Текст книги "Cold Blue"

Автор книги: Gary Neece

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

“Probably, you are a bit like a cockroach.” Hull laughed, heading back toward the barn. “Let’s get to work.”

“Yeah. Dead body pick up.”

Tuesday

February 6

Evening

THORPE SAT IN A DARKENED corner of Monkeyshines Gentlemen’s Club. The strip bar’s property abutted that of a cheap motel. If you wished, you could pick up a crab-infested stripper-whore and retire to a flea-infested motel room. Because Monkeyshines was “all nude,” liquor or beer could not be served inside. Crack or crank, sure, but not alcohol. To compensate, the patrons took frequent bathroom breaks and trips to their vehicles to consume the mind-altering drug of their choice. To be fair, the bar’s customers did include the “Average Joe” types who returned to their car every thirty minutes or so to slam beers before returning to “the beautiful women of Monkeyshines.”

Thorpe currently had one of those “beautiful” women sitting on his lap as he watched L.A. and two friends at a table across the dim, expansive room. The woman seated on his thighs went by the stage name “Candy,” and by Thorpe’s reasoning, must have had plenty of the sweets growing up because she had at least two missing teeth and those still in her mouth were in various stages of decay. Candy had the classic look of a crankster.

Heavy methamphetamine use causes calcium depletion in the bones, often resulting in a fine set of Billy Bob teeth. In addition to a winning smile, Candy was also emaciated and covered with crank sores. Very sexy!

Most Tulsans didn’t realize Monkeyshines was owned and operated by associates of an outlaw motorcycle club, who made a fair amount of untaxed profits from the sale of meth, and who were also, in all likelihood, Candy’s supplier. One of the reasons methamphetamine earned the name “crank” was because motorcycle gangs—so the rumor goes—used to transport the illegal substance in the crankcases of their bikes.

Often the employees of Monkeyshines were blatant enough to wear their club’s patches inside the bar. Thorpe couldn’t understand why black patrons like L.A. continued to drop huge amounts of money in a bar operated by a gang known to commit hate crimes against them. One thing was certain, they were happy to take L.A.’s cash, and L.A. seemed to enjoy giving it away. Everyone’s a winner.

As Thorpe sat conducting surveillance, he continuously received updates on his cell phone. Lagrone and Jennifer had obtained a night-service warrant for L.A.’s residence and vehicle. They’d also gotten a warrant for L.A.’s person in order to collect DNA evidence.

Jennifer was the only investigator from Thorpe’s unit who would participate in the warrant service on L.A.’s home, which should be executed any minute now. The rest of Thorpe’s investigators were concealed in the parking lot of Monkeyshines and were to execute the warrant on L.A.’s car after he drove it from the bar. Thorpe had been sitting inside the club playing the part of a sexual deviant while he watched L.A. and his crew. Thorpe wore a wool skullcap pulled down to his eyebrows, blue jeans and an insulated flannel shirt. He was thankful for the extra layers of clothing as Candy ground her rancid wares on his thigh. His first order of business upon returning home would be to toss the jeans into the washer with a generous supply of detergent.

Candy offered Thorpe a trip to the “Champaign room”, an especially dark area separated from the rest of the bar. In the private room, handjobs could be had for a hundred bucks and blowjobs for two hundred. If you didn’t bring enough cash with you, an ATM machine was conveniently located next to the bathrooms. Thorpe politely declined the offer, claiming he wanted to watch the other girls for a while. But he insisted she return later. Candy accepted a twenty dollar bill courtesy of the city of Tulsa and promised she’d be back. Investigators at SID were given “buy money” to use for purchasing dope, beer, whatever. The Vice Unit dropped quite a bit of taxpayers’ dollars on lap dances, massages and beer—the poor bastards.

L.A. had removed his coat about thirty minutes ago, draping it across the backrest of his chair. Thorpe took a circular stroll behind L.A. and noticed the man wasn’t wearing the boots Thorpe had left as a gift. However, he also noticed the right side of L.A.’s jacket stretched tight toward the floor, while the left remained slack. A heavy object occupied the right pocket, most likely a gun. Thorpe returned to his seat and spoke into his cell phone as a song blasted over the bar’s speaker system.

