Cold Blue

by Gary Neece

  “Who the fuck is this?”

  “I’m answering a damn pay phone, asshole!”

  Price couldn’t get his mind to settle down. “Shit! Did you see who was on the phone before you?” Price asked.

  “Look, buddy, there wasn’t anybody on the phone. I was walking into the store, it was ringing, I thought, ‘what the hell’ and answered it.”

  “What pay phone is it? Where you at?”

  “The Q.T. at 81st and Memorial.”

  Suddenly Price felt very exposed. His head was on a swivel as he closed his phone. He ran to his Hummer, peeled out of the lot and dialed a familiar number.

  THORPE WAS BACK IN HIS Impala on the southwest corner of 81st and Memorial. He was about to get “eyes on” his target when the Birddog notified him of Price’s approach. Thorpe watched as the silver Hummer pulled up to the intersection and turned right. He listened to the audible alert on the receiver and realized Price had driven past his apartment.

  He’s on the move.

  Thorpe followed, staying well behind his quarry.

  Halfway between Memorial and Mingo, the signal slowed, stopped and reversed directions. Price was headed straight back at Thorpe, prompting him to hastily pull off into a neighborhood and kill his lights. He watched through the rear window as the Hummer went past. Thorpe used a driveway to turn around and was pulling back up to 81st Street to follow when he noticed the signal coming toward him again. Price was performing a classic tail shaker, making U-turns in an effort to identify trailing cars. Good. If Price was trying to shake a tail, it meant he was going somewhere he didn’t want to be followed.

  Thorpe backed into a driveway on the darkened street and watched the Hummer speed past on 81st. Thorpe allowed for separation before resuming his follow. The receiver indicated an easterly route for nearly a minute, then it turned left and the signal began to rapidly weaken. Price was northbound on Highway 169. Once on the highway himself, Thorpe pushed the Impala as fast as it would go.

  The Hummer was a half-mile ahead with several cars separating the two vehicles. At this distance, the Impala would only be a pair of obscure headlights in Price’s rearview mirror. As Price topped an incline, Thorpe noticed the signal on the Birddog quicken. Price had come to a stop on the other side of the hill. If a car had been conducting a visual follow, it would crest the hill and pass Price before the driver realized what had happened.

  Impressive. Price was pretty good at countersurveillance for someone who’d never done UC work. Of course Price had been a dope dealer, and those guys learned the same skills on the streets. Thorpe pulled to the shoulder and waited for the signal to indicate movement.

  For the next twenty minutes, Price continued to use similar tactics in an attempt to identify a tail. If Thorpe hadn’t been using a tracking device he would have been “burnt” multiple times. Eventually the Birddog came to a rest, and Thorpe tracked Price to an area in North Tulsa. Thorpe drove in a somewhat circular pattern, spiraling closer with each cycle, finally isolating the stationary Hummer. Thorpe parked his car to the southwest, retrieved a gear bag, and set out on foot.

  This particular neighborhood had been undergoing redevelopment and consisted mostly of middle-income African American families. Thorpe appreciated the colder temperatures, late hour and amiable neighborhood. All three elements allowed him to march through the area without encountering fellow pedestrians.

  He found the Hummer parked on the south side of the street in front of a two-story house with a brick face. There were two vehicles in the driveway and a Pontiac in front of Price’s Hummer. Thorpe memorized the license plate of the Pontiac and continued walking east. When he reached the end of the cul-de-sac, he turned and walked back along the opposite side of the road, scanning for a hiding place. The foliage here wouldn’t sufficiently conceal an adult, and the backs of the properties were surrounded by wooden privacy fences. Thorpe risked a glance over one fence and found a fairly deep yard. As quietly as possible, Thorpe called to see if any dogs were inside. No growls or barks sounded in reply, so he scaled the fence.

  This particular yard gave him the best view of the target house across the street. Thorpe hit the ground with a fixed-blade knife at the ready. Even though he’d heard no barks, he half expected to be fighting or fleeing a large dog any minute. Had this been a neighborhood anywhere north of here, he most likely would be leaping back over the fence with a disagreeable pit bull at his heels.

