Текст книги "Cold Blue"

Автор книги: Gary Neece

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Also during the investigation, Hull learned John Thorpe had acquired an Oklahoma Driver’s license under the name “John Sullivan.” Many SID investigators obtain a driver’s license with bogus information to use during undercover operations. In an effort to rout out cops, criminals sometimes insist on seeing an individual’s identification. The last thing the investigator wants to do is hand over a license listing all his personal information including his home address. The DLs are actual valid licenses capable of passing checks by law enforcement agencies. Hull decided to run an NCIC, records and license check under the name and date of birth on Thorpe’s undercover DL. Nothing came up; he hadn’t even used it to dodge a speeding ticket.

Not expecting to find any results, Hull Googled the name on the internet and found several hits under Thorpe’s alias. Most of the results were in reference to John Sullivan, the American general of the Revolutionary War and also the Oklahoma representative of the same name. After wading through numerous returns he noticed the name also kept popping up on several mixed martial arts sites. There were no pictures of John “The Scar” Sullivan but his physical description was similar to Thorpe’s. At six feet in height and 195 pounds, John Sullivan fought in the light-heavyweight division. Hull also discovered the name on an upcoming fight card in Dallas, Texas. Hull noticed none of the previous fights had taken place in Oklahoma but all were within easy driving distance of Tulsa. Figuring it was a long shot, he talked Lagrone into the five hour trip, telling his senior detective they were going to Dallas, book a hotel, watch some fights, and check out Dallas’ West-End nightlife, all on Hull’s dime. Lagrone probably knew something fishy was afoot, but wasn’t the type to pass on a free weekend of boozing.

When the detectives arrived at the arena for the night’s fights, Lagrone noticed his boss had purchased seats on the row furthest from the ring. As the night progressed, the two men continued ordering beers and thoroughly enjoyed the bouts. With two fights left on the card, Lagrone was lifting his beer-filled red Solo cup to Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Simple Man,” when he saw Thorpe’s head bobbing up and down in the arena’s aisle. After a double take, Lagrone turned to a smiling Hull who said, “That’s our boy.” Even from the back row, they could see Thorpe was in phenomenal condition, prompting a response from Lagrone.

“I had no idea he was in that kind of shape.”

“I think there’s a lot about the kid we don’t know.”

The ring announcer called out the vital statistics of “John Sullivan” over the speaker system.

“Standing at six feet zero inches, one hundred and ninety-five pounds, with a perfect professional record of seven wins zero losses, from Kansas City, Missouri, John ‘The Scar’ Sullivan.”

The Scar was a fitting nickname for the man who stood in the ring with an assortment of healed lacerations. As the introduction of his 205-pound opponent echoed through the arena, Thorpe quietly paced in his corner seemingly scanning the crowd. His eyes appeared to momentarily lock on the two detectives before moving on. Lagrone spoke as both detectives kept their eyes focused on the ring.

“Did he just spot us way the fuck back here?”

“Sure looked that way.”

Whether they’d been seen or not was still unknown to the two detectives; they’d never brought it up to Thorpe, and Thorpe had never mentioned the incident. The Scar dominated the fight standing and on the ground, ending by referee stoppage in the third round. Later, when the two detectives left the arena and were drinking beers at a downtown Dallas bar, they’d discussed the bout. As usual, Lagrone broached the subject.

“John was just practicing on that poor bastard, wasn’t he?”

“Damn, he could have ended the fight any time he wanted; had the guy in a deep choke in the first round. I think he let go of him just to get some more rounds in.”

“What the hell is he doing fighting in Texas under an assumed name anyway?” Lagrone asked.

“He either doesn’t want the attention or doesn’t want anyone to know he has those abilities. Fucking bad-ass. Bet he learned that shit from his old man.”

“You mean his old man who never existed. That’s some cloak-and-dagger shit if I ever seen it. Makes sense though; might also explain how he got those scars.”

“Yeah, all those knife wounds his parents never bothered reporting to the police.”

“The most amazing thing about the fight—in front of a huge crowd no less—the kid is so calm he spotted our sorry asses sitting in the back row.”

“I think he did too. Most guys wouldn’t be able to focus one row outside the ring under that kind of pressure.”

“Yeah…most guys.”

STILL DISCUSSING THEIR KNOWLEDGE OF Thorpe, Hull paused, pulled a pad of paper from his desk and grabbed a pen.

