Текст книги "Cold Blue"

Автор книги: Gary Neece

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

“Officer Andrew Phipps? Who else?”

“Man, a few ‘em that grew up in da hood—they ain’t just gonna forget where they come from. But as far as livin’ the life? Corn Johnson hangs with some ballas. He used to jack up some of ours for dope but didn’t arrest ‘em. Man, but lots of those guys don’t mess with you for nuttin’. Know they’ll be an Uncle Tom in the hood.”

“What about Stephen’s uncle, Marcus, he dirty?”

“Nah. He old school. He don’t fuck with us much either. Damn sure kick a nigga’s ass though. Good thing is, he don’t take you to jail—just kicks your ass and leaves you bleedin’ in the street.”

“Officer Charlie Peterson?” Thorpe asked.

“Same thing, his boys sling, but he don’t.”

“What are you forgetting to tell me, Kaleb?”

“Man, I told you everything.”

Thorpe paced the room like a caged animal. “I want you to sit still and think awhile. I have to do some thinking of my own. Don’t start running your fucking mouth until I tell you to. When I do, you better have thought of something else to give me.”

Thorpe sat on the bed’s cheap comforter and tried to gather himself. Why would Stephen Price, fellow Tulsa police officer, want to plant dope in Thorpe’s house?

Thorpe decided this wasn’t the occasion to dwell on Price. He needed to deal with more immediate problems, namely Kaleb Moment. He’d spent enough time in this motel room with his agreeable guest. Sooner or later his cooperation would end, and he’d have a dilemma on his hands. Thorpe had come here with the intent of killing Kaleb and had become infuriated during the man’s revelations, but the anger had been redirected. This kid had only stumbled across information he wished he’d never heard.

On the other hand, Kaleb had known the circumstances behind his family’s killings for thirteen months and offered nothing, not even an anonymous phone call.

Thorpe tried to place himself in his captive’s shoes. Had he been raised by the same people, in the same shithole neighborhood, he may have reacted identically. Thorpe realized he faced a similar crossroads now. What would the average parent of a slain child do with the information Thorpe now possessed? Most would probably take what they had to the authorities and hope for justice. But Thorpe hadn’t been raised like most people, and because of his job knew justice wouldn’t be served in this case—not unless he dealt it. All the information Kaleb possessed would be considered hearsay and wouldn’t be admitted in court. And that was if Kaleb agreed to testify in the first place. Besides, Kaleb was a known drug dealer whose testimony wouldn’t be trusted. The only two people who could directly testify against those responsible were killed the same night as his family.

Thorpe had a decision to make here and now: if he let Kaleb go, Thorpe would surely be headed straight for prison. However, if he killed Kaleb only to avoid being incarcerated, then he wasn’t any better than the shit bags he was hunting down.

Thorpe realized he’d been sledding down the proverbial slippery slope headfirst, but this was too much. He had to maintain some degree of self-respect even if it meant a lifetime behind bars. Thorpe could deal with prison, if first he got justice for his slain family.

Thorpe returned to his captive. “Mr. Moment, what do you want to tell me?”

“I swear that’s everything, man. I don’t know no more!”

“Kaleb, what do you think I should do with you?”

Kaleb had begun to relax ever so slightly, but after hearing Thorpe’s question the dissipated tension surged back into his body and facial muscles. A pulsating vein emerged above his sweaty brow. It was as if Kaleb hadn’t even considered he might be killed despite his cooperation.

“Relax, Kaleb. I’m not going to kill you.”

“Bullshit, man! You’re going to kill me.”

“I’ll tell you the truth, Kaleb. I was going to gut you right here on this sheet of plastic. But not now. I tried to look at this situation from your point of view, and I probably would have done the same thing—nothing. If you would’ve talked, they would’ve killed you. Besides, the two actual killers were already dead, right?”