  Venturing deeper into the yard, he again called quietly for a dog—better to encounter one now than to feel Brutus breathing on the nape of his neck later. Both the house and backyard remained quiet and dark.

  Feeling more relaxed, Thorpe returned to where he’d crossed the fence. Using his knife partly as a cutting instrument and partly as a prying tool, he removed a section of fence at eye level. Now he could watch without sticking his head above the fence and silhouetting himself. Thorpe took a pad of paper from his jacket and recorded the license plate he’d memorized. Next he retrieved binoculars from his equipment bag and noted the make, model and plates of the two cars in the driveway.

  A few minutes later, another vehicle turned onto the street and into the driveway. Its arrival activated motion lights on either side of the garage door. Thorpe trained his binoculars on the exiting driver. His theory was falling apart; the distinctive form of Brandon Baker walked toward the front door. Brandon was a white police officer who worked in Gilcrease Division’s Street Crimes Unit. He resembled Big Foot, not because of his size but because dark coarse hair covered every square inch of his person. A passenger accompanied Baker to the door. The second man was dressed a lot like Thorpe—in heavy garb, making it impossible to determine the man’s identity or race from Thorpe’s vantage point.

  Five minutes after their arrival, an old beater pulled onto the street and parked along the north curb, directly in front of where Thorpe was concealed. His original theory appeared to be reviving itself; Leon Peterson stepped out of the car. Leon was the youngest son of TPD officer Charlie Peterson. When Thorpe’s unit had executed the “buy-bust,” arresting a Chicago Latin King and both of Charlie’s sons, Leon received a thirteen-month sentence, though he was released much earlier. His brother, Lyndale, was still locked up on a twenty-year stint.

  The diminutive Leon, who stood all of five-foot-four, appeared nervous as he exited his car. He looked in every direction. Once he arrived at the doorstep, he searched his surroundings again before ringing the bell. As he waited for the door to be answered, he faced away from the house and shifted his weight from one foot to another.

  He’s scared shitless, Thorpe thought. After a few seconds, the door opened.

  Leon poked his head inside before committing his body to the interior. Thorpe figured Leon had ample reason to be nervous. Unlike his associates, who probably felt beyond reproach, Leon had once been held accountable for his actions. He’d done time. Thorpe checked his watch; five minutes remained until he was supposed to make his ransom demand. Of course he wasn’t going to make that phone call—his goal had been achieved; he’d already discovered some of those involved in his family’s murder. With a few simple interrogation techniques, he would soon have his answers. Still, Thorpe wished he could hear the conversation inside the home. The directional microphone he’d brought along would be totally useless. He’d been hoping for an outdoor meeting.

  Thorpe imagined their discussions were quite heated: who all knew about the murders? Which one of the group had been talking? How should they handle the ransom call?—the one that wasn’t coming. Thorpe wondered if they’d figure out this had been a ruse to get them in one location to be identified. Then he considered what his plan of action would be if he were in their place.

  The first thing he’d do is send a scout out the back door to conduct countersurveillance. Suddenly, Thorpe’s backside felt very exposed. There wasn’t a whole lot he could do about it except stay attuned to his surroundings. It was a quiet night; hopefully if someone started skulking a
bout, he’d hear him coming. Dry leaves littered the yard Thorpe occupied. If the neighbors’ yards were similar, Thorpe should be able to hear the person in time to take evasive action. Should.

  Despite the dropping temperature, Thorpe removed his hood, favoring hearing capabilities over shelter. It’d been some time since the last arrival. Periodically, Thorpe would do squats in an effort to warm himself. Thankfully, he’d dressed for the occasion. However, the nip was beginning to chew at his ears and through his boots.

  Comfort aside, if the group didn’t disperse before daybreak, he’d need to find an alternate location or risk discovery by a homeowner or a dog let out for its morning piss. But he wanted to maintain surveillance as long as possible; there were others who had arrived before him, and they needed to be identified.

