Counterfeit Lies

CHAPTER SEVEN

For Jake Kruse, it was another restless night. In the past, only the undercover assignments brought such restlessness, his mind never quieting from the potential clashes racing through his “overactive imagination,” as Katie used to joke. But for the past year, thoughts and images of her battled nightly with the issues of his job.

He always justified the job-related insomnia because it prepared him for the harsh reality of the street. The danger never really dies. But death didn’t scare him, it never had; embarrassment did. He could take a bullet. In some ways he might even welcome it. He just didn’t want a stupid mistake caught on a surveillance camera becoming a YouTube video in perpetuity. He knew the difference between humility and humiliation.

Jake was convinced he was a better undercover agent because he didn’t sleep. He lived many of the confrontations, at least in his mind, and rehearsed his answers and reactions. His manufactured lies were grounded in the truth, but a near decade of undercover work had taught him the more convincing the lies, the more deadly the consequences. He needed to be prepared; he needed to be ready. Katie constantly reminded him each undercover encounter was a gift, a learning experience not to be ignored. So this morning was one more gift, one more adventure. With Katie gone, he lived for little else.

Jake parked just below the pier on Appian Way, a surface street paralleling the Pacific Ocean. As he exited the vehicle he slipped the Glock into his waistband. The 9mm was more for show than protection. When a person is too weak to pull the trigger, he usually doesn’t pose an immediate threat to a professional killer.

Though the faded blue jeans and untucked denim shirt failed to make a Beverly Hills fashion statement, the Tony Lama ostrich-skin boots set him apart from the ordinary. Pretty didn’t necessarily sell on the street but image was everything when you lived on the edge, and that’s where Jake Kruse thrived.

Even his choice of weapons had purpose. Many federal law enforcement agencies issue .40-caliber pistols. Jake was comfortable with most handguns but his Glock 19 served him well. It was easily concealable and the 9mm might throw off a sophisticated criminal knowledgeable about a federal agent’s arsenal.

It’s impossible to categorize successful undercover agents. They come in all shapes and sizes, all types of personalities. Some UCs prefer working as part of a team. Others, like Jake, enjoy being on the high wire alone, without a net. Some are people persons, others loners. Jake liked playing lonely and independent. As Katie used to say, “It’s not just humanity. Jake is also lactose intolerant.” He was a team player only when the rules required. But he loved the adrenaline rush of each encounter and welcomed the unknown each assignment brought.

Today the biggest unknown was the subject’s overall knowledge of L.A.’s law enforcement community. In spite of its size, Los Angeles is a small town, especially its criminal underbelly. This morning wasn’t a “Kevin Bacon six degrees of separation” situation. In L.A.’s criminal underworld it was more like two or three degrees. Jake knew he had not personally encountered today’s target but assumed those he previously met while undercover had. The risks, however, were balanced by the adventure.