“Yeah, man, that fo’ real. I—”

“Kaleb! Shut up and let me finish. I’m going to cut you loose because I think you got put in a fucked-up spot. However, someone like you is liable to see my generosity as a weakness.” Kaleb shook his head and opened his mouth to speak. “Kaleb, I said to keep your pie hole shut until I tell you to speak. As I was saying, a guy like you might see this as a weakness. The smart thing to do would be to kill you. But the right thing to do is give you a chance. Kaleb, you may’ve had a shitty life, but what you did with it was your decision. You chose to be a dope dealer, and you chose to be a snitch. Since you threw down your homeboys, I know you’d have no trouble snitching on me. Over the next few weeks, there’s going to be a lot of fucked-up shit happening, and you’re a smart enough guy to put two and two together.”

Thorpe pointed at the crude cutting instruments still lying on the bed. “If I hear you’ve breathed a word of this to anyone, you will die a slow and painful death. If you don’t believe me, watch the news the next few days. In fact, first thing in the morning you’re going to see on TV how your good friend Marcel Newman died a horrific death in a lonely barn. In case you haven’t figured it out yet, Marcel is the one who gave me your name. I decided I didn’t like—or trust Marcel—and he got fucked up royal for it. I may be letting you go now, but I barely came to this decision. I figure it this way—I let you decide if you live or die. If you talk, then you’ve decided your fate for me. My conscience won’t be bothered because it was your call. Do you think I’m capable of killing you, Kaleb?”

Kaleb nodded his head but didn’t say a word.

“Someday, Kaleb, you’re going to get caught pushing dope again and you’ll think, “If I give up a cop, I’m golden,” and then you’ll consider protective custody. Don’t. I can, and I will, find you anywhere.”

Thorpe hoped he’d driven home the point. He needed to put enough fear into Kaleb so he would keep his mouth shut at least for the immediate future. “Kaleb, I’m a different kind of cop. That’s something you’re going to realize in the next few weeks.” Thorpe pulled out a serrated knife and held it up to Kaleb’s face. He used the blade to cut the bindings then instructed his captive to remove the excess tape. Thorpe gathered up his belongings, checked the lot outside, and had Kaleb get in the driver’s side door and slide over. Thorpe drove around the building and across the street to the dark parking lot of a nearby biker bar. He parked the SUV and turned toward Kaleb.

“Kaleb, are we friends?”

“Uh…sure…”

“Bullshit. We’re never going to be friends, asshole. You so much as mention my name, and your family won’t be able to recognize your remains.” Thorpe grabbed Kaleb by the chin and watched his eyes fill with fear. With one swift motion, Thorpe slashed Kaleb diagonally across the face with a sharp blade. “Now every time you look in the mirror, you’ll be reminded what I’m capable of.”

Thorpe cut the tape on Kaleb’s wrists and tore away the bindings. Blood from Kaleb’s wound ran down his face and onto his shirt.

“Get the fuck out of here, and be glad you’re still alive. Your first test will be explaining that wound to the hospital staff.”

Kaleb staggered out of the SUV on weak legs. As Thorpe drove away, he noticed Kaleb making his way toward Memorial Drive. Wherever Kaleb’s first stop would be, it sure as hell wouldn’t be the biker bar.

Thorpe turned onto Memorial and couldn’t help but think he was on borrowed time.

Wednesday

February 7

Afternoon

THORPE HAD A LONG BUT restless sleep, rife with recurring dreams. In them, he was armed with an assortment of weapons while hunting large game. The terrain in his visions shifted from city, jungle, forest to desert. One thing remained constant: every time he had his quarry in his sights he was overcome with a sense of being hunted himself. Feeling a presence looming behind him, he’d pivot to find nothing. When he would return his attention to his prey, he’d discover the animal gone.

