Cold Blue

by Gary Neece

  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.

  “I didn’t exactly promise,” Thorpe argued.

  “Are you going to argue over semantics now?” Then, “John…what if I buy all the drinks and swear not to talk shop?”

  She’d referred to him by his first name—pulling out the big guns. He could use a couple of drinks, and he could absolutely use the company of an attractive woman—beautiful, really—but not one who was trying to put him in federal prison.

  “I’ll tell you what. You buy the drinks, you don’t talk shop, you don’t ask any questions about me, and you let me call you Ambretta. Then you have yourself a deal.”

  “Done. In private you may refer to me as Ambretta.”

  “Okay, Ambretta. Jeff is taking me home first; I have some things I need to take care of.”

  “I can drive you home.”

  “I appreciate it. But Jeff and I have some catching up to do.”

  “What time shall we meet?”

  Shit, how’d I let this happen? He’d finally gotten a free pass away from this woman only to make what sounded a lot like a date with her.

  “How ‘bout seven?”

  “All right. If you don’t show, I’m going to come looking for you.”

  “Of that, I have no doubt,” Thorpe replied as he climbed into Jeff’s city-issued Ford Taurus.

  Jeff pulled away and Thorpe put an index finger up to his own mouth as an indication to Jeff he didn’t feel comfortable speaking confidentially in the car.

  “Let’s grab a couple of beers before you take me home,” Thorpe said.

  “Anywhere in particular?”

  “How about Los Cabos; it’ll have a good crowd on a Sunday afternoon.”

  Sunday

  February 11

  Afternoon

  LOS CABOS RESTAURANT WAS THE anchor for Riverwalk Crossing, a collection of shops, bars, restaurants and theaters that sat on the west bank of the Arkansas River. The establishment wouldn’t be too out of th
e way for the drive to Thorpe’s compound, as Jeff liked to refer to it.

  Los Cabos had finished concrete floors. The hard surface bounced sound waves and—when the restaurant was busy—made audio surveillance next to impossible. Upon arrival, Thorpe removed his cell phone and left it in the car, motioning for Jeff to do the same. Once the two were seated at a booth inside the noisy restaurant, Thorpe felt free to speak, but it was Jeff who initiated the conversation.

  “John, what the hell is going on?”

  “It’s obvious the FBI considers me a suspect in these murders.”

  “I know that, but why? Why would they think you’d kill those guys? I mean, I realize they weren’t your favorite people—mine either, for that matter. But being an asshole is no reason to kill a man.”

  “Maybe I’m a closet racist, Jeff. Maybe I befriended you, just to get near you. Make you feel all comfortable around me then…” Thorpe snapped his fingers and smiled.

  “The only thing you’re killing me with are your lame jokes. And it’s a slow-ass death, let me tell ya.”

  “I’ve been getting that a lot lately. My timing must be off.”

  “Could you be serious for one fucking minute? You have an airtight alibi for Daniels’ murder. You were in the middle of a search warrant with your entire squad when he was killed. So why does the FBI suspect you?”

  “Why don’t you tell me, Jeff? You know something, you’ve avoided me like an infectious disease since the feds blew into town.”

  “Do you have anything to do with this?”

  Thorpe didn’t want to lie, but telling the truth would only put Jeff in a predicament. His friend would have to choose between ratting out Thorpe or keeping his secret and becoming an accessory to murder. Hull had figured out matters on his own. Jeff still struggled for answers—but he knew something.

  “Jeff, do you think I’d commit cold-blooded murder just because of someone’s fucked-up views?”

  “No.”

  Thorpe hadn’t lied, but he hadn’t exactly answered Jeff’s question either. “You know I wouldn’t. Jeff, please tell me what you know, so I can figure out what the hell is going on.”

  “You repeat it, I’ll be fired and tossed in prison.”

  “It won’t leave this table.”

  “Fuck.” Jeff shook his head. “First of all, what I know I’m not supposed to know. I’m not going to tell you who I got my information from, so don’t ask. All I can say is they’re a reliable source.” Jeff looked nervously around the restaurant. “From what I understand, the FBI received a phone call from a kid named Kaleb Moment. You know him?”

  Thorpe nodded. Should’ve killed that little snitch bastard. He could justify the other killings, as a kind of justice. Killing Kaleb would’ve been purely out of self-preservation. Thorpe had tried to salvage part of his soul by releasing the kid from that motel room.

  No good deed goes unpunished.

  Jeff continued, “Anyway, I guess this Kaleb fucker calls up a Texas FBI office and tells them some Tulsa police sergeant is fixing to go off the reservation. Tells them a bunch of police officers are about to get killed. Tells them this sergeant will be the one responsible for their murders. Tells them you, Jonathan Thorpe, is that sergeant. He says he can’t go to the police because other TPD officers are involved.

  “Kaleb demands to be placed in the witness protection program and wants a document promising a deal. He called the FBI office in Texas instead of the local office because he’s so freaked out. He’s afraid you have friends in high places. I guess the agent who took the call is thinking, ‘Yeah, right, another caller with conspiracy theories.’ But the agent tells the kid to drive on in, and he’ll take a statement. If the information pans out, and TPD officers start getting whacked, he’ll make sure Kaleb gets in the program.”

