Cold Blue (39 page)

“I just ordered a drink inside the hotel bar, Merlots, I believe it’s called. Care to join me?”

Thorpe entered, dressed in black slacks and a tailored, long-sleeve dress shirt that covered his injured wrist. He found Ambretta sitting at the bar facing the entrance—as all good cops do. She wore a simple, formfitting black dress that, as she sat, reached mid-thigh. It marked the first time he’d seen her with her hair down—literally. Her wavy black tresses were draped in front of her left shoulder, exposing her long slender neck. She posed rather nicely. On the other side of the horseshoe-shaped bar were two middle-aged men in business suits who appeared as if they were working up the courage to approach the beauty across from them. Then again, maybe they were her muscle.

Thorpe muttered to himself as he crossed the room. “I might as well turn myself in and get it over with.” As Thorpe stepped up to the bar, Ambretta gave him a warm smile—painted full lips framing her perfectly white teeth.
Shit
.

“John.”

It sounded odd to hear her refer to him by his first name.

“Ambretta.”

“Were you talking to yourself?”

“Yes. And it was not a pleasant conversation,” Thorpe admitted.

Ambretta laughed. “You clean up pretty well,” she said touching his arm.

“I didn’t want you to outclass me. But I’ve failed in that endeavor yet again.”

“I’ll consider that a compliment. I promised to buy the drinks…what’ll you have?”

They were having drinks at the hotel where she was staying?
He noticed that despite the outside temperature she hadn’t brought down a jacket; she wasn’t planning on going anywhere. That was either very good for Thorpe, or very bad. Would he be headed to her room, or would he be leaving here in handcuffs?

“What are you having?” Thorpe asked, nodding at the sweating concoction placed in front of Ambretta.

“It’s called a Red Rider.”

“May I?”

“Be my guest.”

He was curious to see if she were actually consuming alcohol, and had no intention of ordering the drink. He raised the heavy glass to his lips smelling the bourbon before tasting it.

“Not bad, but I’d better stick to beer.”

Thorpe glanced across the bar at the two suits; based on their sour expressions, you’d think someone had pissed in their drinks. Other than the suits and the bartender, he and Ambretta were the only ones in the bar on this Sunday evening. Since Oklahoma still operated under antiquated liquor laws, Thorpe ordered an imported Pacifico, avoiding the low-point domestic product typically served in the state.

When the bartender set down his bottle, Ambretta suggested they sit in the lounge area. Thorpe watched as she slid off the stool, grabbed a small handbag, and sauntered toward a couch in her black pumps. He couldn’t help but look back at the two suits seated at the bar and wink. One tipped his drink in a “good luck” gesture. The men didn’t strike him as FBI material.

Ambretta selected a couch near an end table, sat and gracefully crossed her shimmering legs. Rather than accompany her, Thorpe opted for a chair across from the sofa.

Like a rock
.

“So, as per your terms, I have opened a bar tab under my name. Well, under my room number at least, which the FBI will graciously pay. I won’t ask any questions, and I can’t talk about work. That means you’re going to have to carry the bulk of the conversation tonight.”

“Not so…I can ask you as many questions as I want.”

“You forget who I work for. I’m much better at asking than answering,” Ambretta responded, with a smile.

“Maybe we’ll order drinks and just stare at each other uncomfortably.”

“I don’t find looking at you uncomfortable, John.”

“Ambretta, you’re laying it on a little thick, aren’t you?”

“You like subtleties?”

I don’t like being played the fool
.

“I like honesty.”

“Have you been completely honest with me, John?”

Good point
.

“Ambretta, I do believe your statement was in the form of a question, which is a direct violation of our agreement. Consider tonight to be the antithesis of Jeopardy,” Thorpe replied with a smile of his own.

“So what would you like to discuss?”

“You’re incapable of speaking without asking a question.”

Ambretta gave Thorpe a fake go-to-hell smile
.

Damn, she looked good
.

“Ambretta, how does a lady like
you
find herself employed by the FBI?”

“It’s my turn under the microscope, is it?”

“Now you’re answering questions with questions.”

Ambretta laughed. “Shit! I
can
only communicate in the form of a question.”

AMBRETTA HAD REHEARSED FOR THIS
evening using one of many cover stories filed away in her nearly photographic memory. There were several “truths” she was permitted and willing to impart. Normally it’s best to let these truths slip out over time so that your mark thinks he or she is making progress—thereby keeping yourself valuable. In Ambretta’s world, once one loses her value, her existence is no longer crucial.

Certainly, this assignment was different than most. Ambretta wasn’t even sure of its ultimate goal, though that was not uncommon. What she did know, and had only recently discovered, was that John had killed one or more of the recent “victims.” She’d also learned the killings were not motivated by race; his fellow police officers had been responsible for the murder of Thorpe’s wife and daughter—circumstances with which she was all too familiar.

Her mother had died of a prolonged illness when Ambretta was only eleven years old. Her father, an NYPD officer, raised her as a single parent. He’d done the best he could. Ambretta—always academically advanced—had been offered full scholarships at prominent universities around the nation. Not wanting to venture far from her father, she’d attended Cornell University in Ithaca, where she studied linguistics and dabbled in psychology. She’d been in her second year of graduate studies when she watched the horrific events of September 11
^th
unfold on her dorm-room television. Shortly after, she learned her father was among the heroes who’d perished trying to save others in the World Trade Center.

There she was—twenty-four years old, her academic achievements inconsequential, contemplating joining the United States Army. With all her talents and potential, the only thing she wanted was to pick up a rifle and send a chunk of lead three-thousand feet per second into the brain of a radical Islamic. She realized that, being female, her chances of seeing combat and exacting the revenge she so desperately sought were minuscule.