The meaning of the dreams wasn’t lost on Thorpe. Just because IA hadn’t rousted him out of bed in the middle of the night didn’t mean an investigation hadn’t been launched or that Kaleb hadn’t notified the FBI. The smart thing would have been to put a bullet in the kid’s head. Because he’d left Kaleb alive, Thorpe felt pressure to act immediately. But mistakes were generally the fruit of haste, so he decided to take no action until tomorrow. He needed time to formulate a plan. Thorpe picked up his cell phone and called Gail, a civilian employee who served as the office’s secretary. All the investigators referred to her as “Ms. Moneypenny,” in reference to Ian Fleming’s fictional character in James Bond novels and films.

“Special Investigations Division.”

Thorpe delivered his best Sean Connery impersonation. “Hello, Miss Moneypenny.”

“Hello, James.”

“Actually, it’s John.”

“Hello, John.”

“Do you ever get tired of this routine?”

“Never,” Gail lied.

“I’m sure. Could you put me down for a vacation day?” he asked. “I’ve decided to give aspiring world dictators a holiday.”

“Everyone needs a day off.”

“How’s M?” Thorpe jokingly asked. ‘M’ is James Bond’s and Miss Moneypenny’s fictional boss in the British Secret Intelligence Service. In this case, he was referring to their actual boss, Major Richard Duncan, aka The Walrus.

“She’s an idiot and a bitch,” Gail replied. Duncan was a man, but the gender swap allowed Gail to insult the Major even if he were standing right next to her. It also added an extra bit of amusement for parties on both ends of the line.

“I think she needs to find a man,” Gail giggled.

Having phoned in a vacation day, Thorpe had the entire afternoon and night to himself and decided to begin his free time with a workout in his barn. As he lifted weights and worked on the heavy bag, he obsessed on the connection between Stephen Price and his family’s murder.

Why would that asshole want to set him up to take the fall on a drug charge? Thorpe could remember having only one incident with the man.

He’d been in his current position as supervisor of the Organized Gang Unit when one of his officers arrested a dealer for trafficking crack cocaine. A first time offender, the suspect didn’t want to waste his get-out-of-jail-free card from the District Attorney’s Office. He signed an agreement to take down five bigger fish to keep the incident off his record.

The first credit on the informant’s payment plan would be a man he knew only as “Rocc.” According to the CI, Rocc was always good for at least an 8-ball on short notice. The CI refused to do a buy-bust; he was too scared to be present when officers swooped in and arrested the dealer. Instead, the CI called Rocc and ordered an 8-ball of crack. He agreed to meet Rocc at a convenience store at a busy intersection. The only suspect information Thorpe’s unit had was a vague physical description and that he usually drove a newer white Dodge Stratus.

The plan was to get the Stratus stopped for traffic violations before it reached the convenience store—a tactic used to keep from burning informants. The CI would be sequestered away at another location. As with all dope deals, the plan changed, then changed again. After a tedious game of musical “meets,” the Stratus finally showed. Of course, by this time the marked patrol units were spread across the city and in no position to make a stop. Thorpe and his team were forced to don raid jackets and take the Stratus down in a parking lot.

Two sons of a Tulsa police officer were inside the vehicle. Lyndale Peterson sat behind the wheel. His younger brother, Leon, occupied a backseat. Interestingly, a Hispanic gang member—a Latin King out of Chicago—rode shotgun. Eventually, officers found an 8-ball in Lyndale’s sock and two loaded handguns under the driver’s seat. More cocaine was found hidden in the engine compartment, and Leon held a small amount of marijuana in his pants’ pocket.

The three suspects were arrested. Surprisingly, Lyndale manned-up and took responsibility for both weapons and all the cocaine. Unfortunately, that led to the release of the Chicago gang member. Leon received a stint in the county jail because the marijuana charge was a second offense, but Lyndale got hammered. A three-time loser, he was sent to prison for a serious stretch.

