Текст книги "Cold Blue"

Автор книги: Gary Neece

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Tuesday

February 6

Late morning

THE NEXT MORNING, WHILE THORPE gathered fallen tree limbs near the front of his property, Al and Trixie tore off in a full sprint and disappeared into the thick woods. The dogs didn’t bark, and after a few minutes trotted back to where Thorpe worked. Several seconds later, the familiar form of Deborah Jennings came bouncing down the road. The woman was trouble with a capital D—the “D” in reference to her surgically enhanced breasts, which were on full display. Thorpe had stumbled into a one-hour relationship with Deborah just after he’d moved into the neighborhood. It was an encounter he’d instantly regretted and tried hard not to repeat. They’d met on an occasion much like the one repeating itself today.

Then, he’d only been in his new house for a short time. He didn’t know a thing about his neighbors, and with the large acreage, he figured the situation wasn’t likely to change. Thorpe had been clearing fallen branches from his newly purchased property on a day exceeding a hundred degrees. In a time when both fit and unfit men shrink-wrapped themselves in formfitting T-shirts, he went to great lengths to mask his muscular form.

“Don’t ever show the enemy your hand, son. Make him think your strengths are your weaknesses, and your weaknesses are your strengths,” his father used to preach. Mostly, he kept his body covered in an effort to conceal his collection of scars, some of which acquired the night his opponent produced a knife, but there had been other altercations as well. When people saw his old wounds, they wanted to know the stories behind them. If the inquiries came from strangers, Thorpe spewed a line of crap they couldn’t dispute. However, his fellow cops possessed the resources to sniff out a fabricated story—and Thorpe couldn’t exactly be truthful when relating how he’d sustained his mementos. If only he’d heeded all of his father’s advice, such as, “Don’t shit in your own sandbox,” then Thorpe might not have found himself in his current predicament with this woman.

The day they’d met, he’d dispensed with his usual precautions and discarded his shirt. Shimmering with sweat, he worked near the road in a pair of work boots and khaki shorts. Al and Trixie had yet to be trained, so the only warning Thorpe received was the sound of gravel crunching underfoot. Thorpe looked up to see Deborah running on the road. A tanned, toned, and pierced midriff was framed by black Lycra shorts and a black sports bra struggling to contain her ample bosom. The sight caused Thorpe to mumble, “Oh, my God.”

As the woman approached, she caught sight of Thorpe, and her pace abated. Thorpe’s body was void of fat with muscle striations popping in his chest, arms, abdomen and back. The woman slowed to a walk, altered her course, and sashayed over to the fence to introduce herself.

“Hi, neighbor…Deborah Jennings.”

Thorpe approached, shed his work gloves, and accepted her extended hand. “John Thorpe.”

Still holding his hand, Deborah broke eye contact and allowed her eyes to drift downward. “John, I hate to be so forward, but you have the most amazing body I’ve ever seen on a man.”

“I bet you say that to all your neighbors.”

“Hardly. How’d you get the scars?”

“I’m a cop…Tulsa PD. Stuff happens.” Not exactly an answer to her question, but not a lie either.

“Well, I feel safe knowing I have one of Tulsa’s finest living close by.”

“Which house is yours?”

“The big obnoxious one on the hill.”

“Nice to meet you, Deborah.”

“Yes, it is,” Deborah replied in full-flirt mode. She played with her hair and repeatedly touched Thorpe’s arm. “Sorry for being such a bad neighbor. I haven’t even brought you and your wife a housewarming gift.”

“Not married.”

“Divorced?”

“Not exactly.”

Deborah didn’t pursue the vague answer.

The barn’s double doors were open, and Thorpe’s makeshift gym was visible from where Deborah stood.