“Tyrone, I think L.A. has a handgun in his right coat pocket. Don’t wait for him to get in his car. Take him down in the parking lot. Approach him from the east. If he runs, he’ll come back toward me. Get some uniforms set up around the neighborhood in case his buddies run. Got it? Sound it back to me.”

Several minutes later, L.A. took a call from his own cell phone, shot to his feet and almost dumped the girl who’d been sitting on his lap to the floor. He motioned to his companions and hurried for the exit as he pulled on his coat. Thorpe began to follow and used the direct-connect to warn Tyrone. Candy, worried she was about to lose potential income, approached. For the benefit of both Tyrone and Candy, Thorpe spoke loudly into the cell phone.

“Yeah, honey I’m coming home now, RIGHT NOW!”

On the other end, Tyrone decoded the message.

“We’re on boys.”

The six OGU investigators, dressed much like Thorpe, had parked a van next to L.A.’s car. They got out and stood behind it in a circle, pretending to be shooting the shit and drinking beer. L.A. tore out of the bar with his associates in tow. When L.A. drew to within ten yards, Tyrone pulled out his neck badge and yelled, “Police!” Simultaneously, the officers drew their weapons. Associate number one was farthest away from the officers. He broke and ran toward where Thorpe staggered across the parking lot.

Being an ex-con, L.A. would be sent back to prison if caught in possession of a firearm. He took off and followed on the heels of his friend. Tyrone and Jake pursued him. Associate number two remained still and was immediately introduced to the gravel lot.

L.A. would try to run far enough to get rid of his weapon without being seen. Unfortunately for L.A., he fled directly toward Thorpe, who was still doing his best impersonation of a staggering inebriate. In full stride, L.A. risked a glance at his pursuers, giving Thorpe the opportunity to put a shoulder into L.A.’s ribs. The blow knocked L.A. completely off both feet, sending him crashing to the lot. He landed awkwardly on his right side with Thorpe pinning him down. Jake and Tyrone drew near.

“I’m okay. Get his buddy.”

Associate number one was fast, Jake faster, and Tyrone not fast at all. Jake caught his prey in the parking lot of another bar across the street. Though fast, Jake wasn’t much in a fight. He grabbed the larger suspect from behind by the collar of his shirt. The suspect spun and caught Jake with a left hook under his armpit. To Jake’s credit, he held onto the man’s collar as he fell to the ground. Bad guy remained on his feet, bent over at the waist.

What Tyrone lacked in speed, he made up for in mass. Just as the suspect was about to deliver another blow to Jake, Tyrone drove his 250-pound frame into the backside of the jackknifed suspect. With Tyrone on top, the man was driven forward face first onto the asphalt. The landing peeled off a good helping of flesh from the suspect’s forehead and nose. Tyrone almost ripped the man’s arm off as he brought it behind his back and placed him in handcuffs.

Turned out the runner was also an ex-con in possession of a firearm, not to mention seven grams of crack cocaine in his briefs. A lot of people who shouldn’t have seen the undercover officers’ faces came out of the two bars and watched the show. The investigators quickly handed the suspects over to uniforms and got out of sight. Thorpe called Hull.

“What’s up, John?”

Thorpe filled him in, then asked, “What’s happening with the warrant?”

“Just cleared the house of suspects. No one home. Haven’t really started searching yet. I’ll let you know if we come up with something.”

“Be careful, L.A. got a phone call right before he leapt out of his chair to leave this place. Someone’s watching you guys and gave him a call…you going to try and interview L.A. tonight?”

“Think he’ll talk?”

“Doubt it. This ain’t his first rodeo. Don’t know about his buddies yet.”

“Okay, John. By the way Jennifer’s been a huge help.”