After the incident, Officer Charlie Peterson filed a complaint with Internal Affairs, claiming Thorpe planted dope on his sons. In order to protect the identity of the informant, Thorpe couldn’t tell Peterson that his boys had been set up in a sting or share any of the details of the investigation. Doing so could get the CI killed. However, I.A. investigators obtained the information, and Thorpe was exonerated.

Afterward, Thorpe heard rumors that the Peterson sons were close friends of Price. If Price thought Thorpe framed his buddies, it could explain why he’d be interested in returning the favor. If Thorpe had been found with an unexplained half-kilo of cocaine in his house, he would—at the very least—be fired and almost assuredly sent to prison. Price would have his revenge.

If this theory were accurate, was the elder Peterson involved? Were any others? Thorpe wouldn’t be satisfied until all those responsible paid with their lives. He needed a way to reveal all the players and establish their guilt.

Thorpe was pulled away from his thoughts and workout by an irksome beeping. He recognized the number displayed on his pager’s screen and selected the appropriate contact on his cell phone.

“Hull.”

“Hey, Bob, it’s John. You paged?”

“Yeah. Just wanted to give you a quick update on the search warrant. We found a pair of boots in L.A.’s closet, and guess what?”

“They matched the tread patterns left in the barn?”

“Correct, Carnac. He tried to clean them up, but looks like some blood stains are still on the boots.”

“What’s L.A.’s story?”

“He says he’s happy as a dog with two dicks that Marcel’s dead, but he didn’t have a damn thing to do with it.”

“Go figure. You hit him with the boots yet?”

“Yeah, we told him we have the boots he wore at the scene. Told him he didn’t clean all the blood off. Told him if the lab proved the blood was Marcel’s, he was fucked. He asks, “What boots?” So we show him. You know what he says then?”

“I have no idea.”

“He says, ‘Those aren’t my boots.’”

“Ah, the old ‘these aren’t my pants ploy.’” It wasn’t uncommon to arrest someone, find dope in his pocket—only to have the suspect claim, “These aren’t my pants.” Apparently drug dealers would like cops to think they share pants with one another, which would explain why they were always ill fitting and falling halfway down their asses.

“Yeah. So we say, ‘How come you have someone else’s boots in your closet?’ and you know what he says to that?”

“He claimed you planted them there,” Thorpe answered.

“Close. He said someone left them on his front porch. He thought they were mint, and they fit, so he decided to keep them.”

“Yeah, people leave free boots on my porch all the time. How did he explain the ‘L.A.’ Marcel wrote at the scene?”

“He didn’t. He said ‘Fuck you, I want my lawyer.’”

“Probably the smartest thing that’s ever come out of his mouth. You guys find anything else?”

“We’re still sifting through a lot of stuff at the crime scene and from the warrant. Plus we’re waiting on the autopsy. That’s the biggest news so far. What time are you coming in?”

“Sorry, Bob, I know it’s bad timing, but I took the night off. Needed a break. Something you should consider doing every once in a while.”

“I’ll rest when I’m dead.”

“That won’t be long if you never take off. In the meantime, can I take out…what is it now…wife number ten…for you tonight? I’ll show her a real good time.”

“Fuck you, John. She’d rather get twelve inches from me once a month then three inches from you every night.”

Thorpe laughed. “Sounds like you’ve used that line before, Bob.”

“Maybe a time or two. We can make do without you, John. Take a break. You’ve earned it.”

Hull was a good cop and one hell of an interrogator. Thorpe noticed Hull kept prompting him to hypothesize L.A.’s responses to his questions.

Was he being interrogated himself? Hard to determine—Bob was a tough guy to read. Thorpe hoped he was equally difficult to decipher; he’d tried to respond as though he hadn’t known the truth.

Thorpe also noticed Bob hadn’t mentioned L.A.’s hair fiber on the duct tape. But, there was a lot of evidence to sift through and the results of the autopsy were still out. Thorpe doubted L.A. could come up with an alibi strong enough to contradict the physical evidence mounting against him. These guys were notorious for producing not-so-credible witnesses who would swear the offender had been in their presence at a faraway location at the time whatever heinous crime was committed. Unless L.A. had been sitting in a casino with a hundred cameras trained on him during the time period Marcel was killed, he’d be convicted.