  Jeff nervously looked around the restaurant before he continued. “Well, guess what happens? Stephen Price gets killed with a bow and arrow, and Cole Daniels gets sniped in his living room, and this kid never shows up for his meeting in Texas. The Texas agent catches the national news and thinks, ‘Holy shit! The kid was legit.’ He contacts the FBI office in Tulsa and passes on the information Kaleb had given him over the phone.

  “The FBI, having your name and a tip that other TPD officers are involved, calls a private meeting with high-ranking members of TPD. They discuss their options and decide to go out to your house and pick you up for questioning. At least that was the plan until Agent Collins entered the meeting…”

  Thorpe listened to Jeff and thought his friend possessed a lot of information for someone who wasn’t supposed to be in the know. Most likely, Jeff’s source was a certain deputy chief he’d befriended.

  “…I guess the special agent over the Tulsa office doesn’t know Agent Collins from shit. She walks in, produces her credentials, and tells them in no uncertain terms she is now in charge. The SAC protests, but Collins tells him to take it up with his boss and spits out the man’s cell phone number from memory. According to my source, the SAC phoned his boss, turned five shades of red and subsequently handed over the reins to Agent Collins.

  “Agent Collins addressed the group and informed them that you have an airtight alibi for the murder of Cole Daniels. So if you are a suspect, then there are others involved as well. She also tells them the only reason you were named as a suspect was because of the phone call from the now-missing Kaleb Moment. If you were indeed one of the killers, they had no corroborating evidence and would only be ‘showing their hand’ if they brought you in for an interview so early in the investigation. Agent Collins went on to say that the best course of action would be to monitor your activities. She then excused the few TPD personnel present and had a private talk with the gathered FBI officials. Again, according to my source, when the local feds walked out, they looked like they’d all been kicked in the balls. The same night they had this meeting, Brandon Baker was killed and set on fire, and Thadius Shaw went missing.

  “Other than that, I don’t know much. After the initial meeting, the FBI has disclosed little to TPD. I was threatened with having my nuts cut off and shoved up my ass if I relayed any of this information. Anyway, Agent Collins is in charge of the entire investigation, and she’s been riding around with you for seven or eight hours a day. I wouldn’t trust her for shit if I were you.”

  “Yeah. I should definitely stay away from her,” Thorpe agreed.

  “By the way, what’d she say to you outside my car?”

  “Oh, nothing. We were just planning our date for this evening.”

  “What? That your sorry-ass sense of humor again?”

  Thorpe shrugged. “No. That’s just my sorry-ass decision making.”

  Jeff laughed. “You dumbass. You never were very smart with women.”

  “Shit, I don’t even know how it happened, Jeff.”

  “I do. If she were five-foot-three and four hundred pounds, you wouldn’t be in this position. The feds probably sent her on purpose. Well, at least you have nothing to worry about since you’re not involved in this shit. She’s just wasting her time. Damn good-looking, though—doesn’t even wear much makeup. Female feds never look like her—‘cept in the movies.”

  AFTER A COUPLE MORE BEERS, the two men loaded up in the car and continued to Thorpe’s residence. As Jeff entered the neighborhood, he didn’t pay much attention when Thorpe asked him to pull over to the side of the road—not until Thorpe grabbed his gear bag and climbed out of the Ford.

  “You’re walking?”

  “Yeah, the feds are keeping tabs on me, and I don’t like to make things easy for anyone. Thanks for everything, Jeff.”

  “No problem, and be careful around Agent Collins. Don’t let her use her feminine wares against you.”

  “You know me. I’m like a rock.”

  “Yeah. ‘Bout as smart as one,” Jeff replied.

  “If you don’t mind, don’t drive by my house. Just back up and head out the way we came.”

  Jeff’s nod turned i
nto a disappointed shake as he watched his best friend disappear into the woods. He’d expected Thorpe to have more faith in him.

  Sunday

  February 11

  Evening

  THORPE SPED TOWARD TULSA UNDER a clear, starlit night. Earlier he’d arrived home and, after a close inspection of his wax seals, felt confident no one had entered in his absence. He’d taken a nervous shower during which he’d directed a remake of Psycho in his head with Andrew Phipps playing the part of Norman Bates.

  Following the shower, Thorpe had settled into a chair to think. Instead, he’d fallen asleep for nearly two hours, the toll of the last few days demanding payment. After waking, he’d donned a pair of coveralls to protect his date garb and packed dress shoes in his ever-present gear bag. Then he’d plodded through the woods to retrieve his personal truck from Deborah’s barn.

  Now, as Thorpe neared the Creek Turnpike, he retrieved his phone and called Ambretta.

  “I was beginning to think you were going to stand me up,” she answered.

  “I’m a man of my word. I’m almost to Tulsa now. Where do you want to meet?”

  “I’m staying at the Renaissance. You mind picking me up here?”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen or less.”

  Thorpe cursed himself. He still had three hostiles at large: Phipps, Corn, and McDonald, who all wanted him dead. But instead of dealing with these somewhat pressing issues, he drove straight into the lion’s den for a date with the FBI agent in charge of his investigation. Thorpe shook his head. Logic told him to avoid this encounter; intuition argued the opposite. Or maybe testosterone had clouded his judgment. He was definitely attracted to the woman—hopefully, the attraction wouldn’t prove fatal.

  Located north of 71st Street and east of Highway 169, The Renaissance was one of Tulsa’s nicest and newest hotels. The 71st Street corridor was a mecca of shops, malls, restaurants, and bars. He redialed Ambretta’s number to tell her he’d arrived.