Cold Blue

by Gary Neece

  It took some time register, but Kaleb’s eyes morphed from confused fear to terror.

  “I see you recognize my name. Good, then you know why you’re here.” Thorpe was almost whispering now. “Kaleb, you’re going to tell me who killed my family, and if you try to play ignorant…” He nodded toward the instruments on the bed, “… you’re so going to regret it. If you don’t cooperate, you’re leaving this room piece by piece in bloody sheets of plastic. I realize that’s pretty fucked up, but given the circumstances, you can understand I’m pretty pissed off. Can’t you, Kaleb?”

  Kaleb didn’t, or couldn’t, respond, and Thorpe decided to ease up on the scare tactics before his captive went into shock. Kaleb wasn’t like Marcel Newman; the man was already broken. Thorpe snapped his fingers in front of Kaleb’s face.

  “But none of that has to happen, Kaleb. Just answer my questions truthfully. Some things I already know, so it’d better match up. I’m going to remove the tape now, and you’re not going to scream are you?” Kaleb shook his head, and Thorpe removed the tape. “Who killed my family?”

  “Deandre and Damarius Davis,” Kaleb stated. His body and voice trembled so violently he was difficult to understand.

  “How do you know that?”

  “They called the night they done it. Wanted to meet. They said they was doing something for somebody and they…”

  Thorpe held up a finger, walked over to the bed while repeating Kaleb’s words, and reached for the pruning shears. “Something for somebody?”

  “Okay! Okay! Deandre called and said he had to see me right now. Me, Deandre and Damarius was real tight, friends since back in the day. I talk to the police, but I would never rat on them. We was like brothers. Anyway, he calls, and I can tell he’s spooked. Wants to meet me at my apartment. Tells me to kick whoever I got inside the fuck out. So I tell my girl to get lost, that some serious shit is going down and she don’t need to be a part of it.”

  Kaleb spoke fast, not the kind of speech pattern a person uses when he’s fabricating details. He rattled off information rapid fire, his adrenaline causing him to speak in streams.

  “Anyways, Deandre and Damarius show up a while later, and they’re scared crazy. Deandre says he met Stephen Price earlier and Price gave him a half key of cocaine. Says he wanted them to plant the coke in some cracker’s house to set him up….”

  Stephen Price? Thorpe felt an acute pressure inside his head, as if he’d plunged to the bottom of a deep pool. He momentarily lost his auditory senses and had to steady himself against a wall. His heart rattled like a drum, and his throat tightened. He began employing relaxation techniques and hoped Kaleb hadn’t registered his shock. When Thorpe finally regained control of himself, he found Kaleb still rapidly imparting information. As stunned as Thorpe had been, it didn’t come close to what his captive was experiencing. He didn’t want to interrupt Kaleb’s recounting of events, but Thorpe had missed a good portion of what the man had said.

  “Hold on, Kaleb, I lost you back there. Start again at the point where Stephen Price gave Deandre a half-kilo of cocaine. You do mean Stephen Price, the Tulsa police officer, don’t you?” Thorpe asked, hoping against logic that Kaleb was referring to a different man with the same name.

  “Yeah, Stephen Price, the cop. So Deandre says Price gives him a half-kilo of soft and wants him to hide it in this cracker’s house on the south side of town. We’re all tight: the brothers, Price, and me, and we’ve all done work before. But this shit was different, so Deandre asks Price what’s up. Price won’t tell him shit, says the less he knows, the better—won’t say who the cracker is or anything. He says if they do this they’ll be taken care of… forever. He tells them the job’s a piece of cake; that he got someone watching the place, and no one is home. He even gives them a key to the fucking house.”

  Kaleb suddenly stopped talking and looked hesitant to continue.

  “Go on, asshole, I already know how this story ends.”