Thorpe felt little remorse about L.A. serving a life sentence or possibly being condemned for a killing Thorpe had committed. L.A. was a murderer, and everyone knew it, even the judge who’d been forced to release him because of uncooperative witnesses—witnesses who’d probably been threatened into silence.

Thorpe looked at his watch and realized he’d been working out for nearly two hours. He’d been in such a state of concentration he wasn’t even sure what exercises he’d completed. Earlier, he’d convinced himself not to act until tomorrow. Now he realized he needed to move quickly and decisively. He hadn’t thought it possible for this to get more personal, but it had. His family may have been murdered by fellow police officers—by his brothers in blue. They might not have intended to kill his wife and daughter, but that consideration wouldn’t be enough to spare those responsible. They’d meant to falsely accuse Thorpe of a crime that would cost him his job and his freedom. Instead they’d taken so much more.

He’d waited thirteen months for Hull and his crew to find the killers. But Thorpe had found the bastards on his own and was prepared to secure reparations the same way.

Wednesday

February 7

Evening

THE RIVER FALLS APARTMENTS ON South Memorial Drive had neither a river nor a falls but was nice, upscale complex situated behind a Wendy’s fast food restaurant and a QuickTrip convenience store. Thorpe had entered by riding the rear bumper of resident who’d remotely activated the apartment’s iron gates. He waited there now, in the privacy of a blacked-out Chevy Impala.

Earlier, Thorpe had stopped by Riverside Division (RID), the department’s uniformed subdivision that covered the southwest section of the city. Because of current manpower shortages, the front desks of the uniformed divisions were only manned during business hours. Thorpe found it ridiculous that the buildings were closed at any time, day or night—people should be able to find and talk to a cop at a police station. However, this evening, the lack of basic services had worked to his advantage; he’d needed information contained behind the front desk of RID, and no one was around to watch him snoop. Thorpe had used a four-digit code to enter the building, walk behind the desk and locate a file with Riverside officers’ names, addresses, and phone numbers. Once he recorded the pertinent information, he checked third-shift’s lineup, pleased to see Stephen Price was on duty.

His next stop had been at SID to procure equipment for the night’s activities. He’d hoped to get in and out of his office without being noticed but had been pulled into a brief conversation with the sergeant over Vice, Gary Treece. Thorpe had explained that despite taking the night off, he’d needed to come in for a few minutes in order to keep the long tusks of The Walrus from chewing his ass. Not a fan of Major Duncan, Treece required no further explanation. Following the encounter, Thorpe made it out of the building with a “Birddog” tracking device, directional microphone, voice changer, and keys to a gray Chevy Impala—none of which he signed out.

The Birddog consisted of a magnetic transmitter easily placed on a vehicle’s undercarriage. It emitted an RF signal detected by a directional receiver with a range of two to four miles. Thorpe could have selected a GPS tracking device, which was much more accurate and functional, but the Birddog did have an advantage crucial for this mission: it left no electronic signature that could later be traced back to the device or to Thorpe. GPS units left an easily tracked electronic footprint. Plus, SID’s GPS trackers had external antennas that—unless you had access to the car’s interior or the engine block—made them much more likely to be discovered by the persons you followed.

The Birddog’s disadvantage was its limited range. If you slipped outside its realm, the only way to reacquire your target was to stumble around until reentering the transmitter’s radius. Then it became a game of Marco Polo. But in this case, Thorpe had no choice. He couldn’t use a unit that could be traced back to SID equipment. The directional microphone he’d borrowed was able to pick up conversations in open areas but couldn’t penetrate enclosed spaces.

