheduling issue. She did seem to understand he was from out of town, and decided to prioritize the matter in the interest of scoring some quick billable hours with no expectation other than to get copies of reports. She could get to it in a couple days. Stay in Vegas. Have fun. And where are you staying, in case I need to get a hold of you?

It didn’t really click, until Ambler downed his third martini at the hotel’s classy lounge bar. The same exact type of place he would have liked to have hung out after a successful mission. Where are you staying at, in case I need to get a hold of you? Where he was staying was irrelevant. She had a cell phone number for him. The significance materialized in beside him on the next bar stool.

“I figured I’d find you here.” Janet Larue had a tall, slender presence with long blonde slightly curly hair and piercing blue eyes. She wasn’t really that tall, but the elevated black leather boots under the long tan skirt gave her that appearance.

Ambler looked at her and smiled. “What’s the occasion?”

“I just wanted to see if I pegged you right. You don’t seem like the gambling type, or that you like to go see late night shows. You do stuff during the day, probably drove over to the canyon, maybe worked out in the hotel gym, and how you’re going to have a few before you go to sleep for the night.”

“Well, you’re absolutely right. Mostly. I haven’t been to the canyon actually. But I was thinking about it. So, why is that important?”

“You know, sometimes guys will hire me for some bullshit go nowhere investigation for no other reason other than to try to hit on me. And… and actually, I had pegged you for that type of guy, truth be told, but now I know that isn’t the case.”

“Because I hang out in classy hotel lounges?”

Janet laughed. “No, you see, Mr. Ambler, I decided to go ahead and run your little records request this morning.”

Ambler looked surprised. And pleased. “Oh? So you have something for me? I don’t… see you… carrying anything?”

“We need to talk.”

“You do realize, those are a man’s four most feared words coming from a woman.”

“There’s really no useful evidence in the police files. Mr. Terence Kenan was found dead, from an apparent vehicular collision in a street on the outskirts of the city where there were no intersection cameras, and very sparse traffic at eleven thirty five p.m. on a Tuesday night. There were no witnesses. Two people were interviewed. A shopkeeper, who reported the body, named Sardeep Manas, and a foot bound passerby named Richard Ambler, who just happened to be in the area.”

Ambler’s jaw dropped. “Well… either that is one hell of a coincidence, or you are pulling a joke on me. And I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“Nor do I, and no I am not joking.”

“I don’t… know what to say about that. If you’re serious, then it is in fact a coincidence.”

“Mr. Ambler, you seem like a nice guy. A likeable guy. Was it an accident? Obviously your conscience is catching up with you. Look, I’m not going to turn you in. And I’m not going to tell you what to do. I’m just going to walk away, and forget this entire encounter ever happened. In fact, I’m not even going to bill you.”

He didn’t get a lick of sleep the entire night. After three hours, the martinis had worn off. He pulled up the cell phone photos of the Roanoke case on a laptop computer, and started to meticulously scan through them. And there it was, in the canvasses of Mosef Abdul’s neighbors, was the individual in the downstairs unit directly below him. A Mr. Richard Ambler. Bigger than shit. He, like the others, saw nothing, and heard nothing either.

It was the secure, ‘special government edition’ burner phone, only to be used to contact Ray Stevens that Ambler had pulled out and activated. He dialed the only number in the phone’s call directory. Another, anonymous, burner cell phone.

“Hello Ambler” Stevens replied as he answered. “What do you have for me?”

“You knew all along, didn’t you?” Ambler said.

There was a long bout of silence. “I see. Well, actually, no, we didn’t. We suspected it might be you, but we didn’t know. We thought the whole memory loss thing after the incident was a ploy, so we figured we would send you on this mission to see how you would react. Apparently, you actually don’t remember.”

“I really don’t.”

“You know, the fact that you disappeared for two years after the incident isn’t itself a huge flag. Hell, half the guys that leave us go off the grid and end up in Africa and other places like that. So yeah, it could have been a few people. But, I’m going to be honest with you. I really didn’t expect things to end up the way they did. I figured if it was you, you wouldn’t waste your time by going through the motions. So, I actually didn’t think it was you, until, obviously, now.”

“I’m… really confused, I don’t know these people.”

“Oh, but you did. Bish and Kenan were in your unit in Afghanistan. Abdul was a translator. It seems that the three of them had a bit of a side business going on – protecting a Taliban cell while it funneled drugs into Pakistan in exchange for money. You found out about it, turned them in, and they tried to kill you with a staged IED attack.”

“Well, what happened to them?”

“Nothing. They were kicked out of SAD, but you think we’re going expose a top-secret unit by formally prosecuting its members? Sorry, but it doesn’t work that way.”

“So, I got my justice then.”

“Well, you could certainly look at it that way, but what if you were caught? If it came out that SAD was involved in murder on US soil, a lot of hard working folks would be out of a job.”

“So what now?”

“Well, we can talk about that. Meet me at the Moscow Club, it’s just a block over.”

“How the hell do you know where I am?”

“Burner phone. Special Government Issue. It knows where you are even when it’s off. Oh, and by the way, the cops may be on to you. Take the alley way.”

Detective Pierce from the LVPD looked down at the blood soaked body, slumped over a heap of plastic garbage bags. “Damn. I’m gonna guess he’s been here since last night. Get the CSI’s but, the poor bastard stupidly tried to take a shortcut down this alley. Bad idea. Happens. Folks, be aware of your surroundings.”

Ray Stevens eyed the young redhead with impure stare, wondering how he would broach the session. He actually felt both a tinge of guilt and a tinge of… wastefulness. He was a misogynist. Women were his plaything. But so were men. Just in a different way.

“Larissa, the reason we approached you for this assignment is that you were a dispatcher for the Agency’s Special Activities Division and you know how we operate. Oh, I realize you are not a trained detective, but you are a smart girl and can figure things out. You see, we have a problem. There is a series of murders, four of them. One in Roanoke, Virginia, another in Wichita, Kansas, and two in Las Vegas. We need you to try to figure out who did them, because we believe that they are connected.”

Stevens walked away and lit a cigar. It’s a game. It’s all a game. I won the last round. I got the whole pot. I guessed right. I had a secret weapon. But this round? I know to bet against her. It’s a sure thing.