“You have a gym? Mind if take a look?” Deborah didn’t wait for his reply; in fact, she’d already been moving toward his gate while asking the question. Once on his property, she led the way to the barn. Visible from behind, her large breasts overtook her small frame. Deborah strutted through the garage door, paused at the punching bag, and threw a few punches. The scene was one of the most erotic Thorpe had ever witnessed. She’d successfully maneuvered onto his side of the board and used his own bishop to put him in checkmate.

“John, I think you’d be an excellent personal trainer. Though to be sure, I’d first have to try out your equipment.”

“I’m expensive.” Thorpe smiled.

Deborah looked over her shoulder “I’m rich.”

She walked over to a rack, lowered herself under a straight bar with no weights, and began performing squats. Facing away, she arched her back and thrust out her ass with every repetition. “If you’re that expensive you should at least give me a spot.”

Thorpe moved in behind Deborah, laying his hands on the exposed and wanton curves between hips and waist. Deborah stepped backward, arched her back, and drove her firm buttocks into Thorpe as she dipped down. When she came back up, she again pressed herself into him. Thorpe lifted the bar off her shoulders and tossed it over his head. Deborah turned and ran her fingers down his chest and abdomen. She grabbed him from the outside of his shorts. They both collapsed to the padded mat, and with the doors still open, went at each other with little restraint.

Thorpe had no idea whether any passersby had witnessed the exhibition. Deborah had proven to be an insatiable and somewhat violent lover. She’d continuously traced his scars with her fingers and tongue while engaged in relations, and courtesy of artificial nails, might even have carved a few new ones. Lying on the mat, Thorpe asked a question he’d neglected to ask prior to their interlude.

“Are you married?”

Deborah hesitated before responding “Yes, but that doesn’t mean we can’t see each other from time to time.”

“It does for me.”

“You didn’t seem too interested in whether I was married before we had sex.”

“Like most people, I think a lot clearer after sex than before it.”

“We’ll see,” Deborah said. With that, she dressed, bent over, flicked his nipple with her tongue, smiled, and began jogging toward the gate as if intercourse had just been a water station on her running route.

Following the encounter, he’d avoided the fence line any time he saw Deborah approaching. Eventually, his dogs were trained not to let anyone inside the fence with the exception of Jeff—unless Thorpe issued the proper command. This kept Deborah from coming onto his property uninvited. And she couldn’t phone him because, like any decent cop, Thorpe had an unlisted number.

Thorpe’s most recent encounter with a Jennings had been with the husband. Thorpe was running on the road when approached by a Mercedes with tinted windows. At first Thorpe worried Deborah sat behind the wheel, but as the car came to rest, the darkened driver’s window powered down and revealed an individual by whom he had little fear of being seduced.

Mr. Jennings appeared to be in his late sixties, looked down a bulbous capillary-mapped nose indicative of a lifetime of alcohol abuse and was grossly overweight. He told Thorpe he worked as a corporate attorney in one of Tulsa’s larger law firms. Mr. Jennings appeared unaware of Deborah and Thorpe’s tryst. During their short conversation, Mr. Jennings had conveyed they had a live-in maid/chef and bragged about several belongings, including his young bride. Deborah was the quintessential trophy wife and probably no more cherished than the man’s other possessions, a thing to be worn on his arm and shown off at parties. Thorpe didn’t have much sympathy for Deborah; she obviously married the money, not the man. Still, maybe he’d been a little hard on the woman, though most of his avoidance measures were taken so he himself wouldn’t fall again.

Today, on this warm winter’s morning, Deborah wore long tight running pants and a pink Lycra shirt with zippered front. The zipper dangled below a chasm of exposed cleavage. As Deborah approached, Thorpe smiled and raised his hand. She slowed to a walk. Al and Trixie began to let out low guttural growls until their master called them off.

“You’re not going to release your hounds on me today?”

“Sorry, Deborah. You were right. I was just as much to blame as you were. I didn’t want to know the truth.”

Deborah tilted her head and studied him. “I had it coming…didn’t give you much of a chance. Look, I heard about your family. You were in a bad place.”