Outside Stephen Price’s apartment, Thorpe lurked behind the Impala’s deeply tinted windows as a patrol car turned the corner and found a parking space. Thorpe checked his watch; Price wasn’t scheduled to get off work for another thirty minutes. Nevertheless, his unmistakable form—akin to an NBA forward—uncoiled from the cruiser and lumbered toward his apartment. He’d hoped Price would give an indication which personal car was his, but no such luck. Price’s apartment was situated on the middle floor of the three-story building. Its balcony overlooked the parking lot where Thorpe sat. The lights to Price’s unit snapped on, and Thorpe exited his car.

Thorpe inspected the vehicles around the patrol car, looking for any clues that might indicate which one was Price’s privately owned vehicle. His Carnac powers failing miserably, Thorpe returned to the Impala with the hope of formulating a plan.

Minutes later Thorpe was saved from his mental wrangling. Price descended the outside stairs wearing slacks, a leather jacket and size fifteen-ish dress shoes. He got into a vehicle befitting his size, a silver Hummer III. Thorpe waited until the Hummer backed out of its space and rounded the corner before following.

Despite movie portrayals, it’s nearly impossible to follow someone using one vehicle—unless the person you’re following is absolutely clueless or you’re utilizing a tracking device. Most folks engaged in criminal activity watch their mirrors more than the road in front of them.

Thorpe barely caught a glimpse of the Hummer turning west on 81^st Street. Pulling up to the complex’s exit, he let several cars pass before falling in line. The traffic lights at 81^st turned green, allowing Price to turn left on Memorial Drive. Thorpe watched as the Hummer traveled south a quarter of a mile before pulling into the parking lot of The Ocean Floor, a nightclub that attracted a younger, sexually-driven clientele.

Continuing south on Memorial Drive, Thorpe watched the Hummer search for a parking space outside the busy bar. He continued on, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds to make sure the Hummer didn’t leave the lot. Another quarter mile south of the bar, he conducted a U-turn. Back at the Ocean Floor’s lot, he found a space several rows behind the Hummer, waited about ten minutes, retrieved the transmitter and exited his Impala.

Thorpe wore a heavy jacket over a hooded sweatshirt; he pulled the hood over his head before passing in front of the hopefully unoccupied SUV. He scanned the cars near the Hummer and, not seeing anyone inside, walked up to the passenger side, bent down, and—with a loud, cringe-inducing whump—attached the Birddog. The bulk of the transmitter was comprised of heavy-duty magnets that always made attaching the device a noisy affair.

Thorpe looked to see if he’d garnered any attention, then reentered his own car and drove to an Irish bar directly across the street from QuikTrip. There, he activated the Birddog’s receiver, which was, so far, receiving a strong and accurate signal.

Thorpe grabbed the voice changer, left his car and walked across Memorial to the QuikTrip. Unsure about the presence of surveillance cameras, he didn’t want to drive onto the lot. From experience, he knew the cameras didn’t provide quality pictures, but they were capable of picking up the make and model of a car. In addition to his heavy jacket and hoodie, Thorpe wore gloves and baggy pants. As he approached the convenience store, he altered his gait and the manner in which he carried himself. He would have liked to make this phone call farther away but feared Price would drive out of range of the receiver before he returned. In the age of cellular technology, it was becoming more and more difficult to find pay phones; fortunately, QuikTrip still kept the antiquated devices outside their stores.

The handheld voice changer he’d acquired from SID was a cheap model, and he wasn’t certain why they even had one. Whatever the reason, it was good enough to serve his purpose. Thorpe stood with his back to the cameras and punched in the cell phone number listed on Price’s Rolodex card. After five rings, the line clicked open. Loud techno music thumped in the background.

“Hello?” boomed Price’s unmistakable baritone voice.

Thorpe spoke into the cheap electronic instrument, producing an unnatural metallic tone.

