Cold Blue (42 page)

Today, without the burden of dead bodies, he decided to start the morning with a phone call to Ambretta’s cell. A recorded voice told him the number he’d dialed was “no longer in service.” A follow-up call to the Renaissance Hotel informed him Ambretta Collins had checked out yesterday morning.

He was trying to process her disappearance when his cell began buzzing in his hand.

“Hello?”

“It’s Hull.”

“Oh,” Thorpe replied, disappointed.

“That was a warm welcome.”

“Sorry, thought someone was returning my call.”

“Don’t be too sorry. I’ve got some good news. You home?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m five minutes out. Don’t go anywhere.”

Good news?
He could use some. Thorpe walked out to his gate, opened it and returned to his front porch. As promised, five minutes after the call, Hull rolled up the gravel driveway and climbed from his car.

“What’s so important to get you out in the boonies this time of the morning?” Thorpe asked.

“You’re not going to believe what’s happened. I tricked myself into thinking I knew what the fuck was going on, but I guess I didn’t. Jesus H. Christmas.”

“Spit it out, Bob, you’re killing me.”

“I was called into a meeting with the FBI this morning—at freaking 6:15 in the a.m. no less. Thought for sure it’d be bad news. Figured they were getting ready to come out here and hem your ass up.”

“Was Ambretta there?” Thorpe asked, surprised her whereabouts was his first concern.

Hull looked like he’d bitten into something sour. “Huh? Uh…not exactly…I thought you were in a hurry to hear what happened?”

“Sorry, Bob, go on.”

“Last night, Sergeant McDonald committed suicide in a Wichita hotel room. Fucking hung himself from a doorknob.”

“You have got to be shitting me.” Thorpe didn’t believe for a moment McDonald died by his own hand. The man was too narcissistic to commit suicide.

“I shit you not. But that’s not the best part. In McDonald’s pocket was a digital recorder, and you won’t believe what they found on it…”

“Let me guess…McDonald recorded a statement implicating himself in all these murders.”

Hull stepped back and gave Thorpe a hard look. “What? I suppose that’s why they call you Carnac. I haven’t heard the tape, but apparently he admits to engineering a plan to kill black officers, especially ones who’ve been hurling racial allegations against the department. Apparently he’s a closet white supremacist. The second part of his plan was to frame you for their murders so he could walk. Maybe he resented you for taking his Gangs Unit position.

“Anyhow, he stated he’d paid Kaleb Moment to phone the FBI and implicate you in some forthcoming murders. McDonald knew he couldn’t trust Kaleb so he whacked the kid after he made the call. Then he killed Stephen Price.”

Hull shook his head as though he couldn’t believe his own words.

“McDonald goes on to say he and Brandon Baker were responsible for killing Daniels and Shaw. He says that afterward, Baker freaked and McDonald feared the man would talk. So McDonald killed him and set him on fire to destroy potential evidence.

“Now listen to this…McDonald also admitted to killing Andrew Phipps and Corn Johnson. Said last night the two of them came to meet him in Kansas and he popped them both. And guess what…we haven’t been able to reach Phipps or Corn on the phone. No one has seen or heard from them since yesterday afternoon; they’re completely off the grid. We haven’t found their bodies yet, but we suspect McDonald’s telling the truth. About them being dead, anyway.

“Toward the end of the recording, McDonald breaks down. Starts babbling about not being the man he once was. The last words on the tape were apologies to his family. Then he dialed 911, left the phone off the hook, and hung himself from a closet doorknob with a fucking neck tie.”

Hull’s head wagged back-and-forth as though it were calling his mouth a liar.

“And the FBI doesn’t suspect it was a murder staged to look like a suicide?” Thorpe asked.

“They said the man didn’t have a mark on ‘im. No signs of a struggle. Nothing to indicate the recording had been coerced. Plus, who could force a guy hang himself with a fucking tie and a doorknob?”

Yeah…who could?

“Still, they’ve gotta be considering me?”

“Nope. McDonald was staying in an out-of-state hotel he’d paid for with cash under an assumed name. How the hell could you have found him in Kansas while you were under FBI surveillance? They apparently have GPS units on both your trucks and confirmed they’d never left the Mounds area all day yesterday. Plus, Agent Collins stated she’d conducted direct visual surveillance on you all of Sunday and Sunday night.”

“Collins is my alibi?” Thorpe tilted his head, perplexed. “I thought you said she wasn’t at this meeting?”

“She wasn’t. I guess she’s already been reassigned…whatever. We had her on a conference call.”

Hull held up his hands, palms facing Thorpe. “John, I don’t know what the hell is going on, and to tell you the truth, I don’t want to know. The fact is…you’re off the hook. They have a taped confession that, so far, pans out. And you have a federal agent who can attest to your whereabouts.”

Thorpe and Hull continued talking for several minutes, but not many more pertinent details were available. It seemed the case had been neatly wrapped up with a pretty silk bow, or in this case, a silk tie. The feds were preparing to descend on McDonald’s house with a search warrant. Thorpe had little doubt they’d find evidence inside the home tying him to one or more of the murders. Evidence likely planted by the man who’d been seen slipping out of the back of Phipps’ home. Whoever Thorpe’s mysterious new friends were, they were quite capable.

Hull shook Thorpe’s hand, walked back to his car, reversed off the property, and drove away… head still shaking.

Who was Ambretta Collins and why had she saved his ass?
His question might never be answered. Strangely, he found himself far more concerned whether the woman’s feelings for him had been genuine or just a ruse to keep him out of harm’s way. Of all his experiences over the last week, he was amazed his most pressing question didn’t concern her identity but whether her affections for him were true.

Thorpe stepped off his porch and walked toward his pickup. He had a visit to make, one he’d been avoiding far too long.