“Yeah, she knows her shit. Best warrant writer I got…Bob, if you don’t need me for anything else, I’ll probably be taking off after I fill out my supplemental report; go home and get some sleep.”

“Squeeze in a couple of hours for me…no. Go home. I appreciate your help, John.”

“You bet. Talk to you tomorrow.”

“Don’t call me, I’ll call you. Gonna get some sleep of my own. Maybe.”

Thorpe doubted Hull would get much if any rest. The man probably worked a hundred hours a week. He made good money from overtime, but it’d cost him in other areas. What guys like Hull did for entertainment after leaving police work Thorpe had no idea; probably had a heart attack and died six months into retirement.

Thorpe wouldn’t be getting much sleep tonight either, though it had nothing to do with job devotion.

Wednesday

February 7

Early morning

ACCORDING TO MARCEL NEWMAN, KALEB Moment held secrets about the murder of Thorpe’s family. What Marcel hadn’t known was that his good friend was a police informant. Kaleb had been caught trafficking crack cocaine, and instead of spending his early twenties in the custody of the Department of Corrections, he signed a contract with the Tulsa County District Attorney’s office and was “working off” charges by setting up his friends and associates.

SID maintained a confidential informant file inside the office. Confidential informants, or CIs, were the backbone of undercover dope investigations. Without their assistance, ninety percent of the most substantial cases would cease to exist.

Only SID supervisors had access to CI files. Each CI was assigned a number, and those numbers were the sole identifiers on any related documents. The file was kept in the administrative sergeant’s office in a locked cabinet. Via several simple Rolodexes, supervisors could look up sequential numbers to obtain a CI’s identity. Once they had the informant’s name, they could retrieve his information and case history from a set of alphabetically labeled file cabinets that were secured with a combination lock.

Earlier, Thorpe had gone to the cabinet marked “M,” entered the proper digits and pulled Kaleb Moment’s file. In addition to the cases resulting from Kaleb’s cooperation, it listed personal information, including contact numbers and addresses. Thorpe recorded pertinent data and noted Kaleb’s handler was Brian Hickey, an evening-shift narcotics investigator.

The files led Thorpe to the Bainbridge Apartment complex. Bainbridge, by any name, was one of the most malignant locales in the city. Federally funded, the apartments constantly changed names. As an officer, Thorpe had once been assigned to the Foot Beat Unit. Foot Beat officers had patrolled these housing complexes nightly, but the unit faded away with grant losses and manpower shortages. Now the only crime fighting the apartments applied were name changes. When a particular housing project was featured one too many times on the evening news, preceded by the words “another shooting at,” the complex would simply change its name.

About a month ago, uniformed officers had cornered a homicide suspect inside one of Bainbridge’s units. A mob formed and started throwing rocks at the police. During the subsequent melee, a reporter became part of the story when a reveler grabbed her by the hair and threw her against the side of a news van. The event culminated with a couple of shots fired at officers. As with most incidents like this, the complex became one of the safer places in the city for the next week as officers made examples of anyone who poked a head out a door. Prior to the riot, the North side community complained of a lack of police enforcement: after, they claimed racial profiling. Damned if you do… Police personnel had since been shuffled to other hotspots, and the complex resumed its status as a federally funded criminal housing project.

Thorpe drove through the complex with the hope of spotting Kaleb’s car parked outside his girlfriend’s apartment. The vehicle wasn’t in the lot, and Thorpe couldn’t linger without drawing attention. But he needed to find Kaleb soon; these guys had a way of leading short lives, and if Kaleb went and got himself killed before Thorpe got a chance to interrogate him, the secret would die with the little shit.

Thorpe exited and stopped at a nearby convenience store, yet another prime crack-buying location, and a place where Thorpe had initiated many foot pursuits. The store provided a payphone, which the drug dealers appreciated, and didn’t have surveillance cameras, which the dealers loved. Thorpe climbed from the vehicle and used the payphone to dial Kaleb’s cell phone number.

“Who this?” A male answered.