“Let’s summarize what we have so far before we continue.” Hull began writing as he spoke. “First, we agree John has the mindset capable of killing those responsible for his family’s murders. Second, the day Marcel Newman was found tortured and killed was the first time I’ve been around the kid and he didn’t ask about his family’s investigation. Third, it appears both Price and Newman were shot with arrows. Fourth, it’s highly likely our killer has some type of military background. Fifth, John’s father most likely served in Special Forces in the army and probably continued in a similar capacity with USA International. Sixth, John has some nasty fighting skills he works hard at keeping secret. Seventh, he also has an assortment of jagged scars with no record of medical treatment. Now this is pure speculation so I’ll put this off to the side…I think his father passed on some military skills to his son and I think the lessons might have been severe. Okay, what else we got?”

Lagrone shrugged his shoulders. “The problem with the murder of John’s family is the sheer number of possible suspects. You talk about people with motive. John and his unit have tossed a ton of assholes in prison. We’ve always wondered if the murder of the Double D brothers were related—though John didn’t have much contact with the two. But any one of those people he threw in prison could have enlisted those two to do their dirty work for them.”

“What about TPD? Who on the department doesn’t like Thorpe?” Hull asked.

Lagrone didn’t hesitate. “Charlie Peterson made an Internal Affairs complaint claiming Thorpe had planted drugs on his son. And it’s no secret Price was good friends with those two shitheads.”

“And we’ve always suspected Price plays on both sides of the fence,” Hull added.

“So Price might have killed Thorpe’s family as some sort of pay back?” Lagrone asked. “That’s a bit of a stretch.”

“Maybe it was more than payback. Like I said, Price was probably dirty. Plus we’re just thinking out loud here—remember?”

Lagrone tried to vocalize what he thought his boss was theorizing. “All right, so Price thinks Thorpe is some crazy racist or something who is planting dope on his buddies. So he talks Deandre and Damarius into killing Thorpe, but things get fucked up and they kill his family instead. Price then decides to tie up loose ends and kills the Double D brothers before they start running their mouths like they all eventually do. But somehow, Newman is involved in this, or at least knows more than he should. Thorpe finds out Newman has this knowledge, kidnaps him, and gets the information out of him through torture. Then Thorpe grabs his trusty bow and takes out Price.”

“It all fits, except the part about Price wanting to kill Thorpe over some bullshit drug-planting conspiracy. Price had to know those two assholes were dealers. The only reason he’d pretend to buy into that conspiracy shit would be in order to protect them.”

“Maybe he tried to protect them in order to protect himself. Maybe he was in business with them. The older son was looking at some serious time. Maybe Price was afraid Leon and Lyndale would snitch on him to avoid prison,” Lagrone offered.

“Fuck, this is making my head hurt. Does this shit really fit, or are we forcing it?”

“We’re definitely forcing it, but don’t stop me now. I’m on a roll.” Lagrone continued, “We said Price’s killer would have to be ice-cold. Remember the shooting John was involved in during that meth warrant? Put a fucking bullet right between the eyes of a man who’d just fired a shotgun at him, then he put two more into his head before it hit the floor. Later, when we interviewed his squad, they said after John fired the shots, he ordered the unit to keep their focus on the uncleared room. He’s definitely cool under fire.”

“Chuck, you know what we know so far? Shit. That’s what. But some of it fits, and I just got this…feeling. But really, I’m not sure how my mind got here with the miniscule amount of information we have. The question is…what are we going to do about it?”

“My vote, Boss? Not a damn thing. If it did go down that way, then Price got exactly what he had coming. Plus, like you said, we don’t have shit. Even if John weren’t a cop, we wouldn’t take this to the District Attorney’s Office. This is one thin-assed theory.”

“Yeah, Chuck, but under normal circumstances, we’d at least look into it.”

“Boss, I say we keep our mouths shut about the whole damned thing. Like you said, we’re just making wild guesses anyway. We don’t know shit.”

“Right now, I’m in agreement, but I have a couple concerns. First, in your theory you assumed Price was the only one—other than the brothers—involved in the murder of John’s family. What if he wasn’t? What if there were others involved? What if there were other police officers involved?”

“If that’s the case, it’s going to get real fucking ugly ‘round here.”

“If that’s the case…damn right it is. I have a feeling if there are others involved besides Price, we’re going to find out real soon.”

“What’s your other worry?” Lagrone asked.