Thorpe nodded his head; he was still in a bad place.

“My husband says you two met the other day?”

“Yeah. Although it wasn’t quite the rendezvous you and I had.”

Deborah laughed. “I certainly hope not. He told me we needed to move. He said he’s embarrassed to share the neighborhood with a civil servant.”

Thorpe figured the guy would pop a nose capillary if he knew what else they’d shared. “And here I thought he and I were going to be BFFs. Why do you guys live way out here, anyway?”

“Thomas wanted a ‘country retreat.’ You should see the entertainment area we have behind our house and the view of Tulsa’s skyline. It was great at first, but now he has trouble getting his colleagues out to visit because of the drive. He’s all about entertaining and showing off. I have a feeling we’ll be moving back toward town soon.”

“Well, I’m sure it’ll all work out.”

“John, what happened between us…that’s not something I normally do. I don’t want you thinking I jump from bed to bed. I was in a bad place, too. I still am.”

“Deborah, I don’t mean to sound callous, but it’s none of my business. I’m doing my damnedest not to break all Ten Commandments this month. You should be having this conversation with your husband.” Thorpe backed away from the fence. “I wish you luck, Deborah. I really do.” As he walked toward the house, he risked a glance over his shoulder and watched the overtaxed Lycra top resume its bouncing burden.

My God that woman had a hard body. Thorpe glanced down to a trailing Al and Trixie “I should find a social life before the two of you start looking good to me.”

Thorpe had been too consumed with finding his wife and daughter’s killers to fall into loneliness. It was moments such as these—when confronted with an attractive woman—that he was reminded of some basic needs missing from his life. He hadn’t been celibate for the last thirteen months; he’d had a few one-night stands. To engage in anything substantial seemed to be an affront to his lost family. If he were to become intimate with a woman, it would suggest he was moving on and starting afresh. Thorpe knew he wasn’t being logical, but he feared establishing a new relationship would feel like discarding his lost wife and daughter.

Thorpe disappeared inside his home, and Jeff Gobin rolled up the drive. In addition to being his best friend, Jeff was the only person to visit on a regular basis. Other than his sister, he was also the only person aware of the combat prowess Thorpe possessed. Still, even Jeff didn’t know the extent of his training. He was also the only officer on the department Thorpe fully trusted. Not that he’d tell Jeff of his extracurricular activities; he wouldn’t want to put his friend in such a position.

“You look like shit,” Jeff said as Thorpe pulled open his front door.

“Thanks…drank a six-pack last night.”

“You? A six-pack to you would be like a case to me. Thought you gave up drinking?”

“I figured, under the circumstances, I’d better keep away from booze for a while,” Thorpe said, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“But you think you can handle it now?”

“No, but kicking your ass still gives me much more satisfaction and is a hell of a lot cheaper than alcohol.”

“Uh-huh. You’re in trouble today. I watched The Last Dragon last night. Learned some old-school moves.”

“Shit, I remember that movie. Guess that makes you Sho’nuff, the Shogun of Harlem.”

“I can’t believe you actually know that movie,” Jeff laughed.

“Hey, maybe after our workout we can rent Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo.”

“Very funny. You probably have a special edition of Dirty Dancing, don’t you?” retorted Jeff.

“Another good movie. Nobody puts Baby in a corner.”

“The sad thing is, you know the lines to all these fucking movies.”

“It is sad, isn’t it? So what’s new in the Rat Squad?” Jeff was an investigative sergeant with Internal Affairs. Some officers just referred to the unit as The Rat Squad.

“Same old shit…officers beatin’ the hell out of innocent citizens,” Jeff sarcastically declared as he waved off a cup of coffee.

“My name come across your desk lately?”

“No. Maybe we should get you a damn medal…no complaints for an entire week.”

“Yeah. The only cops who don’t get complaints are the ones who don’t do real police work.”