She came to recognize her particular talents lent themselves to more specialized work. With the goal of preventing subsequent attacks on U.S. soil, her education had been redirected and honed at alternative institutions of higher learning. Despite what she’d told John, she did not hold a doctorate in clinical psychology and had never attended Boston University. In her experience, she’d found if people think they’ve discovered a truth on their own, they’re more apt to believe it; so she simply played up the scenario John had invented.

So, why was she tied up on a domestic issue in Tulsa, Oklahoma? She still didn’t know, but she’d been told the assignment shouldn’t last more than a couple of weeks and then it would be back to stanching the cancerous seepage that oozed across the U.S. border on a daily basis.

Ambretta did not enjoy deceiving the man seated beside her. She and John both lost their families to acts of violence, and both had reacted similarly. She’d taken up arms against the plague that had swallowed her father’s life just as John had sought his own justice against another evil. Though his outward appearance seemed confident and calm, she could see the ruin within his eyes—even as he masked himself with humor. She truly didn’t know what this investigation would yield, but she knew she felt a deep attraction for this man. He was smart, funny, good-looking and reminded her of her father.

Ultimately, Ambretta attempted to answer John without lying.

“That’s a complicated question. Simply put, I want to put bad people in a place where they can’t hurt others any longer.”

THORPE WEIGHED HER RESPONSE. MOST
cops will say “to put bad guys in jail.” That is, unless they are in an interview or speaking to a group of civvies, then they’ll say “because I want to help people.” But Ambretta had said, “To put bad people in a
place
where they can’t hurt others any longer.”

“I was hoping you’d be a little more specific. You obviously have the intelligence to make a fair amount of money in the private sector,” Thorpe replied.

“Money isn’t everything. In fact your personnel file indicates you graduated from college at the top of your class. The same could be said for you.”

“Maybe. You just don’t strike me as the FBI type… and remember, you can’t ask me what I consider an FBI type to be.”

“I’m at a severe disadvantage in this conversation. Okay, more specifically, I lost my father to an act of violence, and I entered law enforcement to get revenge on the bastards responsible.”

AMBRETTA WATCHED AS THE DISTRUST
flooded into John’s eyes, facial muscles and posture.

“John, I promise you that’s the truth.”

Ambretta realized she should not have revealed the secret. The similarities between his past and hers would be hard to digest. John was not a trusting man, and he’d see it as a tactic being used against him.

THORPE HAD DIFFICULTY READING THIS
woman. He’d spent considerable time with her and still couldn’t nail her down. Usually when people recalled a fact, they looked up and to one side—the same side—every time. When they used the creative side of their mind, a.k.a. the fabricating side, they looked the opposite direction. A myriad of other behaviors combined with these cues: breathing rate, the relaxing or tensing of facial muscles, sometimes even ticks. Often people touched their face when lying, particularly their nose or mouth. They assumed a defensive posture—crossing their arms or legs or leaning away from their interviewer. These subconsciously displayed signs were available for scrutiny by the trained observer. Ambretta’s cues were inconsistent; if anything, she appeared smoother when the validity of her statements was in question.

Her last declaration had struck too close to home. She’d been in full flirt mode since he’d walked in the hotel, and now this.

Look how much we have in common, John. People killed my family, and I’m out for revenge just like you. Bullshit!

“Agent Collins, you’d better get on the phone with your boss and find out how much you people are willing to tell me because I’ve had about enough of this shit. Either put me in handcuffs right now or watch me walk out of here, but let’s end this charade.”

“I don’t have to call my boss. I know what I can tell you. I haven’t told you a single lie…not tonight, anyway. You, more than anyone else, should know things aren’t always what they seem.”

Thorpe stood, walked to the bar and ordered another beer. He looked over at the two suits who seemed anxious to hear the news.

“Turns out she’s a high-priced prostitute. Wanted four hundred for the night. Can you believe that shit?”

Thorpe took his beer and walked out of the lounge to the shouts of the bartender saying he couldn’t leave with the beverage.

Behind him, Ambretta pulled out her phone.

“He’s pissed, and he’s moving.”

Sunday

February 11

Evening

THORPE SWALLOWED THE LAST OF
the beer as he reached his pickup. He opened the cab and retrieved a flashlight. Knowing he would ruin his clothing, he dropped to the pavement and shimmied beneath the undercarriage. There he found a tracking device that’d been attached while he’d been inside the hotel. Ripping it loose, he crawled out from under the truck and threw the tracker toward the lobby.

He felt himself losing control. The bottled emotion of the last year, compounded by the stress of the last week, had dealt a devastating blow. Though he recognized the loss of restraint, he couldn’t stop the downward spiral.

Behind the wheel, Thorpe slammed the accelerator to the floorboard. A car driving diagonally across the hotel parking lot forced him to do the same with the brakes. The antilock system vibrated through the pedal up into his leg, and he felt something slide into his heel. He bent over and retrieved the object.

It was his daughter’s old Game Boy. She’d lost it shortly before her murder and Thorpe had scolded her for being careless with the expensive toy. The memory crashed over him in a towering wave. His chest heaved. His throat tightened.

Visions of his daughter eclipsed the traffic-filled streets, yet he continued to drive. Images he’d managed to suppress over the last few months burst like fireworks in his mind: Ella singing on her karaoke machine, laughing across from him as they spun on the teacup ride, giggling as her mother bathed her fragile body in the kitchen sink. Her shame as her daddy reprimanded her for being irresponsible. Images of looking into her lifeless eyes, of sitting in the patrol car outside his home awash in red and blue lights; the pity on his fellow officers’ faces. Images of himself ripping flesh from Marcel Newman, of dislocating Leon’s shoulders, of Shaw’s fear-filled eyes as he impaled the man’s throat.