“This is a big fucking mess, Chuck. The brass and politicians are going to demand progress, and we’ve got nothing. The only trail I can even start to sniff is a path I don’t want to go down.”

“Boss, we really don’t have shit. Marcel Newman’s case leads directly back to L.A. The case couldn’t be any tighter.”

“That’s another thing bothering me. I mean a lot of cases are easy, but that damn thing was served-up on a silver platter. Our victim writes our killer’s name in the dirt? Our killer stomps all over the crime scene in a pair of boots…those boots are recovered from his closet?”

“We don’t catch the smart ones.”

“Sometimes we do. Did you know John’s unit served a search warrant on L.A.’s house a few weeks ago?” Hull added.

“Doesn’t mean a thing. He’s served warrants on three-quarters of the gang bangers out there—that’s his job.”

“I realize that, Chuck. I don’t know if the kid’s done a damn thing. Honestly, I hope if he did, he gets away with it.”

“I know what you mean. John is different, though. He always seems to be…evaluating. It’s real subtle but he’s just constantly scanning his surroundings. I think he tries to throw people off with his humor. Guy rarely seems to be troubled, but you gotta figure, he’s a little fucked up after all he’s been through.”

“Yeah, interesting kid. Let’s leave it be for now. Don’t discuss this with anyone—not even your blow-up doll.”

“As a matter of fact, boss, the kid kind of reminds me of you. Except he can see his own dick when he pisses.”

“Skull, you’re as funny as you are boney. We’ve gone way down Fantasy Avenue. Hopefully, this is nothing more than some bow hunter with a grudge against the police, who’ll turn himself in this afternoon,” Hull said.

“You don’t believe that, do you?”

“I don’t know what to believe. Right now, we work the case business as usual. Compile a list of potential TPD suspects, but keep it under wraps. We’ll see what physical evidence pops up and if the ME is able to give us anything useful.”

Lagrone rose to get back to work, and Hull asked him to close the door on his way out. Alone in his office, Hull flipped over a sheet of paper that’d been lying face down on his cluttered desk. It was a Field Interview Report (FIR.) The FIR had been completed by an officer conducting a canvass of the area near Marcel Newman’s murder. The officer had been approached by a citizen who lived inside the Greystone Condominiums. The citizen wanted to report a suspicious vehicle that had parked inside the gated condos the night before Marcel’s body was found. The vehicle was a Ford pickup, and the citizen had written down the license plate number. The officer taking the report noted that the plates weren’t on file and surmised the citizen probably recorded the tag incorrectly.

Always thorough, Hull had called the equipment manager for SID and requested the tag numbers for all the undercover vehicles assigned to the division. The tag on the FIR matched the tag of Thorpe’s SID-assigned Ford. Hull remembered Thorpe telling him that the Gangs Unit had been conducting surveillance on Marcel, but he’d also said they’d wrapped up the operation over a week ago. Hull’s leap to Thorpe as a potential suspect wasn’t as great as he’d led Lagrone to believe. Not wanting to compromise his friend, Hull withheld the information in case the report became “misplaced.”

Hull picked up the Field Interview Report and stared at it for a full minute before tearing it into very small pieces.

Friday

February 9

Afternoon

BECAUSE OF HIS ASSIGNMENT, THORPE was required to keep a pager and cell phone on his person at all times. And because of Price’s untimely death, he knew gossip seekers would be out in force, so he’d turned off both devices before going to sleep. He’d never before missed a call-out so he shouldn’t get in much trouble for his first offense. After rising from bed in the early afternoon, Thorpe checked his messages and, as expected, most were inquiries about Price’s murder. No pages had been sent directing him to come into work—good, he wouldn’t have to explain why he hadn’t responded. From the assortment of missed calls, he only returned one.

“What’s up, Carnac?” Jeff answered.

“You rang?”

“Just letting you know I won’t be working out today. We’re all too busy with Price’s murder—no long lunch breaks for a while. Crazy shit. I assume you’ve heard?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s why I turned everything off. Didn’t want to be woken up by the grinding of the gossip mill. Any leads?”

“Not according to Homicide. Looks premeditated though. Fucking bow and arrow! Can you believe that shit?”

“Like you said, ‘crazy.’ How’s Marcus handling his nephew’s death?”

“I heard he took it pretty well. Who knows what’s going on inside his head though. Gotta be rough losing your…uhh, sorry, man.”

“Jeff, don’t you start that crap, too. I’m tired of everyone walking on egg shells around me.”

