Текст книги "Cold Blue"

Автор книги: Gary Neece

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

“Hard and fast. Let’s go,” Thorpe commanded.

He hoped to hell the kid had a gun. Their makeshift fullback, Frank, had just knocked two guys out of the way and kicked over the wooden barricade while Thorpe and Tanner followed carrying the “football” through the defensive line. If Thorpe had guessed wrong, and the kid was unarmed, they’d all get their asses sued. Never mind they were trying to save people’s lives.

Football safely across the plane of the end zone, Tanner unloaded his share of the burden. Thorpe crashed to the pavement on top of the pigskin. It was then that Thorpe heard the sweetest sound—the clank of heavy metal striking concrete.

Fumble.

Thorpe rolled the kid over and was rewarded with a chrome handgun lying on the sidewalk.

Thank God.

If the little shit hadn’t been armed, ten different camera angles would’ve captured another rogue white cop abusing minorities. With juicy footage like that, Thorpe might be charged with manslaughter after Jessie Jackson’s body was found in front of his television—killed by one of those fabled four-hour hard-ons.

Thorpe’s relief was short-lived. The football’s friends had stood in shock for a few seconds but now realized one of their own had just been abducted. They stepped over the fallen barricade in an ill-conceived plan to retrieve their comrade. Others in the crowd, believing they’d witnessed Thorpe face plant a black man for no good reason, decided to join in the festivities.

Chaos. The drove, which had been headed straight toward Thorpe and his prisoner, were now fleeing every direction but—thanks to six mounted police officers and seven thousand pounds of horse meat. Most people were just trying to get the hell out of the way, but the fifty or so who’d been looking for an opportunity had found it. Several youths had entered the parking lot to the southeast and were now in the process of expressing their freedom of speech by smashing car windows.

His fellow officers were going to be busy for a while, but Thorpe had had enough. He handed his football off to a uniformed patrolman, dropped the magazine out of the suspect’s handgun, and jacked a round out of the chamber.

“Hey, Tanner, Frank, good job. You two ever want to come over to Gangs, just say the word.”

“No offense, Sarge, but fuck you.” Tanner smiled.

“Oh, come on. It’s the land of milk and honey. Hey, could you do me a favor and turn in the gun? There’s nothing left for you guys to do here anyway. I think our cover has officially been blown.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

Thorpe looked at Collins, who’d joined his side.

“Let’s get inside.” He nodded toward the rivers of fleeing people between them and the Jeep. “I don’t think we’ll be able to get to our ride for a few minutes.”

The two ascended the stairs and started for the entrance to the Main Station. “You did a good job back there, you know?” Collins offered. “Probably saved someone’s life, the kid’s for sure.”

“Yeah, now he’ll have a chance to grow up and learn how to kill a cop without getting caught.”

Collins shook her head. “Don’t make this something ugly. You can’t control everyone and everything. Some things are just going to...happen.”

“And some things can be prevented,” Thorpe argued.

“Look, tragedies happen every minute of every day. And someone’s always left behind wondering ‘what if I had done this, or said that.’ None of it can be predicted, yet we all wallow in guilt.”

Thorpe was already thinking Collins’ speech sounded rehearsed when she stopped and put a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re hurt,” she said.

“Look, you’ve obviously done your homework on me, and you know what happened to my family. You’ll know I want your psychobabble when I lie down on a couch for you.”

“Uhh.” Collins nodded down at Thorpe’s hand. “I mean you’re physically hurt.”

Thorpe dripped blood onto the sun-bleached concrete. He looked back, discovering he’d left a crimson trail up the stairs. He felt his face turning the same shade he’d painted steps.

“Look, I’m sorry, I…”

“Forget about it,” Collins said, cutting him off. “Is it painful?”

“Not till you pointed it out. Guess I still have an adrenaline dump.”

Thorpe tugged on his sleeve revealing a gash on his wrist. Until it’d become saturated, his sweatshirt had kept the blood from running down his hand.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Sunday

February 11

Afternoon

AMBRETTA FOLLOWED THORPE ALONG THE empty hallways of the Main Station. Because it was Sunday, the building was closed to the public and the few detectives on duty were occupied with the mess outside. Thorpe led her to the offices of the Domestic Violence Unit, where he said he’d remembered seeing a first aid kit bolted to the wall. While she sifted through the metal box, she noticed him step into a glassed-in office, turn his back, and make a phone call. He was either unable to reach who he’d dialed or didn’t have much to say, because thirty seconds later he returned and sat in a rolling office chair.

Upon her arrival in Tulsa, Ambretta had been given four tasks, two of which were secondary to the others. One was to coordinate security details using local officers and federal agents. Another was to assist with, and oversee the progress of, the investigative unit. But her main objectives were to monitor the movements of Sergeant Jonathan Thorpe and to learn as much as possible about the man. Normally this would be a simple task; she generally had no problem getting men to do nearly anything she wanted. The skill had served her well over the last two years.