STEPHEN PRICE STOOD INSIDE THE Ocean Floor nightclub, enjoying views of short skirts and pedestal tops. He retrieved a vibrating phone from his pocket, not recognizing the number displayed on its screen.

“Hello?”

“Get somewhere you can hear me.”

Price thought one of his friends was fucking with him again; the person was obviously using some kind of contraption to alter his voice.

“I can hear you…who’s this? This a joke?”

“I know you killed Demarius Davis. I also know you killed his brother, Deandre.”

Price winced from an acute pressure in his chest.

No fucking way he just heard that. He must have misunderstood. Price fought to gather his breath before he spoke.

“What? Who the fuck is this?”

“You killed them both, and I have proof.”

Motherfucker! Price’s mind was racing. Feigning ignorance was all he could come up with as a defense.

“What the fuck you talkin’ about?”

“I want twenty-thousand dollars, or I’m going to the police. I’ll call you in exactly one hour at this number with instructions. Understand?”

Price’s brain battled itself. This can’t be fucking happening! I knew this shit would happen!

“I don’t understand shit, motherfucker! Who is this?”

“One hour, at this number, with instructions.”

The stranger cut the call. Price snapped his phone closed. He pushed through the crowd toward the exit. Once outside, he flipped open his cell, retrieved the last number received and hit send. The phone rang with no answer. Price paced up and down outside the bar, sweating despite the cold weather. He brought up the number and again hit send. This time a male answered—but without the ominous metallic voice that had shattered his night.

“Hello?”

“Who are you?” Price demanded.

“Who are you?” the voice replied.

“Who the fuck is this?”

“I’m answering a damn pay phone, asshole!”

Price couldn’t get his mind to settle down. “Shit! Did you see who was on the phone before you?” Price asked.

“Look, buddy, there wasn’t anybody on the phone. I was walking into the store, it was ringing, I thought, ‘what the hell’ and answered it.”

“What pay phone is it? Where you at?”

“The Q.T. at 81^st and Memorial.”

Suddenly Price felt very exposed. His head was on a swivel as he closed his phone. He ran to his Hummer, peeled out of the lot and dialed a familiar number.

THORPE WAS BACK IN HIS Impala on the southwest corner of 81^st and Memorial. He was about to get “eyes on” his target when the Birddog notified him of Price’s approach. Thorpe watched as the silver Hummer pulled up to the intersection and turned right. He listened to the audible alert on the receiver and realized Price had driven past his apartment.

He’s on the move.

Thorpe followed, staying well behind his quarry.

Halfway between Memorial and Mingo, the signal slowed, stopped and reversed directions. Price was headed straight back at Thorpe, prompting him to hastily pull off into a neighborhood and kill his lights. He watched through the rear window as the Hummer went past. Thorpe used a driveway to turn around and was pulling back up to 81^st Street to follow when he noticed the signal coming toward him again. Price was performing a classic tail shaker, making U-turns in an effort to identify trailing cars. Good. If Price was trying to shake a tail, it meant he was going somewhere he didn’t want to be followed.

Thorpe backed into a driveway on the darkened street and watched the Hummer speed past on 81^st. Thorpe allowed for separation before resuming his follow. The receiver indicated an easterly route for nearly a minute, then it turned left and the signal began to rapidly weaken. Price was northbound on Highway 169. Once on the highway himself, Thorpe pushed the Impala as fast as it would go.

The Hummer was a half-mile ahead with several cars separating the two vehicles. At this distance, the Impala would only be a pair of obscure headlights in Price’s rearview mirror. As Price topped an incline, Thorpe noticed the signal on the Birddog quicken. Price had come to a stop on the other side of the hill. If a car had been conducting a visual follow, it would crest the hill and pass Price before the driver realized what had happened.

Impressive. Price was pretty good at countersurveillance for someone who’d never done UC work. Of course Price had been a dope dealer, and those guys learned the same skills on the streets. Thorpe pulled to the shoulder and waited for the signal to indicate movement.