“Well, just wanted to let you know I wouldn’t be working out. I might be on a tight leash for a few days.”

“That’s all right. When we’re sparring, I hardly notice you’re there anyway.”

“Bite me. I’m going to whip your ass next time.”

“You are making progress.”

“Want to go out this weekend? I should be able to get a pass from the wife.”

“How ‘bout you go out, and I’ll make a pass at your wife.”

“She don’t like white meat. We on or what?”

“We’re on. Saturday night?”

“Sounds good. See you then.”

Terminating the call, Thorpe looked out his front window, happy to see Al and Trixie chasing one another around the yard. He needed to do something about the two dogs. He’d purchased the shepherds for purposes of security, but recently realized the animals served an entirely different need—companionship. Al and Trixie, like most people’s dogs, had become part of the family.

He decided to implement measures to protect them even at the expense of his own safety. If someone came after him here, the perpetrators would most likely want to remove Al and Trixie from the equation. To keep them safe, he’d lock them in the barn at night while he was away. Hopefully, the furry little bastards wouldn’t shit all over his gym equipment in gratitude.

Thorpe dressed and grabbed some cash. Because the dogs appeared relaxed, he stepped outside without fear of a bullet parting his skull. He entered the barn and rolled up his wrestling mat before callings his dogs inside. Thorpe pointed at his friends.

“No shitting, understand? No poo poo.”

With two cocked and confused heads staring back at him, he locked the animals inside. Then he left for the Bass Pro Shops in nearby Broken Arrow. The outdoorsman’s paradise carried equipment he planned to put to use. Plus, since he’d been in the unfortunate but necessary habit of destroying his soiled garments, he needed to replenish his outdoor clothing.

THERE WERE SIX MEN PRESENT in Cornelius Johnson’s North Tulsa home. All of them were having heated discussions about the killing of Stephen Price. Sergeant Carl McDonald sat back and carefully regarded his fellow officers, wondering who’d crack first.

Technically Corn Johnson wasn’t a police officer any longer, having resigned after a nasty little affair in which he was accused of providing sensitive information to some of his old neighborhood pals. The department gave him an option—resign or face criminal charges. Corn wisely chose the former. Though no longer a police officer, he remained in the group and needed his lucrative friends now more than ever. Aware of the man’s financial desperation, McDonald had asked Corn to host this meeting. McDonald never assembled The Band at his own home.

McDonald had started referring to himself and his associates as The Band a couple of years ago, not to sound cool, but to simplify conversation. Price had accused him of naming the group after the miniseries Band of Brothers; said he’d been trying to pull an inside joke because four of the six men were black. In reality, a different movie, Band of the Hand, was the source of the name.

Whatever. The Band they were. How they’d come into being hadn’t been planned. It just happened.

Though perhaps not the most moral of men, McDonald had joined the department with good-enough intentions. He spent his first years working Gilcrease Division, or as it was called then, Uniformed Division North. Between marriages, he earnestly went about putting criminals behind bars. Promoted early in his career, his work ethic earned him the supervisory position on the department’s Organized Gang Unit. That’s where he first dipped his toe in murky waters.

An extensive background check is performed on all applicants for the Tulsa Police Department. Officers who later transfer to the Special Investigations Division go through additional checks, most of which financial. SID personnel are perpetually around large sums of money and drugs, an environment not conducive to those with monetary debts.

McDonald had been supervising the OGU for several months and succumbing to a suspicion most officers share some time during their careers—the feeling he was nothing more than a hamster on a wheel. No matter how many criminals he and his unit tossed into jail, no matter how many drugs and how much dirty money they took off the street, their efforts seemed useless. The dealers were often back on the streets only hours after being arrested.

The DA’s office, wanting a high conviction rate, offered plea deals to everyone. Those actually given prison time normally had their already-short sentences cut by half. McDonald felt he was a member of a losing team in an inconsequential game; the only people not making good money were the good guys.

Why shouldn’t he profit as well? Is stealing from criminals really stealing at all?

A twenty started disappearing here and there, enough to buy his lunch for the next week. Then one day, he pulled his toe out of that murky water and dove headfirst. The plunge happened on a search warrant where he found himself alone in a bedroom staring at sixty-thousand dollars in cash.

If he took just a little, who would notice? If he turned it in, who would get it anyway? A bunch of fucking politicians who hadn’t done anything except make his job harder—that’s who.

Fifty-five thousand dollars made its way into evidence. No one missed the five K. No one even asked about it.