Thorpe, however, proved to be a difficult case. If he admired her looks, he didn’t show it. And he’d turned her down for drinks once already—a rejection she’d never before experienced, even with married men. Of course, if Thorpe really were on a murderous rampage, then he was a tad busy.

Ambretta felt she excelled at appraising the quality of a man, and Thorpe didn’t strike her as a serial murderer. At least not one motivated by race. He was obviously capable of violence when necessary. And what had happened to his family would cause anyone to lose moral footing; Ambretta knew that first hand. Still, there was something different about Thorpe.

The man was a mystery. Unexplained scars snaked their way through his eyebrows. He had a wrestler’s ears and a fighter’s knuckles. Although on him, the injuries only enhanced his masculinity. And those green eyes…wow. Ambretta hadn’t felt attracted to anyone in a long time, but she recognized the familiar pang. She realized their shared experiences played a part; they’d each lost loved ones to unspeakable acts of cowardice. Regardless, she had a job to do, and she was not accustomed to failing.

Having gathered what she needed from the first-aid kit, Ambretta turned and caught Thorpe staring at her ass.

So he’s a man after all.

“Please remove your jacket and sweatshirt.”

“I normally demand that my date take me out to dinner first,” Thorpe joked.

“I saw you looking, big boy. You might as well give up on that dream right now.”

Thorpe laughed. As he pulled the sweatshirt over his head, it snagged the underlying t-shirt, exposing his washboard stomach and even more lacerations. Except on the cover of magazines, she didn’t know when she’d seen a man in such phenomenal shape. But those guys trained for months and then dehydrated themselves for the photo shoot. Thorpe resembled a middleweight boxer at a pre-fight weigh-in. There was no fat at all.

“How’d you get cut up like that?”

“Beer and sit-ups.”

“I’m referring to the cuts that left the scars, smart ass.”

“Police work is dangerous.”

Does this guy ever give a straight answer?

Expressing her doubt with arched eyebrows, Ambretta sat on a rolling chair and slid in front of Thorpe. She opened a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. His knee was between hers.

“You know what I say here, right?” Collins asked.

“This is going to sting?”

“Close enough.”

She tipped the bottle, and liquid foamed on the abrasion. She repeated the process two more times until satisfied she’d flushed the wound. Then she grabbed a roll of gauze and began wrapping the damaged wrist. Occasionally she failed to resist the urge to look up.

Those damned eyes of his.

Thorpe looked directly into hers, and smiled. “Isn’t this where we gaze at each other and fall into a long kiss?”

Ambretta was accustomed to men looking at her the way Thorpe did now. She’d been attracted to few, if any. There were so many freaks in the world. If they weren’t self-absorbed braggarts, they usually had good reason. The so-called sensitive ones, the men who actually gave a damn what you had to say, were often a teaspoon of estrogen away from being women. Yeah, they knew how to hold open a door for you, but just try to find one with the steel to stand up and do what’s right when things went to shit. And if they were a man’s man, they might offer a pair of broad shoulders, but there’s no way in hell they’d give you their time, heart, or, God forbid, their loyalty.

Ambretta knew she measured every man against her father—an unfair comparison for anyone. He might not have been perfect, but he’d been the perfect dad. He would’ve given his life, his heart, his loyalty, his everything for his little girl. Her father would also have given his life for complete strangers—which, ultimately, he did.

“Even if I didn’t know what an ass you were, you still wouldn’t have a chance.”

“Ouch. That stung worse than my wrist.”

“Somehow I think you’ll survive both injuries. All finished.”

Thorpe made a fist. “Nice work. Well, on my physical wound at least. As for my ego…”

“Your wound is far more manageable than your ego,” Ambretta said as she leaned back and crossed her arms. His knee still rested between her thighs, his bright green eyes held hers.

The office door opened.

She looked up to see Jeff Gobin, Thorpe’s best friend, standing at the threshold.

“John. You ready?”

“I’m ready.”

Ambretta reestablished eye contact. “Ready for what?”

“Jeff here is taking me home.” Thorpe lifted his bandaged limb. “Being that I’m injured and all.”

Their eyes remained locked on one another.

Asshole.

“The phone call you made?” she asked.

“The phone call I made,” he confirmed.

Ambretta found herself in the backseat of Jeff’s car spitting mad and trying desperately not to show it. Thorpe had graciously offered to have Jeff drop her off at the Jeep on the way out.

How did he put it? “I wouldn’t want someone else to take a crack at my dream.” Ugh. She didn’t bother arguing. She’d known it’d be useless to try and keep him at work. If he wanted to use sick time or injury leave or whatever the hell, she couldn’t stop him.