Tuesday

February 13

Afternoon

AMBRETTA COLLINS SAT
IN THE
darkened confines of a parked Toyota Sequoia. Most federal officers—even those attempting to “blend in”—drove American-made vehicles. Everyone knew that, and was precisely why she didn’t operate one. Ambretta was not an FBI agent. Ambretta wasn’t even Ambretta.

She
did
work for the federal government. Though she’d never receive a paycheck stamped “Central Intelligence Agency.” And the memo line would never read, “For kicking Jihad in the balls.”

Her job—her mission—was to identify, infiltrate and decimate terrorist operations inside the US border. The average citizen remained unaware how target-rich her area of operations had become. If they realized the threat America faced on a daily basis, she might not need to be a spy in her own damned country. She’d liken the US border to a sieve, except that a sieve successfully keeps some of the filth out. Thousands of illegals crossed the Mexican border every week. Did people really believe Muslim extremists weren’t among them?

America was a nation of laws—and, to a much larger degree, lawyers; people who’d perverted the constitution to such an extent it left law enforcement unable to do its job. Ambretta doubted the founding fathers meant for constitutional protections to apply to foreign terrorists who entered this country with the sole intent of bringing about its destruction.

More than a few Americans felt these animals should be provided the same liberties enjoyed by United States’ law-abiding citizens. Others believed terrorists should at least be handled under the protocols of the Geneva Convention, though these non-uniformed “combatants” clearly didn’t meet the criteria. These rules shouldn’t be applied to scum who recruited mentally and physically handicapped women and children to blow themselves up in the name of Allah.

Ambretta knew there have always been patriots doing the dirty work of protecting the very freedoms others wished to extend to enemies of this country. Many of those patriots toiled in the shadows. Ambretta was such a person.

She worked in the relocation business, arranging discreet, dank and dark housing for men in search of 72 virgins. Before their dates, they were likely milked of information until the tit ran dry. She couldn’t say for certain. Not privy to the entire process, she constituted a cog in a small but efficient machine. Her service to her country would never be printed in a newspaper, not unless she were someday uncovered. In the event that happened, and even if she were inclined to talk—
and she wouldn’t be
—what information could she provide?

In many ways, she operated much like the terrorist cells she dismantled. These cells generally had a single objective, remaining unaware of how their plans impacted the overall mission. The cells remained ignorant and independent of one another. If one became compromised, the collective goal remained intact.

Some cells’ only objective was to exist, thereby diverting limited investigative resources from others of more importance. These “dummy” cells were unwitting bait; believing they’d played a larger role than that of a clay pigeon.

If Ambretta were to be uncovered by the evil she battled, torture, rape and death were sure to follow. If she were exposed by American watchdogs and picked up for questioning, at least she’d be in the soft, manicured hands of the FBI. The Federal Bureau of Investigations didn’t resort to such “distasteful” interrogation techniques. Somehow she found their hands-off approach both disturbing and reassuring: disturbing because they afforded the enemy the same protections; reassuring because they wouldn’t break her. The only threat they could muster would be the loss of her freedom, and her freedom she’d willingly give. So many others have given so much more.

If she were imprisoned and did feel compelled to talk for consideration of a lesser sentence, she knew the next disappearing act would be her own. No one could protect her. No facility would be safe.

It didn’t matter. For now, Ambretta wasn’t permitted to have a broader view of the game in which she played. More often than not, she channeled information up through her handler with little filtering back down. Though accustomed to operating in the dark, recent events had proven highly unusual.

Why had she been sent to Tulsa? What exactly had been her mission? And what in the hell were they doing at this graveyard?

Directed by her handler to her current location—a private drive in a sprawling cemetery—he’d looked at her through those creepy mirrored sunglasses of his, told her to wait in the car, and then shuffled off to a gravesite fifty yards distant.

Just six days ago, Ambretta had been on assignment in Atlanta, Georgia. She’d been working a case there for a month when her handler instructed her to pack up and head to Tulsa. She detected a bit of urgency in the old man’s usually cool and indifferent manner.

Her handler was nearly as much a mystery today as when they’d first met. He’d promised a rewarding career, but more importantly he appealed to Ambretta’s fervor to strike back at those who’d cut down her father. It was her handler who’d chosen the name she currently used. She’d always thought Ambretta an odd choice, given most in the business assumed unremarkable aliases.

She’d learned only a few things about the old man’s past. He’d been doing “this” for decades. Before, he’d been a commando in the military. She also knew he’d spent considerable time in a foreign prison where he’d suffered brutal torture sessions that had left him scarred and disfigured. He didn’t complain about the abuse, and only mentioned it to stress that she should always exercise caution.

Otherwise, she knew little about the man. Meeting him here in Tulsa certainly hadn’t changed matters. In fact, she’d found the information pipeline clogged more than ever. Besides FBI credentials and authority over her “fellow” agents, he’d barely given her enough information to complete her assignment.

Her handler told her that the NSA had intercepted a phone call, indicating multiple threats against a company asset, one Jonathan Thorpe. Her handler had subsequently interrogated the source (a man named Kaleb Moment) and obtained from him a list of potential triggermen. Then the old man had provided her the same information that the FBI was set to act upon.

Her task: babysit Sergeant Thorpe while her handler dealt with threats.

Even though Thorpe was supposedly a “company asset,” she was not to break from the cover she’d been given. As the assignment progressed, she began to feel like one of those “dummy” cells. By delving into Thorpe’s background, reading his file, and through her own personal experiences, she doubted the man was connected to “the company” in any capacity. Still, she trusted her handler and dutifully carried on with her mission. After all, she’d become accustomed to things not being what they appeared.