“You don’t have to tell me, brother. You’re acting like I wasn’t your partner for four years.”

Thorpe smiled “Just making sure you haven’t crossed to the dark side.”

“Why does it have to be the dark side, asshole? Why can’t it be the white side?”

Both men laughed. Despite their lasting friendship, Thorpe and Jeff knew little of the other’s past. Thorpe figured his friend sensed his reluctance to talk of his childhood, or perhaps Jeff avoided inquires because he didn’t want to reciprocate. Either way, the arrangement suited Thorpe just fine.

Thorpe’s pager started going off. He recognized the number of Robert Hull, the sergeant over Homicide.

“Getting a call from Hull. A misdirected youth must have been on the wrong end of a bullet.” Thorpe punched the numbers into his cell phone.

“Hull.”

“Hey, Bob, what’s up?”

“John, I think we found one of your boys. You know a Marcel Newman?”

Sure Bob, I killed him just the other day. “Oh yeah, he’s a regular.” They found the body.

“This isn’t your typical spray and pray. You’ll want to see this for yourself.”

“Whattaya got?”

“Son-of-a-bitch has been bound to a pole, looks like he’s been tortured. Been dead a couple of days.”

Actually, Bob, it’s only been about twenty-seven hours. “Where you at?” Thorpe asked, already knowing the answer.

“Go to Newton and Waco. A uniform will guide you in.”

“Okay, Bob, I’m at the homestead. You going to be there for a while?”

“Oh, yeah. This is a pretty fucked-up scene. We’ll be here all afternoon and then some.”

“Okay, I’ll start my dayshift guys your way. I should be there in about thirty minutes.”

“Hey, John, one more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“You know anybody goes by the initials L.A.?”

“A couple guys. Why?”

“Looks like your boy wrote those initials in the dirt before he died.”

“No shit?” Thorpe said, feigning surprise. “Marcel’s been trading rounds with a guy named Dwayne Foster who goes by ‘L.A.’”

“Might be an easy case then.”

“Well, we definitely have a starting point. I’ll start that way, Bob.”

Thorpe left Jeff to finish the workout on his own. A few minutes later, as he crossed from the house to his truck, Thorpe heard the song “I touch myself” coming from the barn’s radio.

Thorpe stuck his head through the door and yelled, “You better not be touching yourself in my barn.” Jeff grabbed himself and smiled. Thorpe laughed and walked to his truck. By the time he started the engine, his smile was gone.

Tuesday

February 6

Afternoon

THORPE TOOK THE SAME ROUTE to the scene as he had one day earlier. Was it just yesterday? It seemed like so much had happened since then. Traveling west on Newton, he could see boom cameras from the local TV stations towering above the trees. Thorpe approached a herd of slavering reporters held back by magical “Police Line Do Not Cross” tape like mooing heifers at a cattle guard. Risking a stampede, Thorpe parted the crowd with his truck, badged the uniformed officer manning the post and was allowed to drive underneath the tape. He pulled behind an assortment of detective vehicles and parked. Climbing out of his truck, he noticed several cameramen had their lenses trained on him. Thorpe walked back the direction he’d come. He informed the gathered news personnel he was an undercover officer and asked that they not air his image for officer safety reasons. The cameramen assured him he’d be edited out or given the standard pixelated treatment.

Skeptical, Thorpe returned his attention to the crime scene and headed toward the gate to the gravel drive that wound through the woods and to the barn. The gate stood open and was manned by another uniformed officer.

“Hey, Todd, what’s going on?”

“Don’t really know, Sarge, haven’t got to see the scene. I’m just guarding this driveway and some boot prints. Heard Marcel Newman’s body was found in a barn up there,” Todd said as he threw a thumb over his shoulder. “And he’s all fucked up.”

“Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

“Where’s the boot prints?”

Todd pointed at the ground near the section of barbed wire that Thorpe himself had severed.

“Mind if I take a look?”

