Cold Blue (30 page)

The offices of SID were just over a mile away, but since he’d be traveling peripheral streets, his urban hike would be closer to two miles. He looked forward to the exercise; despite his layers of protective clothing, sixty-mile-an-hour subfreezing winds had taken its toll. Thorpe hid his AR and equipment in the shrubbery of a nearby house. Not many people were up at this hour, but a man ensconced in camouflage toting an assault rifle would likely raise an eyebrow or two. Thorpe had some distance to travel, but in an effort to keep all eyebrows at an acceptable elevation, resisted the urge to run.

Twenty-two minutes later Thorpe approached the offices from the southwest. He only had keys to one extra vehicle in the lot. If that car were gone, he’d have to enter the building via his keycard, which would electronically record his presence. He preferred to avoid leaving any indication he’d been in the area.

Thorpe climbed the parking ramp and avoided using his keycard by scaling the chain link gate. The sight of the green Jeep Wrangler brought instant relief; he wouldn’t have to enter the office to retrieve a set of keys. Thorpe got behind the wheel and pulled up to the gate, where a weight-sensitive pad released him without any electronic documentation.

He wished he could buy a gas can and fuel, but knew every convenience store in the Tulsa area would receive follow-up investigations after tonight. And most stations had video, at least on the inside of the stores. Instead of using a gas can, he had another idea.

Thorpe drove the Jeep to a dark, isolated area inside McClure Park where prostitutes often serviced their johns. He doubted any officers would check the area because, hopefully, they were busy searching for a Lincoln Town car, and because like cops, hookers hate working in poor weather. Having parked, Thorpe returned to where he’d stashed his equipment, retrieved the items and made his way back to the Durango.

There, he considered his options on how to collect an accelerant.

There were really only two: he could slide under the SUV and go to work on the plastic gas tank with a knife. It probably wouldn’t take long to puncture, and the drainage would be fast. There was just one problem: he’d end up with gasoline—a.k.a. evidence—all over his person and clothing. Plus, he’d transfer that evidence to the Jeep when he drove away. He decided on option number two, which would be much cleaner but more time consuming.

Thorpe climbed into the driver’s seat, inserted the key and turned it on to activate the fuel pump. He then popped the hood, removed the bladder from his Camelbak, stepped outside and dumped the water on the street. Lifting the hood and using his knife as a screwdriver, Thorpe released the fuel rail and slowly began filling the bladder. When it was full, he poured the gasoline in the cab of the vehicle and on the body of Brandon Baker, careful not to get any on his own clothing.

Taking one last look around, Thorpe sparked a lighter he’d found in the console. Flames leapt into the air. This time, Thorpe did run. As he approached the Jeep, he removed his gloves hoping to avoid leaving traces of the accelerant on the steering wheel. He started the engine and with a flaming ball in his rearview mirror, headed for home.

He still had work to do.

Saturday

February 10

Morning

IT WAS 9:00 A.M. WHEN
Thorpe’s pager started going off. He’d been asleep for exactly one hour and still had a dead man lying in the woods across from his house. Thorpe returned the page and reached his captain, Don Cory. The captain had “unsettling news.”

“Brandon Baker was killed last night and set on fire, and Thadius Shaw is missing. I’d give you more details, but I have about a hundred calls I need to make. There’s going to be a full briefing at SID at 1300 hours. Everybody’s coming in, regular days off or not. Vacation and comp days are cancelled. Be here.”

The line clicked dead.

Thorpe would be paid overtime to help search for the killers. He conceded to the irony, looked at his watch, and decided to get a few more hours of sack time. His father’s words floated alongside him into unconsciousness.

Sleep is like water son, if you don’t know when you’ll find it again, get as much as you can
.

Three hours later, Thorpe packed his gear while watching CNN. Tulsa had become the lead story on the national networks: two black Tulsa police officers had been killed within the last two days and a third had gone missing. The story went on to describe the methods used to kill the officers and brief biographies of their lives. The requisite “experts” were on hand to lend their opinions, and, as usual, the experts were full of shit. They did get one thing right when suggesting the suspect could be a fellow cop or cops, their theory based on the fact that the slain black officers were outspoken about alleged racial inequalities on the department and had been parties to several lawsuits. The hitch in their theory was the murder of Baker, a white officer. Some of these same experts spun a web of possible explanations. One suggested that Baker might have been a collaborator in the black officers’ deaths and had since been silenced. As was the case these days, the reporters preferred to generate news rather than report it.

The story was accompanied by sound bites from TPD’s inept interim police chief, Jason Kampmann. As a general rule, TPD promoted its chief from within. Being one of the first departments in the country that required newly hired officers to hold the equivalent of a bachelor’s degree, TPD was stocked full of competent, educated personnel. Unfortunately, Tulsa’s current mayor didn’t like the fact the chief had civil service protection and couldn’t be completely dominated. Although several TPD candidates were determined to be qualified, he sought and selected a chief from an outside department and made him an “at will” employee. The mayor essentially made the position a political one, in which the chief would have to ask “how hard” when ordered to suck it. The contested arrangement was now in the hands of the state supreme court.

In the meantime, the department was stuck with a chief who had a propensity for falling asleep in meetings and couldn’t figure out how to turn on a police radio. One of his first proposals was to make the force “college educated.” The deputy chiefs advised him he was twenty-some years late with the idea but congratulated him for his enterprising concept.

Now Kampmann, wearing a TPD uniform he hadn’t earned the right to wear, stood on the national stage doing a first-rate impersonation of Captain Kangaroo. Thorpe couldn’t help but wonder how such idiots rose to positions of power in this country. The most important information Thorpe took from the news report was that the Federal Bureau of Investigation had assumed the lead on the homicides.

