Thorpe pulled into a parking lot and changed into a pair of woodland camouflage pants and an old Vietnam-era army field jacket he’d obtained from Goodwill. He put the boots into a beat-up backpack and slipped on a gray stocking cap and dark cotton gloves. Suitably attired for the area, he drove west on 11th Street—part of historic Route 66. The small motels left over from the famous highway‘s heyday were now homes to harlots, drug dealers, and meth labs. Thorpe spotted a couple of working girls along the way.
As a police officer, Thorpe had encountered hundreds of prostitutes, but not one approximated Julia Roberts’ character in Pretty Woman. Most were missing teeth, had open sores, and smelled like unrefrigerated, ten-day-old tuna. Why men stepped out on their wives for these walking petri dishes he would never understand.
Thorpe turned north on Atlanta Avenue and passed yet another dish on the corner of 7th Street. This girl was, in reality, a man. His name was Desmond Jones, and made for a fairly convincing transvestite; at least at night and in poor lighting. Giraffe-like, Mr. Jones walked the streets on long skinny legs. The sad thing: he was better looking than most of his female companions. Jones had been in a considerable amount of fisticuffs over the years as many of his customers became rather disconcerted when they reached down and discovered an outie while expecting an innie. As a result, Jones had become quite the scrapper. Two Vice guys once picked up Jones and negotiated a threesome. When they identified themselves as police officers and attempted to take Mister/Miss Jones into custody, the fight was on. Jones wore copious amounts of makeup to help disguise his true gender. He also sported two water-filled balloons to give the appearance of having ample breasts. The struggle started in the officer’s undercover car and literally spilled out into the street as both water balloons burst. The water mixed with Jones’ heavy makeup. When the officers finally got Jones into custody, all three looked like they’d been dunked in a cauldron of CoverGirl. The sight of the two officers booking Jones into the jail made a lot of police officers’ and inmates’ night. Funny shit.
Thorpe turned the truck west on 6th Street and drove past L.A.’s house. As always in this area there were pedestrians, but it appeared as if L.A.’s vehicle was not in front of his home. Thorpe continued to Lewis Avenue and pulled into a convenience store parking lot on the northeast corner. He parked on the side of the building, grabbed the backpack and walked north toward an alley leading east. The dark mouth of the alley was bordered by two tall wooden privacy fences and flora that rose into an overhead canopy. Several yards into the alley the wooden fences gave way to chain link with openings that branched off into seedy apartment complexes, vacant plots, and parking lots. The area usually had a few knaves lurking about, and the last thing Thorpe needed was for someone to try to rob him. He didn’t want to be forced into a shooting and have to explain why he was walking down the “alley of death,” fearing no evil, with God and his Glock his only comforts. Carrying a backpack, he knew he’d be prime picking for a robbery.
Inside the botanical tunnel, Thorpe was dismayed to see a clump of Tulsa’s less-than-finest citizens about thirty yards ahead. The group, four males wearing bloated coats, resembled malevolent arachnids awaiting their next meal. A distant street lamp cast an orange glow over the men as he neared. Thorpe walked confidently forward, placing his right hand in the zipper of his field jacket to imply he was armed, which he was. He hoped to intimidate the group into waiting for a safer-looking dolt to come along.
As he passed, one of them said, “What you got in your bag?”
Dammit. “Your death certificate. Ready to collect?” Thorpe said, trying to use intimidation to dissuade the pack.
Three of the men laughed—much to the dismay of the one who’d spoken. That man just stared straight at Thorpe, expressionless. Having passed the group, Thorpe turned—backpedaling to face the threat—his hand still in his jacket. The foursome scurried away. Shit. They were going to get a gun—probably stashed in a nearby car.
He should’ve just kept his mouth shut; he’d disrespected a gang member in front of his homeboys and would be made to answer. He couldn’t afford a scene; his only option was to disappear. Finding a gap in the chain link, Thorpe slipped out of the alley and knelt down in an area where he could see through the vegetation. He’d stay concealed until the potential threat passed. Twenty seconds later, Thorpe heard a car engine accelerating on the street to the north. Shortly after, he observed a dark SUV turn from southbound Atlanta into the alley and slowly drive toward his position. Because the SUV’s windows were deeply tinted and the alley poorly lit, Thorpe couldn’t see the occupants. Nevertheless, he was sure the SUV contained the foursome. Unable to make out the tag, he noted the SUV was a Chevy product and rode on twenty-inch chrome rims.
Thorpe remained hidden for ten minutes and the SUV never made a second pass. Hopefully, the men concluded their prey had fled, and they’d decided to move on to other troubles. Thorpe reentered the alley and continued to Atlanta Avenue. Before stepping out, he scanned his surroundings for the SUV. Not seeing any obvious threats, he headed south. He turned west on 6th and walked alongside the curb while eyeing L.A.’s residence on the opposite side of the street. A few people milled about, but none in the immediate vicinity of L.A.’s property.
Thorpe sat down on the sidewalk across from his target, removed the handheld thermal imaging device and discreetly surveyed the screened porch of L.A.’s home. No hot spots; the porch appeared to be clear of occupants. Putting the device back into his coat, he zipped his collar up to his chin before crossing the street. Thorpe entered the unlocked screen door and shrugged off the backpack. Removing the boots from the plastic bag, he placed them in the corner.
The leather boots were L.A.’s size—a fact determined while serving the previously mentioned search warrant. L.A. would probably be curious as to how the footwear wound up on his porch but would most likely keep them; they were expensive boots. Hopefully L.A. would take them inside his house. Thorpe had removed most of the blood splatters but made sure trace amounts remained to be discovered in lab tests.
Thorpe exited the porch and took a more expedient route back to his vehicle, purposely avoiding the alley. Working his way through the neighborhood, Thorpe arrived at his truck and observed a dark SUV approach from the north. It pulled into the lot just as Thorpe entered the cab. The Chevy SUV with chrome wheels backed into a space and parked. No one got out. Damn, either he had shitty luck or the foursome had put spotters in the neighborhood—probably the latter.
Thorpe sat for a moment and considered his options. Obviously, the men didn’t want to approach him in this parking lot. It was well-lit and too many cops drove up and down Lewis. Thorpe didn’t want to call the police and be placed so close to L.A.’s house. He considered flashing his badge at the SUV from a distance to scare them off—but what if one of the spotters had seen him enter L.A.’s house? No, he couldn’t risk that coming up in an investigation—someone seeing a cop sneak into a murder suspect’s home. He had to try and lose them. Thorpe decided to drive away as if unaware of the men’s presence and to stay on populated streets so as not to get shot—always a good plan.
Thorpe pulled out onto Lewis Avenue, immediately getting a green light at the intersection. He continued south to 11th Street. The dark SUV followed. Catching a red light, Thorpe stopped in the inside lane with a compact car on his rear bumper and the SUV behind the compact. The signal turned green but Thorpe remained still. The driver of the compact got intimate with his horn. The SUV did nothing. Thorpe ignored the impatient honking and waited for the signal to turn red again. When it changed, Thorpe allowed cross traffic to begin moving before he accelerated hard. As Thorpe cut through the intersection, the compact’s honking was joined by those of other irate motorists.