Cold Blue (37 page)

Shit.

People in possession of illegal firearms often touched them or looked down to where they were concealed. They feared the weapon produced an identifiable outline in their clothing. Instead of a bulge giving them away, it was usually their behavior.

Thorpe glanced at the two narcotics officers. A nod of their heads indicated they’d also recognized the potential threat. The tricky part was what to do about it. Taking down an armed man in a hostile crowd does not constitute easy work, but Thorpe had to step in before the kid committed to his foolish intentions.

The three undercover officers formed a small huddle and discussed their play.

“Snatch and grab,” Thorpe began. “The kid is the football; I’m going to wrap him up and pin his arms to his side. Tanner, as soon as I do, you grab his legs. Frank, clear a path for us to the skirmish line; knock the piss out of anyone who gets in our way. Got it?”

Both men nodded. Thorpe looked up and locked eyes with Collins. He made a circle above his head with his finger and pointed down indicating the three of them. Then—continuing with the football analogy—made a motion similar to the tomahawk chop toward the officers across the street. He didn’t want the skirmish line to think the three of them and their football were demonstrators breaking ranks. Collins appeared to understand his message. She descended the stairs and spoke to the sergeant in charge.

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

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

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

Fumble.

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

Thank God.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, no problem.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re hurt,” she said.

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

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

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

“Look, I’m sorry, I…”

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

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

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

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Sunday

February 11

Afternoon

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

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

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

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

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

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

So he’s a man after all
.

“Please remove your jacket and sweatshirt.”

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

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

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

“How’d you get cut up like that?”

“Beer and sit-ups.”

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

“Police work is dangerous.”

Does this guy ever give a straight answer?

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

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

“This is going to sting?”

“Close enough.”

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

Those damned eyes of his
.

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

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

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

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

“Ouch. That stung worse than my wrist.”

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

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

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

The office door opened.

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

“John. You ready?”

“I’m ready.”

Ambretta reestablished eye contact. “Ready for what?”

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

Their eyes remained locked on one another.

Asshole
.

“The phone call you made?” she asked.

“The phone call I made,” he confirmed.

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

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

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

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said.

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

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

“Are you a man who keeps his promises?”

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

“I am.”

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