In filling his pockets that night he’d emptied his soul. Having taken the dive, swimming was easy.

People of like mind always have a way of finding each other. With little conscious thought, he’d formed a tight group of officers who began planning search warrants and other endeavors with the purpose of financial gain. The Band was born. Before long, they’d started stealing dope as well. They’d either give the drugs to informants to sell, or they’d offer those they busted an option: lose your dope and go to prison, or keep it and share the proceeds with The Band. For most, the choice was easy.

McDonald knew better than to meet with dealers directly. The easiest way for a criminal to avoid prison was to give up a dirty cop, and McDonald sure as hell wasn’t going to let that happen. On those rare occasions where a personal visit was necessary, he’d always concealed himself.

As for The Band, he made it perfectly clear if anyone in the group snitched, the man’s loved ones would pay—a promise he intended to keep. If any one of these assholes even thought about turning on him, he’d kill them and their families. They knew the score. Just as he knew if he talked, Phipps would kill his family. The cost of betrayal had to be more expensive than the threat of prison. It was the only way he could survive; a simple but effective technique he’d learned from Mexican cartels—rat and everyone you love pays the price.

It’d all been going smoothly until Jonathan fucking Thorpe replaced him as supervisor of the OGU. The man had been doing serious damage to his enterprise and arresting far too many people who were associates of The Band. Sooner or later, one of those associates would decide to talk. They wouldn’t be able to identify McDonald, but they’d damned sure be able to name others. If Band members were exposed, they might consider federal protection despite the threat to their family’s lives.

The situation escalated further when Thorpe arrested Charlie Peterson’s sons. The two sold dope for The Band and were extremely close to Price. Lyndale was sentenced for one hell of a stint. McDonald and Phipps in particular feared Lyndale would tire of sitting in prison while the rest of The Band continued in prosperity. That’s when McDonald hatched the idea of planting dope in Thorpe’s home. If Thorpe was discovered to be a dirty cop, all the cases he’d been involved with would be closely scrutinized and many overturned. Coupled with the allegations from Lyndale’s father that Thorpe had planted drugs on his sons, Lyndale’s release would be certain. As an added bonus, Thorpe would be fired and sent to prison. The man wouldn’t be around to fuck up McDonald’s business anymore.

Within The Band, Daniels presented his biggest worry. The man simply didn’t have the stomach for what needed done. Folks with a conscience as developed as Daniels’ had no business swimming with sharks. He’d have Phipps keep a close eye on him—maybe provide a reminder of what awaited him if he talked.

If Phipps ever had a conscience, it’d abandoned him years ago. His brutal demeanor was matched by his physical appearance. A battering-ram shaped skull sat atop a thick frame packed with dense muscle. Small deep-set eyes peered out from beneath his pronounced forehead. When unsavory acts were required, he was the man McDonald called. Unfortunately, Phipps had just made his opinion known to the rest of the group.

“We need to do what?”

“You heard me the first time, Daniels. You wearing a fucking wire or something?” Phipps accused.

Daniels began to pull off his shirt.

McDonald had remained silent till now. But things were getting out of control, and he needed to instill calm.

“Keep your shirt on, Daniels,” McDonald said. “We know you’re not wearing a wire.”

“Damn right, I’m not. I’m also not going to be part of no killin’.”

“If we don’t act first, he’s damn sure going to kill us,” Phipps argued.

“We don’t even know if Thorpe was the one who killed Price.”

“Let’s go over this one more time, you fuckin’ moron,” Phipps growled. “On Wednesday night, Price got an anonymous phone call from someone saying he knew about the incident last year.”

“Incident? We killed an innocent woman and child,” Daniels interrupted.

Phipps warned off the man with a glare, and continued. “Let me finish, Daniels. The anonymous caller told Price he was going to the police with this information unless we paid him twenty-thousand dollars. After getting the call, Price called McDonald, and we all met at Shaw’s house. Daniels, you were the only one not there because you didn’t answer your fucking phone. Price, Leon, and the rest of us met, and we talked about who might have known what we did. We figured someone in this group was talking. Leon starts trippin’ about a police sting. He went out the back door. Says he left to see if anyone was watching us. After a few minutes, we look for him and notice his car missing. We all figure he got scared and skipped town…”

“I guarantee he took off. That boy was scared to death,” Corn interrupted.