Todd motioned to an acceptable vantage point. “Go ahead; you can see it from the gravel here.”

Thorpe could see a portion of the boot print in the dirt, a print he knew would never be traced back to him. “They think it belongs to the killer?”

“I don’t know what they think. They don’t let me in on their circle-jerks.”

Thorpe pointed up the drive. “I get to the scene this way?”

“Yeah, Sarge, but I gotta call you an escort. Hull says nobody comes up the drive without one.”

“That’s okay, Todd, I can call Hull myself,” Thorpe said, retrieving his cell phone from his belt.

Thorpe stood with his back to the media for several minutes before Hull came walking down the drive to deliver a handshake. Hull had been with the department for thirty-plus years but still projected a youthful appearance. A couple inches shorter than Thorpe with graying black hair, he wore a tan suit jacket and pants with a white dress shirt and no tie. He looked unshaven, but Hull was one of those guys who grew a five o’clock shadow well before lunchtime. He was a superlative detective and dedicated to his job—so much so it’d cost him several marriages and any semblance of a normal life.

“John, this is a good one; gets my juices going.”

“Bob, the last thing I want to hear about are your juices.”

Both men laughed as Hull led Thorpe down Newton. “It all started this morning…” Hull said, talking with his hands and making a large circular motion in the air. “When Marcel’s baby’s momma, Lady Morgan—and, yes, Lady is her actual first name—called Marcel’s grandmother today and asked if she’d seen her grandson. Grandma tells Lady that Marcel must have caught a ride in the morning because his car was still parked outside of her house, and she hadn’t seen Marcel since the night before. Lady tells grandma she and Marcel had plans together and he never showed up. Grandma doesn’t get around too good, but now she’s concerned. She walks out to Marcel’s car and sees a blood smear on the driver’s side window. Then she finds what she thinks might be more blood on the street, goes back inside and calls 911.”

The two men had reached the corner of Newton and Waco Avenue. Hull pointed to the north. “That’s Marcel’s car with the police tape around it. The blood was found just east of the car on the street. When the first two uniforms show up, they also notice the blood and one starts looking to the east to see if Marcel had been dumped into the ditch or crawled there. They notice the barbed wire cut at that location and began following a beaten-down path through the woods to a barn. They open the barn door and about crap themselves when they find a naked, bloody black male bound to a pole inside. They cleared the barn of suspects and, because Marcel was obviously deader ‘n shit, didn’t approach his body. They backed out and called it in. Good job protecting the scene on their part.” Hull pointed back in the direction they’d just come. “Let’s walk back to the gravel drive, and we’ll go in that way.”

Arriving at the drive, Hull nodded at the cut barbed wire next to the gate. “We think the killers may have entered here, left from here, or both.”

“Killers, as in plural?” Thorpe asked.

“Yeah, there are multiple footprints left in the dirt floor of the barn that all seem to come and go from where Marcel was tied up. The prints are different shoe patterns and sizes. We think we’re looking at multiple suspects—at least three. We’ve got a partial print near this cut barbed wire that matches one of the prints left on the barn’s floor.” Hull glanced at Thorpe with a question. “Any ideas why they cut the barbed wire instead of just climbing the gate or cutting off the lock?”

“You sure the killers cut the wire?”

“Pretty. It’s definitely fresh.”

Thorpe feigned contemplation before responding. “Maybe they’d planned to drag Marcel out through the opening and figured they wouldn’t be able to lift his heavy ass over the gate. I don’t know.”

Hull responded with a simple nod, and the two men continued north on the gravel driveway. As they approached the barn, Thorpe saw several homicide detectives and crime-scene investigators busying themselves with measurements and photographs.

Hull stepped to the threshold of the open barn door and pointed inside. “Marcel’s still bound to the pole. No big hurry to move him—he ain’t goin’ nowhere. We’ve marked off a path that’s been processed already. We can access the body this way.” Thorpe followed on his heels, and they both paused to allow their eyes to adjust to the gloom. “We’re in the process of getting some better lights set up in here,” Hull offered.