Great, now there’d be pile of armed accountants in the mix
.

Thorpe flipped off the television and stepped outside. He’d left Al and Trixie out last night, and they didn’t seem overly concerned with their surroundings. He doubted Phipps would take another shot at him here; the next attempt would come while Thorpe worked. Looking past his dogs, he was grateful coyotes hadn’t yet dragged Shaw’s body out into the middle of the road. He’d deal with that problem tonight after dark. At least the cold would keep Shaw from getting too ripe.

The first thing Thorpe noticed
when he pulled into SID’s parking lot was the deluge of plain sedans and black Chevy Suburbans. Gail greeted him as he stepped into the office.

“Hello, James,” she said, looking up from her desk.

“Miss Moneypenny…you are bewitching.”

“Oh, James, you’re such the flirt.”

“Only with you, Miss Moneypenny…only with you. Are we being absorbed by the Famous But Incompetent?”

“Uhhh? Oh, I get it. The FBI. Seems like it; they’re everywhere.”

“Careful, that’s what people with tinfoil on their heads have been saying for years,” Thorpe joked. “I guess I have a meeting to attend. Arrivederci, Miss Moneypenny.”

“Arrivederci, James.”

Thorpe walked to his office, threw his gear onto the couch, and meandered through the building to the conference room. When he entered the rectangular chamber, he was reminded of a junior high school dance: SID supervisors occupied one side of the room opposite a bunch of uptight looking men in suits, neither group acknowledging the presence of the other. In this case the dance floor was a long, oval-shaped conference table that might as well have been the English Channel.

Thorpe took a seat near the exit and nodded at the sergeant over Vice, Gary Treece, who promptly rolled his eyes, leaned to one side, and loosed a lengthy fart. The SID boys burst out laughing, but the suits didn’t seem to get the joke—very unprofessional.

A couple of guys were close to shedding tears, either from the laughter or the stench, when Deputy Chief Brad Elias strode into the room.

His appearance reversed the direction of gaseous output as assholes collectively sucked up oxygen, tempting Thorpe to check the barometer on his watch to gauge the loss of atmospheric air pressure. The first of a foursome, Deputy Chief Elias was followed by Major Duncan and Captain Cory. An attractive woman wearing a conservative pin-striped skirt suit brought up the rear. She was long, slender and moved with an athletic grace. Her thick black hair was pulled back and wrapped in a tight bun. Thorpe made a conscious effort not to stare.

As the foursome made their way to a podium, Thorpe noticed that the eyes of every other SID supervisor were locked on the raven-haired beauty…
cops
. There’s an old saying amongst police officers, “You can trust a cop with your money and life, but never leave one alone with your wife.”

The woman had an olive complexion suggesting Mediterranean, Brazilian or some other exotic ancestry. Thorpe noted that not one of the suits gave the woman more than a fleeting glance. Maybe they knew something the undercover guys didn’t. Thorpe sided with the feds on this one topic and refrained from drooling on himself as she pulled up a seat next to the podium. The other TPD personnel in the room had no such concern. They looked like a collection of schoolboys who’d been given a Playboy bunny as a detention monitor. Chief Elias took a position behind the podium and introduced the three figures who sat to his right, including Special Agent Ambretta Collins.

Chief Elias spoke for several minutes. His words felt bridled and failed to disclose the entire scope of the investigation or the FBI’s role in the matter. Toward the end of his comments, he was more candid.

“To be perfectly honest, as of this moment, a member or members of this police department are possible perpetrators of these murders. Therefore, I can’t fully divulge the details of this investigation to potential suspects. I’m not accusing anyone in this room. But you understand our predicament. Regardless, SID personnel will
not
be involved in the investigation of these murders. Your assignment will be—with the assistance of the FBI and U.S. Marshals Service—to help provide security for specific officers on the department. Particularly, for individuals who’ve initiated litigation against TPD. Again, because we can’t inadvertently assign the killer to guard his next victim, you and your units will be working in conjunction with the FBI and Marshals and more than likely will have an agent or marshal monitoring your activities. We’ll be addressing the entire division at 1400 hours but wanted to get the supervisors on board first. Ms. Collins…”

Special Agent Ambretta Collins rose effortlessly and took to the podium. Despite her conservative attire, she hadn’t succeeded in smoothing out her curves with layers of wool. And though bundled tightly, one of her most striking features was her black-as-night hair. Thorpe managed to focus on her words as she introduced herself as a special agent out of Dallas and made the obligatory “I’m honored to be working with you” bullshit speech. When the hand job was over, she asked that those in attendance introduce themselves and state their current assignment.

Thorpe worried he’d be assigned a partner.
How the hell would he end this thing if he had a fed beside him all night long?
Maybe he’d be spared because he had an alibi for the murder of Cole Daniels. That alone might not be enough to save him; as far as the detectives and the FBI knew, it could be a
group
of officers involved with the murders. The man to his left quit speaking and all eyes turned to Thorpe.

“Sergeant John Thorpe…I supervise the Organized Gang Unit.”

When introductions were over, Special Agent Collins outlined SID’s role in the protection assignment, thanked those around the table for their cooperation, and returned to her seat.

Major Duncan won a hard-fought battle against the effects of gravity as he un-wedged himself from his seat and waddled behind his pulpit.

“Right now we plan to work officers in twelve-hour shifts. Twelve hours on, twelve hours off. We’ve outlined a preliminary schedule, and we realize it will need to be tweaked as we move along. Right now we’re not going to be accommodating. Everyone who signed up to work in this division did so knowing work hours, schedules, days off, were all subject to change. Anyone who doesn’t like it can go back to patrol.”