“Because they know now, it wasn’t Ashton,” Gorski told Peterson in her office.
“Yeah,” she sighed. “I’d hoped for a little longer, but there it is.” She paused. “Maybe it’ll work in our favor, though.”
“How’s that?”
“He’s not supposed to be on Sintar, remember? He’s on Pritani, getting trained.”
“Ooo, good point. You might be right, then.”
“So maybe it’s time to take advantage of that notion.”
“Yeah. Let’s start getting him some street experience,” Gorski suggested. “Might as well get as much training under his belt as we can, as fast as we can, while they think he’s not here. It stands him a better chance to survive. Especially if one of us is with him.”
“Go for it,” Peterson agreed. “But…”
“But?”
“You think we can get him into an Imp City uniform?”
“I think we’re gonna try,” Gorski agreed. “Or…”
“Or?”
“Or that might be too close to how they’re used to seeing him. It might not be a big enough difference. A police uniform is a police uniform, after all. And they’re all part of the same pattern.”
“Mmph. Good point. What do you suggest, then?”
“Simple. We can put him in plainclothes, since he’s on the investigatory team. Then, if and only if we have a need for him to be formally in uniform, we’ll slap his ass in an Imp City one. Maybe even a high-ranking one. Because ‘undercover.’ And,” he added, considering, “we might ought to gin up a fake police I.D. for him, just in case. Something that we can put into the system and therefore looks real, but is an alias for him, in case he has to face off against an IPD officer while on a case. That way he doesn’t give away who he really is.”
“Even better. Do it.”
“Yes, sir?” Ashton said, reporting to Detective Gorski in his office. “What do you need, sir?”
“It’s what you need, Nick,” Gorski said, gesturing to the visitor’s chair. “The IPD – meaning Stanier, Kershaw and Company – now knows you weren’t in your old apartment, and have probably realized you moved out, so we’re going to play off the notion that you’re offworld for as long as possible.”
“Okay…”
“How many suits do you have?”
“Suits? Um, one, maybe two…”
“What about a sport coat?”
“I have a tweed jacket…” Ashton noted, thinking hard.
“Dress trousers?”
“Just my uniforms and what goes with my suits, sir.”
“Casual dress slacks?”
“Uh, yeah, I got around four or five of those.”
“Shirts?”
“Um, ‘bout twice as many of those, more or less.”
“Can you put together a work wardrobe that resembles what I’m wearing right now?” Gorski asked, standing, so Ashton could see the corduroy jacket, open-collared shirt, and casual slacks he wore. “Without using the uniform trousers?”
“Yes, sir, I can. Might have to buy another jacket and maybe another pair or two of trousers to get me through, but I think I can. Won’t look quite as nice as what you’re wearing, but you’re a detective, and I’m just an investigator…”
“Good, and that’ll work. Give Jones your measurements and wardrobe colors, and I’ll have him see about getting the additions for you, since we don’t want you out and about, shopping; he can even use the expense account, since you’re an undercover project of ours. We need to get you some body armor to go under it all, too.”
“Thank you, sir! I’ll pay back the cost, or you can pull it from my pay.”
“We’ll worry about that later. For now, go to your locker and put your street clothes back on. If anybody says anything, you’re undercover…which you are. Besides, you’re on the investigations squad now, anyway.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, and start growing out your hair, some. That near-crew cut thing you got, with a little length on the top, is kind of distinctive on you. Meantime, ping Adrian Mott for a wig or some extensions. Maybe even consider a beard or something.”
“On it, sir.”
That began Ashton’s tenure as a formal investigator.
The next day, while Colonel Peterson was still trying to get a feel for him to determine an exact assignment and teaming, she sent Ashton out – complete with blond wig, in plainclothes – with Sergeant Investigator Peter Rassmussen, so that Rassmussen could familiarize him with the jurisdiction, and explain the differences in operation between the Imperial Police and the Imperial City Police.
They were walking through the arcade, which was moderately crowded at that time of day, as Rassmussen noted the differences in operation between IPD and ICPD, when Ashton stopped dead, staring. Rassmussen stopped as well.
“Hey, Nick, are you oka—” he began
“Hey! Oy! You, there! STOP!” Ashton yelled abruptly, then set off running…
…Just as a thief grabbed a woman’s shopping bags from her arm and ran.
“HEY!” Rassmussen shouted, and headed after Ashton. “Stop! Police!”
The thief dared an alarmed glance over his shoulder, then turned around and ran harder.
“This…is gonna…take…a while,” Ashton said, pacing his speech to his breath, as Rassmussen accelerated until he was alongside him. They managed to keep the thief in sight with difficulty; he was darting in and out of the foot traffic on the arcade.
“Yup,” was all Rassmussen said in response. They cornered hard, as the thief tried to lose them in a side street of the arcade.
“Got tranqs?”
“Nope. Needs a…rifle. We’re…plainclothes. An’ too… many…p’destr’ns…around…to risk…a shot,” Rassmussen panted. “Of any…thing.”
“Wait. You gotta…baton…stashed…someplace?”
“Uh, yeah…”
“Gimme.”
Rassmussen pulled his baton from its hidden pocket within the left side of his blazer, and passed it to Ashton. Ashton took it, put on a brief burst of speed, then yelled at the top of his lungs, “MOVE!” He hit the extension switch even as he twisted to the side and threw the baton on a low, straight, twirling trajectory.
Pedestrians instinctively dodged at his cry, and the baton whipped forward, spinning, right into the pumping legs
