Cold Blue

by Gary Neece

  “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 11th 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.

  Who had he become—surely not the man his father had hoped?

  My father.

  Thorpe recalled a quote the man had sometimes recited, “Action is the antidote to despair.”

  THIRTY MILES SOUTHWEST, ANDREW PHIPPS lay secreted inside Thorpe’s house with much on his mind, not the least of which was Cornelius Johnson in the next room, his breathing labored. Another was the mystery location of Thorpe’s guard dogs. He had no idea where the beasts were kept; he and Corn had searched the property without success. One thing was certain: if the two shepherds led their master into the home, things were going to get real ugly, real fast.

  Both men had been in place since 9 p.m., and the tension was about to boil over, especially for Corn who wasn’t accustomed to combat situations. Remaining static for hours—while anticipating a gun battle that will occur on an unknown schedule—is enough to test any man’s iron. The men had taken up positions where they could cover the front and back doors simultaneously. When Thorpe stepped into his home, his body would be transformed into a sieve.

  Watching the front door, Phipps was armed with a Remington 1911 .45 caliber pistol, a very reliable weapon with knockdown power. Even if Thorpe wore a vest, it’d smack the piss out of him until Phipps could get in a headshot. Armed with a 12-gauge shotgun loaded with double-aught buckshot, Corn covered the back door, at least between trips to the bathroom. Because of nerves, Corn had been relieving himself far too frequently. Phipps hoped to hell Thorpe wouldn’t slip in the back door during an ill-timed bladder movement.

  After Phipps took care of business here, he planned to kill Corn. The man was a wreck, and every time the idiot pissed in the dark, he probably sprayed DNA evidence all over Thorpe’s bathroom. If left alive, Corn would get caught and give up his accomplices.

  After Phipps finished with his old friend, he’d next pay Sergeant McDonald a visit.

  It was time to clean house. But first he had to kill Thorpe. Where was that motherfucker?

  THORPE WIPED HIS SALTY FACE with his shirt sleeve and—uncertain how he’d arrived or for how long he’d been there—found himself in the parking lot of Jasmine’s Lounge on the northeast side of town. The establishment was a cheesy strip club and the location of several shootings and stabbings. He wouldn’t admit to himself why he’d come here but knew it wasn’t to ogle the dancers. Thorpe stuffed a small pistol down the front of his pants and approached the bar.

  He received a cursory pat-down by the unarmed, long-haired security guard manning the front door. The guy was making a feeble attempt at keeping weapons out of the business but neglected to inspect Thorpe’s genitals, a mistake heterosexual guards tend to make.

&n
bsp; Entering the club, Thorpe was relieved to find several patrons of questionable character. Wearing slacks and a button down, he didn’t exactly fit in with the regulars. Thorpe went directly to the men’s room and entered a stall. He removed the Glock 27 from his crotch and placed the weapon in the waistband of his pants. Reconsidering, Thorpe stood on the toilet and hid the pistol in the drop-down ceiling. He hadn’t come here to kill anyone.

  Thorpe left the restroom, selected a stool at the bar and ordered a bottle of beer. He wasn’t about to drink from a glass at this shithole; plus bottles make great impromptu weapons. Thorpe scanned the lounge, settling on a table occupied by three white males, each proudly displaying an assortment of prison tats. He kept his eyes focused on the group, knowing full well what the gaze would reap. It didn’t take long for one to notice the unwanted attention.

  The man mouthed the words, “What the fuck?” That prompted his two associates to follow their friend’s stare. None of the three men were huge, but all bore prison muscle. Adrenaline seeped into Thorpe’s veins, the sensation a welcome alternative to crushing despair.

  “We don’t want any trouble in here, bub.” It was the bartender.

  “You won’t have any from me…bub” Thorpe replied, never breaking contact with the six eyes staring back at him.

  “Then quit fuckin’ with folks.”

  “I’m just sitting here enjoying my adult beverage.”

  “Bullshit! Those boys are about to shove your head up your Polo-wearing ass.”

  “Claiborne,” Thorpe corrected.

  “What?”

  “Those boys are about to shove my head up my ‘Claiborne’ wearing ass.”

  “You think you’re fucking funny or something?”

  “That’s been a matter of contention lately,” Thorpe admitted.

  “I hope they kill your funny ass.”

  “I hope they do, too.”

  The alpha male of the pack, the man in the middle, was the first to rise. He strode smoothly toward Thorpe, relaxed and unconcerned. Thorpe noticed he had a tattoo on his neck that read “Momma Tried.” Clever. The other two backed up their buddy. One knocked into a chair on his way over; his muscles were tight, and he moved in nervous jerks. He would be the weakest of the three. Thorpe slid off the barstool, keeping the piece of wood between himself and his new inked-up friends.