Thorpe pulled a name out of his ass. “This is Sergeant Thomas Brightling. I’m a detective for the Tulsa Police Department’s Office of Integrity and Compliance.”

“Office of who?”

“I’m an Internal Affairs investigator with the police.”

“So?” Kaleb said with feigned disinterest.

“So…I know you’re working for TPD as an informant. Your case officer is Brian Hickey.”

Several seconds of silence preceded Kaleb’s response. “What do you want?”

“I need to see you right now, Mr. Moment. What you need to know is this: your case officer is suspected of providing information to people he shouldn’t. He will be relieved of duty before the night is over. I need to speak with you in reference to the Chamberlain case you handed to Hickey. If you cooperate, you’re done, your contract is fulfilled; you won’t have to do anymore work for the department. If you don’t, or if you decide to call Hickey after I hang up, I will personally negate any progress you’ve made on your contract and send your ass straight to prison. Now, where you at?”

“Shit…I’m at my place.”

“Where’s that?”

“Bainbridge.”

“I just drove through there and didn’t see your car.”

“My car ain’t here ‘cause the fucking thing got stolen,” Kaleb said with overt hostility.

“Anyone there with you?”

“My woman.”

“Make up an excuse and walk to the park just north of the complex. I’ll be in a dark gray Chevy Tahoe. Do not tell her what you’re doing.”

Five minutes after Thorpe pulled into the park, he watched a figure cross the darkened grounds. Kaleb approached the passenger side door, opened it, and climbed inside. A blast of cold air and the smell of marijuana entered the car along with its new occupant.

“You don’t look like a cop.”

“I thought you might appreciate that since I came to pick you up in your ‘hood. You want to see my I.D.?”

“No. What’s this about?”

“We think Hickey’s been selling information, including the names and addresses of his informants.” Thorpe’s intention was to scare the shit out of his guest. It worked.

Kaleb sat in stunned silence before his lips started working. “Fuck! Fuck me! This is fucking bullshit! Fuck, I’m a fucking dead man!” DNA-laden spit flew out of Kaleb’ mouth onto the dash. Thorpe made a mental note to give the area around Kaleb a thorough scrubbing…after.

“Kaleb, I need you to calm down. We’re going to take care of this, and you.”

“Take care of ME! You fucks can’t even find my fucking car! Fuck!”

“Kaleb, we can’t let this get out. What did you tell your girlfriend when you left?” Kaleb didn’t respond. Terrified his homeboys would discover he was a snitch, he wasn’t listening. In Kaleb’s mind, he was already dead. Thorpe needed to refocus the man’s attention.

“Kaleb, listen to me! What did you tell your girlfriend when you left?”

“I didn’t tell the bitch nothin’! She don’t need to know what I do.”

“Bullshit, Kaleb, you told her something.”

“I told her I’d be right back, that’s all.”

“Well, it’s going to be a few minutes. My captain and I need to get a recorded statement. I’m taking you to a motel room.”

“A motel room? Why we going to a motel room?”

Thorpe played on Kaleb’s fear. “Do you want the wrong cop seeing you and me walk into Internal Affairs together? This can’t get back to Hickey.”

“Motherfucker! I don’t want to testify against no cop. I’ll have fucking everyone huntin’ my ass then!”

Thorpe put the SUV into drive. “You won’t have to testify. He won’t know you talked. He’s done a lot more than this. You’re just another nail in the coffin.”

“Fuck! I knew that motherfucker was dirty.” For some reason all drug dealers think all cops are corrupt. Maybe it makes them feel better about themselves.

Thorpe possessed keys to several repellent motel rooms scattered around the city. Under the guise of being cooperative with law enforcement, the motel managers allowed police free access to designated rooms. Everyone knew the managers of these motels relied on drug dealing and prostitution; otherwise, they wouldn’t have any customers at all. The Vice Unit used them for John stings and other operations. The motels were never filled to capacity, so it didn’t cost anything to let officers have keys to some of the ‘suites.’ Management only bothered to have the rooms cleaned once a week or so, but Thorpe figured the regular rooms didn’t receive much more attention than theirs.