  Thorpe caught a flash of movement to his left. A figure, possibly Leon based on height, approached on his side of the street. Thorpe noticed the figure disappear around the far side of the neighboring house. Was the man searching backyards? Thorpe quieted his breathing and concentrated on his hearing. The sound of rustling leaves preceded the man’s reappearance. Was he peering over fences? The man walked to a car parked along the north curb, cupped his hands against the glass, and looked inside. He’s definitely looking for surveillance. The gloom made it difficult to see, but Thorpe felt confident he was watching Leon.

  Leon must be worried that the ransom call was a setup. Smart man. Though not smart enough to arm himself; his hands were empty. If Leon did possess a weapon, he didn’t have it at the ready, but he was probably more concerned with a police sting rather than a revenge-seeking killing machine. Leon stepped away from the car and headed toward Thorpe’s position.

  Shit. He needed to act quickly. He could disappear around the house and hope if Leon noticed the recently constructed hole, he wouldn’t determine it was fresh. Or he could take down Leon now. Both options offered potentially disastrous consequences. Ultimately, Thorpe couldn’t take the chance Leon would see the hole for what it was. Thorpe gathered his equipment and, in a crouched position, ran toward the back of the house. When he reached the rear of the home, he dumped his bag and continued west where he found a gate. Thorpe quietly released the latch and walked to the southwest corner of the home. Peering around the corner of the residence, Thorpe barely caught a glimpse of Leon disappearing around the other side of the house. Thorpe took one quick look before sprinting across the concrete driveway. When he reached the corner of the house, he rounded it without pause, and spotted Leon looking through the hole Thorpe had just abandoned. Leon heard the footfalls and turned to find Thorpe closing in at full speed. Thorpe held a concealed knife in his right hand—handle in palm, blade behind forearm. As Thorpe neared, Leon raised both hands palms forward, above his head, in the classic “I surrender” stance.

  Leon obviously thought he’d just been caught in a police operation. Thorpe stopped advancing and played along with Leon’s misguided belief.

  “FBI, turn around.”

  Leon complied immediately. This was going to be easy.

  “Get down on your knees…cross your ankles…put your hands on the back of your head.” Leon executed every command, allowing Thorpe to approach from behind and place him in Flexcuffs. Leon began spouting his defense.

  “Man, I didn’t have anything to do with this shit, they…”

  “Shut up, you’re going to blow our surveillance,” Thorpe interrupted.

  “All right, all right, man, it’s cool.”

  Thorpe pulled his hoodie over his head in an effort to conceal his identity. He kept Leon facing the opposite direction.

  “You’re going to fuck up this whole investigation, asshole. I’m the only one who has surveillance on this side. You’re coming with me.”

  “That’s cool, man. I was just gettin’ ready to call you guys.”

  Thorpe held Leon’s cuffs and grabbed the back of his neck. Directing Leon from behind, Thorpe retraced his route, picked up his equipment, and took Leon back behind the hole in the fence. He put Leon on his belly with his head facing away from him.

  “Do they know you’re out here?” Thorpe asked.

  “Yeah, I told them I was coming out here to look around, but I was really coming out here to call you guys.”

  Yeah, right. Thorpe hadn’t even discovered a cell phone during his pat-down. “How long do they expect you to be gone?”

  “Man, I don’t know. I said I was going outside to check things out. They just nodded their heads.”

  “Remember we’ve been watching this place. Who all’s inside?”

  “There’s Price and…”

  “I want first and last names,” Thorpe demanded.

  “…There’s Stephen Price, somebody Baker—I don’t know his first name, Thadius Shaw, Andrew Phipps, Corn Johnson, and another white dude I don’t know.”

  Thorpe shook his head. Not counting the unidentified “white dude,” five of the men were, or had been, Tulsa police officers. All five had reputations for being dope chasers. “White Dude” and Brandon “Big Foot” Baker were white guys. The other three men were black.

  Phipps served on the department’s Special Operations Team (SOT) as a sniper. SOT was the equivalent of most departments’ Special Weapons and Tactics teams (SWAT). Tulsa’s tactical team was a part-time assignment. SOT members trained twice a month but otherwise held regular positions on the department. Phipps once worked in SID’s day-shift narcotics squad but had been booted out after a year. The whole affair had been hush-hush, and Thorpe still didn’t know the circumstances behind the removal.