Except for crusty, congealed blood and the ghastly swelling of flesh puckered between bands of tape, the body appeared the way Thorpe had left it. Hull walked over and stood beside the corpse.

“From what we can gather so far, the killers took Marcel down at his car, dragged him through the woods and bound him here. Marcel has a wound in his right shoulder that appears to be through-and-through. One of his nipples has been torn off and tossed over there.” Hull pointed to a patch of what now looked like shriveled leather lying in the dirt. “Don’t know the cause of death yet. His mouth, nose, throat—all his airways—were taped up. If that happened when he was still alive, it surely would have done the trick.” Hull pointed down and behind Marcel’s body. “There’s the initials I told you about. So what do you think?”

Thorpe knelt and studied the scene. “Looks like he was still alive when they pulled the nipple off. Lot of blood. He’s pretty jacked up. I’d say his killers were trying to get information from him or were just really, really, pissed off. My first impulse is to believe they were probably after something though—trying to find out where dope or money was hidden. Any signs of his car or his grandma’s house being ransacked?”

Hull shook his head. “No. Why do you think they were looking for something instead of just out to kill him?”

Thorpe stood. “Because these guys don’t do this shit. Your Mexican and El Salvadorians do this, sometimes motorcycle gangs, but generally not black gangs. They just jump in a car with their buddies and go shoot the shit out of a house, usually without checking if the target’s even inside first. The dude’s little sister is the one who ends up catching a bullet.”

Thorpe looked at a nodding Hull. The homicide detective knew all of this already but liked to hear what other people were thinking to see if it matched his own thoughts. Hull always gave the appearance of studying you while you spoke, which he probably was. An excellent interrogator, he could smell bullshit like a fly in summertime. Because the behavior represented Hull’s usual demeanor, Thorpe wasn’t alarmed. He could only remember one instance when Hull didn’t behave that way—the night Erica and Ella were killed. Hull had made it clear he didn’t believe Thorpe was a suspect in the killings.

History suggests when a wife and child are murdered, the husband is, more often than not, the culprit. Though Thorpe believed Hull didn’t seriously consider him a suspect, it would have been negligent not to cast part of the investigation his way. Hull’s detectives would have looked into Thorpe’s life to some degree, even if only to focus on those who may have held a grudge against the supervisor of the OGU.

There would have been hundreds of arrest reports to sift through. What were the circumstances? Were they sentenced to prison? If so, were they still in incarcerated? If not, were they living in the Tulsa area? That line of investigation alone would have been extremely time-consuming. Of course, Thorpe’s life away from the department would also have been scrutinized. How much of his past and current life Hull had uncovered, Thorpe wasn’t sure. This he did know: Hull was a good cop, but more importantly was a good man. If Hull unearthed something not pertinent to the case, it would only be filed away in his brain. And no one possessed a key to that labyrinth.

“What do you make of the ‘L.A.’ scribed in the dirt?” Hull inquired.

Again Thorpe paused as if gathering his thoughts. In reality, he anticipated this line of questioning and had prepared his responses. The trick was to appear spontaneous.

“We’ve gotten several tips Dwayne Foster and the late Marcel here have been shooting at one another for some time now. They’ve never hit each other. But a couple of their homeboys have taken superficial wounds. Foster’s street name is L.A. The most logical conclusion would be L.A. and friends were kicking Marcel’s ass when he realized he might not make it out of this barn alive. Marcel then wrote the initials in the dirt so the police or his crew would know who to look for.” Thorpe paused before speaking again. “Or someone other than Foster killed Marcel and set Foster up as the fall guy.”

“Interesting. Anyone else want Marcel dead?”

“Shit, Bob, that list could be almost as long as the one for you.”

“Not fucking likely,” Hull laughed. “By the way, if I ever wind up dead and tethered to a pole, make sure my ex-wives are looked at extensively.”