As Thorpe drove to the motel, he gave Kaleb instructions. “We’ve rented this room for a full week. You’re welcome to stay here until we figure out what all information Hickey leaked.”

Kaleb nodded his head dazedly.

“I’m going to let you out around the corner. Here’s the key to room 142. It’s located on the south side of the building. You don’t want everyone to know you’re here with the cops. I’ll wait a couple of minutes before I follow you in.”

Thorpe parked in a secluded lot near a Whataburger fast food restaurant and let Kaleb out. “You take off, it’s your ass! I’ll have a warrant out for your arrest within an hour. You give a statement, you’ll never see us again. You have my word.” Kaleb ambled off toward the motel, staring at his feet and mumbling profanities.

Even though the Tahoe’s tags weren’t on file, Thorpe walked behind the SUV and removed the license plate. He then opened the back and spread heavy plastic over the cargo area. Having completed those tasks, Thorpe drove to the motel and backed the Tahoe up to room 142.

Pulling a baseball cap low on his head and turning up his collar, Thorpe grabbed the roll of plastic and a backpack. He walked to the motel’s door with his chin tucked to his chest. He knocked lightly. Kaleb opened up. Thorpe stepped inside the musty room, closed the door and tossed the backpack on the bed. As Kaleb’s eyes followed the pack through the air, Thorpe moved toward Kaleb and cracked him on the jaw with a sharp elbow. The informant reeled backward onto the floor. In a matter of seconds, Thorpe had Kaleb’s mouth, hands, and feet secured with tape.

The blow didn’t knock Kaleb unconscious. He lay on the carpet and stared at Thorpe with wide, terrified eyes. Thorpe searched Kaleb’s person and found a voice-activated digital recorder in a pocket of his jacket. Thorpe hit rewind on the small machine and then pressed play. Some of the discussion he and Kaleb had had on the trip over played on the machine. Fucking snitches, Thorpe thought as he rewound to the beginning and hit play again. The recording began in the middle of his earlier phone conversation with Kaleb. After the phone conversation terminated, a woman’s voice could be heard: “Who’s that?”

“Fucking pigs again. They won’t leave my ass alone. I ain’t done shit,” Kaleb replied on the recording.

“What they want?”

“They keep trying to blackmail me into giving up my homies. I ain’t told them nothin’. Just keep feedin’ ‘em fulla shit.”

“Tell them to fuck off,” replied the woman’s voice.

“Baby, who’s going to take care of you if they send me to prison on some bullshit case?”

“Always fuckin’ the black man,” the female agreed.

“Ain’t that da truth. Don’t tell anybody what I’m doin’, baby. Nobody will understand I’m just playin’ em.’ I’ll shovel some shit into this cracker and be right back.”

Thorpe pressed stop on the recorder. “Kaleb, Kaleb… I wish you hadn’t told your girlfriend.”

The girl presented a problem but there was nothing he could do about it. Thorpe pulled out his knife—the act instantly eliciting muffled cries and a thrashing on the floor. Thorpe carried the knife to the bed where he cut off a section of plastic and spread it on the floor. Then he propped a wooden chair in the middle of the plastic before lifting Kaleb off the filthy carpet and setting him on the seat. All of Thorpe’s actions were purposely theatrical.

Thorpe used duct tape to secure Kaleb to the chair by wrapping it around his chest. Finished, he stepped toward the door and engaged the deadbolt and chain. Then he moved to the bed and opened his backpack. For added effect, he removed several crude instruments, including a small pair of pruning shears and a rusty hacksaw. After, Thorpe approached his captive but stood to the side where he couldn’t be kicked.

“Kaleb, I need you to listen very carefully. Are you listening to me?”

Kaleb nodded his head briskly, causing several beads of sweat to drip onto his lap.