Jeff stopped next to the Jeep, and Thorpe stepped out followed by Ambretta. He unlocked the Wrangler, retrieved his gear from the back seat, and tossed her the keys.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said.

Thorpe had left the passenger door on Jeff’s car open so he could make a quick escape. Ambretta slammed it shut.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

“Are you a man who keeps his promises?”

OH SHIT, WHERE IS THIS going? Thorpe thought. He was a man who kept his promises. His father would roll over in his grave.

“I am.”

“Yesterday, you promised to have drinks with me tonight,” Ambretta reminded him.

“I didn’t exactly promise,” Thorpe argued.

“Are you going to argue over semantics now?” Then, “John…what if I buy all the drinks and swear not to talk shop?”

She’d referred to him by his first name—pulling out the big guns. He could use a couple of drinks, and he could absolutely use the company of an attractive woman—beautiful, really—but not one who was trying to put him in federal prison.

“I’ll tell you what. You buy the drinks, you don’t talk shop, you don’t ask any questions about me, and you let me call you Ambretta. Then you have yourself a deal.”

“Done. In private you may refer to me as Ambretta.”

“Okay, Ambretta. Jeff is taking me home first; I have some things I need to take care of.”

“I can drive you home.”

“I appreciate it. But Jeff and I have some catching up to do.”

“What time shall we meet?”

Shit, how’d I let this happen? He’d finally gotten a free pass away from this woman only to make what sounded a lot like a date with her.

“How ‘bout seven?”

“All right. If you don’t show, I’m going to come looking for you.”

“Of that, I have no doubt,” Thorpe replied as he climbed into Jeff’s city-issued Ford Taurus.

Jeff pulled away and Thorpe put an index finger up to his own mouth as an indication to Jeff he didn’t feel comfortable speaking confidentially in the car.

“Let’s grab a couple of beers before you take me home,” Thorpe said.

“Anywhere in particular?”

“How about Los Cabos; it’ll have a good crowd on a Sunday afternoon.”

Sunday

February 11

Afternoon

LOS CABOS RESTAURANT WAS THE anchor for Riverwalk Crossing, a collection of shops, bars, restaurants and theaters that sat on the west bank of the Arkansas River. The establishment wouldn’t be too out of the way for the drive to Thorpe’s compound, as Jeff liked to refer to it.

Los Cabos had finished concrete floors. The hard surface bounced sound waves and—when the restaurant was busy—made audio surveillance next to impossible. Upon arrival, Thorpe removed his cell phone and left it in the car, motioning for Jeff to do the same. Once the two were seated at a booth inside the noisy restaurant, Thorpe felt free to speak, but it was Jeff who initiated the conversation.

“John, what the hell is going on?”

“It’s obvious the FBI considers me a suspect in these murders.”

“I know that, but why? Why would they think you’d kill those guys? I mean, I realize they weren’t your favorite people—mine either, for that matter. But being an asshole is no reason to kill a man.”

“Maybe I’m a closet racist, Jeff. Maybe I befriended you, just to get near you. Make you feel all comfortable around me then…” Thorpe snapped his fingers and smiled.

“The only thing you’re killing me with are your lame jokes. And it’s a slow-ass death, let me tell ya.”

“I’ve been getting that a lot lately. My timing must be off.”

“Could you be serious for one fucking minute? You have an airtight alibi for Daniels’ murder. You were in the middle of a search warrant with your entire squad when he was killed. So why does the FBI suspect you?”

“Why don’t you tell me, Jeff? You know something, you’ve avoided me like an infectious disease since the feds blew into town.”

“Do you have anything to do with this?”

Thorpe didn’t want to lie, but telling the truth would only put Jeff in a predicament. His friend would have to choose between ratting out Thorpe or keeping his secret and becoming an accessory to murder. Hull had figured out matters on his own. Jeff still struggled for answers—but he knew something.

“Jeff, do you think I’d commit cold-blooded murder just because of someone’s fucked-up views?”

“No.”

Thorpe hadn’t lied, but he hadn’t exactly answered Jeff’s question either. “You know I wouldn’t. Jeff, please tell me what you know, so I can figure out what the hell is going on.”

“You repeat it, I’ll be fired and tossed in prison.”

“It won’t leave this table.”

“Fuck.” Jeff shook his head. “First of all, what I know I’m not supposed to know. I’m not going to tell you who I got my information from, so don’t ask. All I can say is they’re a reliable source.” Jeff looked nervously around the restaurant. “From what I understand, the FBI received a phone call from a kid named Kaleb Moment. You know him?”

Thorpe nodded. Should’ve killed that little snitch bastard. He could justify the other killings, as a kind of justice. Killing Kaleb would’ve been purely out of self-preservation. Thorpe had tried to salvage part of his soul by releasing the kid from that motel room.