“Corn, you mind?” Phipps growled. “Now, as we all know, Price was killed last night. I hear detectives think the murder was more like an assassination. This shit ain’t no damn coincidence. Price was blackmailed about the incident one minute and killed the next. It’s all connected.”

Phipps drew a deep breath and acknowledged the nodding heads before continuing. “If that’s not enough for you, this morning Shaw’s neighbor called him over to look at his fence. There was a hole cut in it. The hole faces the front of Shaw’s house. I think whoever called Price that night followed him to Shaw’s. I think when Leon went outside to look for surveillance, he was killed. No one has seen or heard from him since.”

Phipps surveyed the room making eye contact with each man. “Leon is dead—murdered. Thorpe killed Leon, then turned around and killed Price.”

Phipps raised his voice to drive home his next point. “I think every damn one of us who were at that meeting is in danger of being killed next!” Phipps paused to let his last statement sink in. “Baker, you’ve been awfully quiet. What do you think?”

Baker cleared his throat. “I’d have to agree. This is no coincidence. The phone call, Leon disappears, Price is killed. We all know Thorpe’s behind it. Who else would start killing people over this shit? Anybody else would turn us in. The only question is, what are we prepared to do about it?”

“We all know what needs done. We just gotta nut-up and do it,” Phipps screamed. “This is fucking war!”

“We’re the ones who started the war when we killed his wife and kid,” Daniels shouted back.

“That was an accident; we didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt,” Baker chimed in.

“That’s a bullshit excuse, Baker. You start fucking around like that, and what do think is going to happen? We never should’ve done what we done.”

Phipps shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. It happened, and you’re a part of it, Daniels. Right now, we need to concentrate on the threat to our lives. We have to deal with Thorpe before he kills each and every one of us!”

“Phipps, the way I see things, I’m safe,” Daniels said as he headed for the door. “I didn’t show up to your little meeting the other night, and Thorpe doesn’t know I’m involved in this shit. I can’t believe you’re actually discussing murdering a man…I won’t be a part of it!”

As Daniels stormed out the front door, Shaw also stood up to leave. “Daniels is right. I ain’t gonna be part of no murder.”

McDonald had lost control of the meeting. “Sit down, Thadius. We’re not getting anything accomplished by fighting with each other.”

“Fuck you. I’m gone.”

“Please, Thadius. Have a seat. No one is killing anyone. I think I have an idea where no one will get hurt,” McDonald implored.

The five remaining men sat down, shiny with sweat despite the relatively cool temperature of the room. McDonald began laying out his plan. Every time he looked Phipps’ direction, he was rewarded with a piercing glare.

After revealing his plans, McDonald stood and told the other men he needed time to work out the details. Once outside the door, he sent Phipps a text.

“Lacy Park. Now.”

Five minutes later, Phipps pulled next to McDonald with murder in his eyes. “You sit in there the whole fucking meeting not saying a word and when you finally do…”

McDonald held up a hand, cutting Phipps off. “Everything I said in there was bullshit. You’re right. But we have to be careful about what we say and who we say it around. The others don’t have the balls to do what needs to be done…understand?”

“So what are we going to do?”

“I don’t think Daniels can be trusted any longer.”

“I’ve never trusted him.”

“He and Shaw are tight, right?” McDonald asked.

“Real tight. They’re like brothers.”

“I think I have an idea that will eliminate one problem and get the rest of the group on board.”

RETURNING FROM BASS PRO, THORPE called dispatch and obtained the phone number for his neighbor, Deborah Jennings.

“Well, this is an unexpected surprise,” she told him. “What can I do for you?”

“I hate to impose, but I was wondering if I could park my truck on your property for a while.”

“Park your truck on my property? Is that what you men call it these days?”

Thorpe laughed. “Not that I know of…no, I’ve got some bad guys who’ve learned where I live and what I drive, so I’d rather not announce when I’m home.”

“Will you be putting me in danger?”

“Not if you have some place I can hide it.”

“You sure you’re not talking about sex?”

“Deborah, you have a one-track mind.”

“My gate code is 5432. I’m certain I have a place it’ll fit.”

Later, when he pulled onto the Jennings’ estate, he was surprised to see Deborah in slacks, a conservative blouse and coat. He’d expected something formfitting and easily removable. She directed him to the west side of the property where a large barn stood out of sight from the road. Deborah was friendly but not overtly sexual. She said she would explain the arrangement to her husband, adding he probably wouldn’t be too happy about it, but he could kiss her ass—she was doing it anyway.