“Good. First of all, I apologize for lying to you. It was the only way I could get you here without making a scene. I don’t like scenes.” Thorpe was doing his best impression of a man deranged; then again maybe an act wasn’t required. “Second, as you may have figured out, I’m not a detective with Internal Affairs, but I assure you I am a cop. My real name is Thorpe, Sergeant Jonathan Thorpe. Maybe you’ve heard my name mentioned before…about thirteen months ago?”

It took some time register, but Kaleb’s eyes morphed from confused fear to terror.

“I see you recognize my name. Good, then you know why you’re here.” Thorpe was almost whispering now. “Kaleb, you’re going to tell me who killed my family, and if you try to play ignorant…” He nodded toward the instruments on the bed, “… you’re so going to regret it. If you don’t cooperate, you’re leaving this room piece by piece in bloody sheets of plastic. I realize that’s pretty fucked up, but given the circumstances, you can understand I’m pretty pissed off. Can’t you, Kaleb?”

Kaleb didn’t, or couldn’t, respond, and Thorpe decided to ease up on the scare tactics before his captive went into shock. Kaleb wasn’t like Marcel Newman; the man was already broken. Thorpe snapped his fingers in front of Kaleb’s face.

“But none of that has to happen, Kaleb. Just answer my questions truthfully. Some things I already know, so it’d better match up. I’m going to remove the tape now, and you’re not going to scream are you?” Kaleb shook his head, and Thorpe removed the tape. “Who killed my family?”

“Deandre and Damarius Davis,” Kaleb stated. His body and voice trembled so violently he was difficult to understand.

“How do you know that?”

“They called the night they done it. Wanted to meet. They said they was doing something for somebody and they…”

Thorpe held up a finger, walked over to the bed while repeating Kaleb’s words, and reached for the pruning shears. “Something for somebody?”

“Okay! Okay! Deandre called and said he had to see me right now. Me, Deandre and Damarius was real tight, friends since back in the day. I talk to the police, but I would never rat on them. We was like brothers. Anyway, he calls, and I can tell he’s spooked. Wants to meet me at my apartment. Tells me to kick whoever I got inside the fuck out. So I tell my girl to get lost, that some serious shit is going down and she don’t need to be a part of it.”

Kaleb spoke fast, not the kind of speech pattern a person uses when he’s fabricating details. He rattled off information rapid fire, his adrenaline causing him to speak in streams.

“Anyways, Deandre and Damarius show up a while later, and they’re scared crazy. Deandre says he met Stephen Price earlier and Price gave him a half key of cocaine. Says he wanted them to plant the coke in some cracker’s house to set him up….”

Stephen Price? Thorpe felt an acute pressure inside his head, as if he’d plunged to the bottom of a deep pool. He momentarily lost his auditory senses and had to steady himself against a wall. His heart rattled like a drum, and his throat tightened. He began employing relaxation techniques and hoped Kaleb hadn’t registered his shock. When Thorpe finally regained control of himself, he found Kaleb still rapidly imparting information. As stunned as Thorpe had been, it didn’t come close to what his captive was experiencing. He didn’t want to interrupt Kaleb’s recounting of events, but Thorpe had missed a good portion of what the man had said.

“Hold on, Kaleb, I lost you back there. Start again at the point where Stephen Price gave Deandre a half-kilo of cocaine. You do mean Stephen Price, the Tulsa police officer, don’t you?” Thorpe asked, hoping against logic that Kaleb was referring to a different man with the same name.

“Yeah, Stephen Price, the cop. So Deandre says Price gives him a half-kilo of soft and wants him to hide it in this cracker’s house on the south side of town. We’re all tight: the brothers, Price, and me, and we’ve all done work before. But this shit was different, so Deandre asks Price what’s up. Price won’t tell him shit, says the less he knows, the better—won’t say who the cracker is or anything. He says if they do this they’ll be taken care of… forever. He tells them the job’s a piece of cake; that he got someone watching the place, and no one is home. He even gives them a key to the fucking house.”

Kaleb suddenly stopped talking and looked hesitant to continue.