No good deed goes unpunished.

Jeff continued, “Anyway, I guess this Kaleb fucker calls up a Texas FBI office and tells them some Tulsa police sergeant is fixing to go off the reservation. Tells them a bunch of police officers are about to get killed. Tells them this sergeant will be the one responsible for their murders. Tells them you, Jonathan Thorpe, is that sergeant. He says he can’t go to the police because other TPD officers are involved.

“Kaleb demands to be placed in the witness protection program and wants a document promising a deal. He called the FBI office in Texas instead of the local office because he’s so freaked out. He’s afraid you have friends in high places. I guess the agent who took the call is thinking, ‘Yeah, right, another caller with conspiracy theories.’ But the agent tells the kid to drive on in, and he’ll take a statement. If the information pans out, and TPD officers start getting whacked, he’ll make sure Kaleb gets in the program.”

Jeff nervously looked around the restaurant before he continued. “Well, guess what happens? Stephen Price gets killed with a bow and arrow, and Cole Daniels gets sniped in his living room, and this kid never shows up for his meeting in Texas. The Texas agent catches the national news and thinks, ‘Holy shit! The kid was legit.’ He contacts the FBI office in Tulsa and passes on the information Kaleb had given him over the phone.

“The FBI, having your name and a tip that other TPD officers are involved, calls a private meeting with high-ranking members of TPD. They discuss their options and decide to go out to your house and pick you up for questioning. At least that was the plan until Agent Collins entered the meeting…”

Thorpe listened to Jeff and thought his friend possessed a lot of information for someone who wasn’t supposed to be in the know. Most likely, Jeff’s source was a certain deputy chief he’d befriended.

“…I guess the special agent over the Tulsa office doesn’t know Agent Collins from shit. She walks in, produces her credentials, and tells them in no uncertain terms she is now in charge. The SAC protests, but Collins tells him to take it up with his boss and spits out the man’s cell phone number from memory. According to my source, the SAC phoned his boss, turned five shades of red and subsequently handed over the reins to Agent Collins.

“Agent Collins addressed the group and informed them that you have an airtight alibi for the murder of Cole Daniels. So if you are a suspect, then there are others involved as well. She also tells them the only reason you were named as a suspect was because of the phone call from the now-missing Kaleb Moment. If you were indeed one of the killers, they had no corroborating evidence and would only be ‘showing their hand’ if they brought you in for an interview so early in the investigation. Agent Collins went on to say that the best course of action would be to monitor your activities. She then excused the few TPD personnel present and had a private talk with the gathered FBI officials. Again, according to my source, when the local feds walked out, they looked like they’d all been kicked in the balls. The same night they had this meeting, Brandon Baker was killed and set on fire, and Thadius Shaw went missing.

“Other than that, I don’t know much. After the initial meeting, the FBI has disclosed little to TPD. I was threatened with having my nuts cut off and shoved up my ass if I relayed any of this information. Anyway, Agent Collins is in charge of the entire investigation, and she’s been riding around with you for seven or eight hours a day. I wouldn’t trust her for shit if I were you.”

“Yeah. I should definitely stay away from her,” Thorpe agreed.

“By the way, what’d she say to you outside my car?”

“Oh, nothing. We were just planning our date for this evening.”

“What? That your sorry-ass sense of humor again?”

Thorpe shrugged. “No. That’s just my sorry-ass decision making.”

Jeff laughed. “You dumbass. You never were very smart with women.”

“Shit, I don’t even know how it happened, Jeff.”

“I do. If she were five-foot-three and four hundred pounds, you wouldn’t be in this position. The feds probably sent her on purpose. Well, at least you have nothing to worry about since you’re not involved in this shit. She’s just wasting her time. Damn good-looking, though—doesn’t even wear much makeup. Female feds never look like her—‘cept in the movies.”

AFTER A COUPLE MORE BEERS, the two men loaded up in the car and continued to Thorpe’s residence. As Jeff entered the neighborhood, he didn’t pay much attention when Thorpe asked him to pull over to the side of the road—not until Thorpe grabbed his gear bag and climbed out of the Ford.

“You’re walking?”

“Yeah, the feds are keeping tabs on me, and I don’t like to make things easy for anyone. Thanks for everything, Jeff.”

“No problem, and be careful around Agent Collins. Don’t let her use her feminine wares against you.”

“You know me. I’m like a rock.”

“Yeah. ‘Bout as smart as one,” Jeff replied.

“If you don’t mind, don’t drive by my house. Just back up and head out the way we came.”

Jeff’s nod turned into a disappointed shake as he watched his best friend disappear into the woods. He’d expected Thorpe to have more faith in him.