  Corn, short for Cornelius, was Phipps’ best friend. Whoever said you can’t judge a book by its cover had never met Corn Johnson; a mouth breather, he wandered about with a perpetual look of confusion. He didn’t appear to be very bright, and he wasn’t. He’d once been a member of Gilcrease Division’s Street Crimes Unit. To avoid termination, he’d resigned from TPD after he was caught providing sensitive information to drug dealers regarding investigations into their illegal activities.

  “Who else is inside?” Thorpe continued.

  “No one, man. That’s it.”

  Thorpe wanted to know who owned the house, but didn’t want to ask and sound uninformed. He still needed Leon to believe he was a federal agent on official business and if that were actually the case, he’d damn well know on whose house he’d been conducting surveillance.

  “Who else is involved that didn’t show up?”

  “Hey, man, I’m willing to cooperate, but I want a lawyer. I need something on paper.”

  Leon was thinking about his future—he didn’t have one. “At least tell me this…is there anyone else involved who’s not here tonight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What have you been talking about tonight?”

  “They all fucked up. They think we been talkin’ because somebody knows what they done and is blackmailing Price. They trying to figure out how to handle a phone call from some ransom motherfucker.”

  Thorpe continued with the FBI ruse. “Do they know we’re on to them?”

  “Those niggas didn’t even think about that till I said something. Now they don’t know what to think.”

  Thorpe decided he didn’t need to conduct surveillance any longer. Leon would provide enough information. But Thorpe needed to get him to a place where he could question him properly. Thorpe pretended to have a two-way conversation on his police radio.

  “Copy…you want me to remove the prisoner? Ten-four…I have to walk him to my vehicle…no, I don’t think he’ll be a problem…we need to get his car outta here, or they’ll know something’s up. Okay, we’ll just take his car then.”

  “Okay, Leon, I’ve got a replacement coming, so I’m walking you to your car. Understand?”

  “Yeah, man, that’s cool.”

  Leon was working so hard at appearing cooperative that it blinded him to the snake pit toward which he willingly walked.

  “We’re going to stroll
out of here like best friends. You try to run or shout a warning, and you can kiss any deals goodbye. Got it?”

  “Yeah, man, I never wanted anything to do with this shit in the first place. I wanna help.”

  Thorpe retrieved Leon’s car keys from his coat pocket. “If you do yell out or try to run, I’m going to knock the piss out of you. With your hands cuffed behind your back, you won’t be able to break your fall with anything but your face. Okay, you’re going to listen to my directions and walk in front of me. Let’s go.”

  Thorpe easily lifted little Leon by the shoulders, pointed him west, and told him to move. The two men walked to the passenger-side door of Leon’s aging Cutlass with Thorpe keeping an eye on the target house. After stuffing his captive in the car, Thorpe leaned against Leon’s throat with his left forearm as he buckled him in with his right hand. Thorpe walked around the back of the car, made sure his hoodie covered his face, tossed his bag in the back and got behind the wheel. Thorpe turned the car around in the cul-de-sac and made his way out of the neighborhood.

  Leon was talkative. “Where we goin’?”

  “We have a mobile unit a couple miles from here where we’re monitoring this operation,” Thorpe lied.

  “Man, I can’t have any TPD see me with you. There’s too many of those bitches involved in this thing. They’ll kill me.”

  “Don’t worry. We have a command post set up in a secluded area. No one is going to see you with us. When we get there, we’ll let you use a phone to contact your lawyer. If we get pulled over by TPD in this piece of shit, let me handle it—you stay in the car.”

  “Cool.”

  Thorpe allowed Leon to nervously ramble on about irrelevant topics as he drove past the North Side’s only significant grocery store. Well, it used to be—shoplifters had looted the recently constructed business to an early death; now it was an abandoned building. And though he traveled through a fairly harsh neighborhood, it was on one of the nicer streets in Tulsa. The four-lane concrete road enjoyed an elevated median with decorative trees and flowers. Thorpe was very familiar with the area, though it did look different from his days as a rookie officer. The changes were mostly aesthetic as it still provided an excellent opportunity to get shot. Now you just got to bleed out on a handsomer street.