“You know it’s weird, Bob, we just stopped surveilling Marcel a couple of weeks ago. Didn’t get anything of use from it.” Thorpe spent a few minutes describing the investigation and what they’d learned and agreed to hand over all their notes.

“Too bad this didn’t happen then, you guys would have been here when the shit went down,” Hull commented.

“Good thing we weren’t here; we might‘ve stopped it,” Thorpe said with a grin. “Bob, I’ve already got Tyrone dressed up like a hab and en route to L.A.’s house. L.A. lives near Sixth and Lewis, so Tyrone should fit-in dressed like a homeless drunk. Jennifer’s at the office and ready—with help from your guys—to knock out a search warrant. Given the documented background we have on these two and the physical evidence here at the scene, we should be able to get a warrant pretty quick.”

Hull spoke with artificial irritation. “John, I am the head Homicide dick around these parts, you know.”

Thorpe smiled. “Too easy. What do you want from my end?”

“How ‘bout you get eyes on L.A.’s house and have one of your people start on a search warrant?”

“Gee, that’s a good idea. Where do you come up with these epiphanies?”

“Epiphanies… big words don’t compensate for your small penis,” Hull shot back.

“Small penis? Your wife been talking in her sleep again?”

“No, but your sister has.”

“Ouch. You cut me deep, Bob, real deep,” Thorpe joked. “One of your guys can get together with Jennifer. With what we’ve got on file, and with what you guys come up with here, we should be able to spit out a warrant in no time.”

The two sergeants walked to Marcel’s car where they met with Hull’s senior homicide detective, Chuck Lagrone. Lagrone was in his early sixties but looked eighty if he was a day. He was short and slight, maybe 130 pounds. Most officers physically expand along with their tenure, but Lagrone weathered away with each passing year; one day he might disappear altogether. He was a thin layer of skin wrapped tightly around bone. Because of his appearance, he’d earned the departmental nickname of “The Skull.” The Skull was one hell of a detective and, despite his looks, a genuinely nice guy. A gruff but nice guy.

Lagrone extended his hand. “Well, if it isn’t Carnac the Magnificent. How’s it going, asshole?”

“Skull, the seventies called; they’re running out of polyester,” Thorpe shot back as he accepted the handshake. “I’m good. How you doin’?”

“Ain’t dead yet, but I got one foot in the grave and another on a banana peel.”

“Just like your clothes, that joke is worn out.”

The three men discussed the case for several minutes before Thorpe excused himself. As he walked to his truck, he reflected on his conversation with Hull. Thorpe had jokingly insinuated he was sleeping with Hull’s wife, and Bob instantly shot back about having relations with Thorpe’s sister. No hesitation. Lagrone had interviewed his sister following the murders. Standard procedure. But Hull had popped off with “sister” instantaneously. Thorpe wondered how much Hull knew about his life.

AS LAGRONE WATCHED THORPE WALK away, he spoke to his boss out of the corner of his mouth. “Bob, I’ve been in the shit in Vietnam and been in three shootings on the force, so it means something when I say…I wouldn’t ever want to get cross with that boy.”

“Me either, Chuck, but that’s because you and I know what he’s capable of. Most people don’t. And John’s gone through a lot of trouble to keep his skills a secret—so we’re going to honor that.”

“How’s he holdin’ up anyway?” Lagrone asked.

“This was the first time in thirteen months he didn’t ask about his family’s investigation.”

“Huh. If John ever finds those cocksuckers before we do, they’re in for one helluva bad day.”

“If we do find those cocksuckers first, I’ll personally help John put those sons-of-bitches in the grave.”

“Sounds like something worth going to prison for. Count me in, boss.”

“Shit, Skull, a life sentence for you is the equivalent of a long weekend. Whatta you got to worry about?”

“Fuck you. I’m going to outlive all you bastards.”