  “Price gives them directions and describes what the place looks like. Well, Deandre and Demarius go over and check it out. They see lights on, but they don’t see anybody moving. Shit, everybody leave their lights on when they’re away anymore, so they figure Price knows what he’s talking about. They find a place to park and decide to go in the back. They get to the back door, and there’s two locks. The key fits one of the locks, but not the other. Now they’re like, ‘What the fuck we do now?’ So they end up kicking the back door. What stupid fucks. I mean, they’re there to plant drugs in a fucking house, and they end up kicking in the back door. Kinda fucks up the purpose, don’t it?”

  Thorpe nodded his head. “Yeah, real dumbasses.”

  “Sorry man, I…”

  “Just go on,” Thorpe interrupted, not wanting concocted sympathy from a man he was going to kill.

  “Anyways, they kick in the back door and get in the house when a woman comes down the hall with a fucking gun in her hand. They told me they had no choice but to…shoot her. Then they hear a scream and see this little girl standing at the bottom of the stairs. I guess the girl…your girl…well, those dudes didn’t have any masks on or anything…they decide they had to…”

  “Kill her?” Thorpe swallowed the two words along with his own bile.

  “Yeah, man. They killed her. Killed ‘em both, I guess.”

  “No guessing about it, shithead. Why would Stephen Price, the cop, want to plant dope in my house?”

  “I don’t know. I sure as hell wasn’t going to ask. If Price knew what I know, I’d be dead too.”

  “Tell me the rest. Tell me everything.”

  “After they…did your family, they panicked. They forgot all about the dope they was supposed to plant in your house and took off. That’s when they called me and headed over to my place. They was jacked, started telling me what I just told you and was talking bout bouncin’. They was sayin’ how Price was going to kill them for fucking up. They was talkin’ about flippin’ the half-kilo to make some money while they got the fuck outta Tulsa. But while we was talkin’, Price calls them on their cell phone and asks what went wrong. They start to tell him the story over the phone, but he tells them they gotta meet in person. Tells them they can still fix this shit—make it look like the husband killed the family. Those two dumb fucks actually bought that line of shit and left to go meet Price. That’s the last I ever saw of ‘em. They was killed the same night. That motherfucker Price killed ‘em—I put money on it.”

  “Where were they supposed to meet Price?’

  “They didn’t say. I didn’t ask.”

  “Did they realize they’d killed the wife and child of a police officer?”

  “I don’t think so. They never said…I think if they’d known, they would have said.”

  “How did Price get a key to my house?”

  “Man, I don’t know...honest!”

  “Kaleb, you said Damarius, Deandre, and you all ‘done work’ with Price before. What’d you mean?”

  “Shit. Price was movin’ dope since we was kids. He the smartest of us…never got caught –well, least nothing his uncle never got him out of.” Stephen’s uncle was also a Tulsa police officer.

  “We couldn’t believe it when he became a cop,” Kaleb added.

  Neither could anyone else, Thorpe thought. ”He keep moving dope after he became a police officer?”

  “He’d front us every once in a while—we’d pay him part of the bank. Some brothers was bitchin’ he took dope off ‘em and never puttin’ their asses in jail. Makes you wonder where that dope was goin’. We been tight for years, but lately he’s been hangin’ with a bunch of Nabahoods. Wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t have something goin’ with them. Still, he didn’t move near as much shit after he went five-o. Didn’t wanna touch the dope anyway, maybe had other niggas movin’ it for him. I’m not sure, man…just rumors of rumors. If he was in the game, he was keepin’ that shit sealed.”

  “Besides the Fifty-Sevens and the Nabahoods. Who
else was Price running with?”

  “Everybody. He even postin’ with Slobs.”

  “What other cops do you consider friendly?”

  “Shit, you knows already.”

  “Pretend I don’t.”

  “Besides Price? Phipps hangs with us Fifty-Seven Streeters. Pretty sure he might sell shit on the side or got some homeboys move it for him. He used to run with the Double D brothers, but not much when I was around.”

  “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 tu
rned 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.”