“Go on, asshole, I already know how this story ends.”

“Price gives them directions and describes what the place looks like. Well, Deandre and Demarius go over and check it out. They see lights on, but they don’t see anybody moving. Shit, everybody leave their lights on when they’re away anymore, so they figure Price knows what he’s talking about. They find a place to park and decide to go in the back. They get to the back door, and there’s two locks. The key fits one of the locks, but not the other. Now they’re like, ‘What the fuck we do now?’ So they end up kicking the back door. What stupid fucks. I mean, they’re there to plant drugs in a fucking house, and they end up kicking in the back door. Kinda fucks up the purpose, don’t it?”

Thorpe nodded his head. “Yeah, real dumbasses.”

“Sorry man, I…”

“Just go on,” Thorpe interrupted, not wanting concocted sympathy from a man he was going to kill.

“Anyways, they kick in the back door and get in the house when a woman comes down the hall with a fucking gun in her hand. They told me they had no choice but to…shoot her. Then they hear a scream and see this little girl standing at the bottom of the stairs. I guess the girl…your girl…well, those dudes didn’t have any masks on or anything…they decide they had to…”

“Kill her?” Thorpe swallowed the two words along with his own bile.

“Yeah, man. They killed her. Killed ‘em both, I guess.”

“No guessing about it, shithead. Why would Stephen Price, the cop, want to plant dope in my house?”

“I don’t know. I sure as hell wasn’t going to ask. If Price knew what I know, I’d be dead too.”

“Tell me the rest. Tell me everything.”

“After they…did your family, they panicked. They forgot all about the dope they was supposed to plant in your house and took off. That’s when they called me and headed over to my place. They was jacked, started telling me what I just told you and was talking bout bouncin’. They was sayin’ how Price was going to kill them for fucking up. They was talkin’ about flippin’ the half-kilo to make some money while they got the fuck outta Tulsa. But while we was talkin’, Price calls them on their cell phone and asks what went wrong. They start to tell him the story over the phone, but he tells them they gotta meet in person. Tells them they can still fix this shit—make it look like the husband killed the family. Those two dumb fucks actually bought that line of shit and left to go meet Price. That’s the last I ever saw of ‘em. They was killed the same night. That motherfucker Price killed ‘em—I put money on it.”

“Where were they supposed to meet Price?’

“They didn’t say. I didn’t ask.”

“Did they realize they’d killed the wife and child of a police officer?”

“I don’t think so. They never said…I think if they’d known, they would have said.”

“How did Price get a key to my house?”

“Man, I don’t know...honest!”

“Kaleb, you said Damarius, Deandre, and you all ‘done work’ with Price before. What’d you mean?”

“Shit. Price was movin’ dope since we was kids. He the smartest of us…never got caught –well, least nothing his uncle never got him out of.” Stephen’s uncle was also a Tulsa police officer.

“We couldn’t believe it when he became a cop,” Kaleb added.

Neither could anyone else, Thorpe thought. ”He keep moving dope after he became a police officer?”

“He’d front us every once in a while—we’d pay him part of the bank. Some brothers was bitchin’ he took dope off ‘em and never puttin’ their asses in jail. Makes you wonder where that dope was goin’. We been tight for years, but lately he’s been hangin’ with a bunch of Nabahoods. Wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t have something goin’ with them. Still, he didn’t move near as much shit after he went five-o. Didn’t wanna touch the dope anyway, maybe had other niggas movin’ it for him. I’m not sure, man…just rumors of rumors. If he was in the game, he was keepin’ that shit sealed.”

“Besides the Fifty-Sevens and the Nabahoods. Who else was Price running with?”

“Everybody. He even postin’ with Slobs.”

“What other cops do you consider friendly?”

“Shit, you knows already.”

“Pretend I don’t.”

“Besides Price? Phipps hangs with us Fifty-Seven Streeters. Pretty sure he might sell shit on the side or got some homeboys move it for him. He used to run with the Double D brothers, but not much when I was around.”