To Thorpe’s surprise, the compact car also ran the red light, followed by the SUV.
“Damn it.”
Either the compact was really pissed with Thorpe’s shitty driving or the group had split into two cars. Or worse, they might be reinforcements. There was at least one way to find out.
Everything inside the cab slid to the right as Thorpe made a hard left onto 13th Place. A street sign indicated the road was a dead end, but Thorpe knew that wasn’t exactly true. The compact and the SUV followed. No doubt now, they were together. Here, 13th Place was only a block long, bordered by a steep, wooded embankment on his right, and a closed charcoal-grill manufacturing plant on his left. The street came to an abrupt end at a wooded area, but one could make a sharp left turn behind the plant onto a gravel road that curved back to Lewis.
Thorpe pushed the truck down the short street, pumped the brake pedal, and turned behind the plant. He briefly accelerated before sliding across the gravel to a stop. The area was isolated, and the building now sat between him and his assailants. He jammed the truck into park and sprang from the cab with a Beretta 9mm in hand just as the nose of the compact car made the corner of the building. Thorpe fired five rounds into the driver’s side window and three more into the windshield of the car. He was already climbing back into his truck when he heard the SUV slam into the rear of the compact. Thorpe fed the accelerator and sped down the gravel road and back onto Lewis Avenue. He raced north, checking his mirrors. Nothing followed. He had no idea if he’d struck anyone in the vehicle and wasn’t going to wait around to find out.
Thorpe increased the volume on his police radio and concentrated on slowing his breathing. He turned into a neighborhood to avoid major intersections. If a shooting call were dispatched, nearby officers would respond as quickly as possible using arterial streets.
Ten minutes later, Thorpe pulled into a parking lot near the office and changed back into his original clothes. So far he hadn’t heard any radio traffic reference his extracurricular activities.
Thorpe pulled into the office lot and wiped down the borrowed truck. Gathering his belongings, he entered his assigned vehicle. He spent the next twenty minutes driving to the Arkansas River, where he threw the pistol in the water part by part. The Berretta had been a fine weapon he’d acquired during an earlier search warrant. He’d dispose of his tainted clothing later.
Almost an hour after perforating the compact car, Thorpe heard radio traffic that could be related: “Lincoln 101, Lincoln one-zero-one and a car to back. Shooting victim at St. John Hospital, 1923 South Utica Avenue, one-nine-two-three South Utica Avenue, break…See security in the E.R. Black male arrived with a gunshot wound to the face. Security reports the car he arrived in, a white Ford Focus, has multiple bullet holes.” That had to be the car. Thorpe retrieved his cell phone and contacted one of his investigators.
“What’s up, Sarge?”
“Hey, Jack, I just heard a shooting call go out over the radio. Sounds like someone got himself and his car all shot to hell. A couple of uniforms are en route to St. John Hospital to contact the victim. Don’t know where it happened. You mind running over there to see if he’s one of ours?”
“Yeah, no problem. I’ll start that way.”
“Thanks, Jack, let me know what you find out.”
Thorpe’s unit was responsible for investigating gang-related shootings. Sending one of his officers to the hospital wouldn’t be seen as unusual. First, Jack would check to see if the suspect was a certified gang member. If so, the OGU would handle the investigation. If not, Jack would inspect the suspect for gang tattoos, associates and so on. If he discovered the victim should be certified, OGU would take the case. If Jack found no indications of gang involvement, matters would be left to uniformed officers and the Special Investigations Unit.
Thorpe had planned to gather intel on Kaleb Moment tonight, but in light of recent events, he decided it would be best to stand-down and assess the situation. He drove back to his office to tackle some of Major Duncan’s deforestation experiments.
Sitting at his desk, Thorpe had barely put a dent in his in-basket, when Jack used his phone’s direct-connect feature to reach his boss.
“Hey, Sarge, you over here?”
“Yeah, Jack. Whatta you got?”
“Kid’s name is Christopher Ruble. He’s not certified yet but probably should be. Has some tats indicate he’s a Blood.”
“What’s up with the shooting?”
“Kid was hit in the face. Bullet went in his left cheek, fucked up his teeth, and exited his right cheek. He’s going to live, but he’ll be eatin’ through a straw for a while.”
“Who, where, and why?” Thorpe inquired.
“Don’t know who the shooter is. Kid can’t talk worth a damn, so he’s writing shit down with a pen. Claims he was driving down the street minding his own damned business, when someone just shot up his car for no good reason. Typical deal. Didn’t see anything and doesn’t have any idea who would want to hurt him.”
“Got a crime scene?”
“Not that we know of yet. Kid said it happened on Apache somewhere. Uniforms are heading up there now to see if they can find anything. Going to have his car towed for evidence—let SIU process it. Guess the little fucker drove to the hospital himself—no teeth and all.”
“Okay, Jack, thanks. Let me know if you need any help.”
For once, an uncooperative victim would work in Thorpe’s favor. It didn’t sound like the guy was going to be a problem; he’d even lied about where the shooting occurred.
Before Thorpe left the office for the night, he removed a two-pound bag of sugar from the cafeteria, went out to the red Chevy he’d been driving earlier and poured most of it into the gas tank. The sugar should cause enough engine damage to keep the Chevy out of action for a while. In fact, since the vehicle was an older confiscation, the department would probably just scrap the truck instead of having it repaired. The last thing Thorpe wanted on his conscience was a fellow officer driving the Chevy and getting ambushed by a revenge-seeking gangbanger.
Tuesday
February 6
Early morning
THORPE TRAVELED THE ROADALONGSIDE his property just after two thirty in the morning. Inside the fence, Al and Trixie paced his truck until both parties met at the gate. Ablaze in headlights, the dogs’ wagging tails projected shadowy ribbons on the otherwise still barn. Removing the lock and chain, Thorpe reached through the metal gate and scratched both dogs under the chin before ordering them to back up. The dogs dutifully obeyed, allowing Thorpe to push open the gate, climb into his truck, and enter his drive. Once inside, Thorpe slid out of the cab and gave his friends a proper greeting—a thorough scratching behind laid back ears.
Thorpe closed the gate and continued up the driveway, parking in front of the barn. After feeding Al and Trixie, he removed equipment from his truck and walked to the front door of his home. Thorpe didn’t own an alarm system; the house was so remote it wouldn’t do much good. Besides that’s what his pooches were for. He unlocked the front door, stepped to the side, and ordered the dogs to search the interior. Thorpe hadn’t found the inspiration to decorate yet. His living room consisted of a leather couch, a recliner, an end table, a television and not much else. Crossing the threshold, Thorpe removed a Glock 27 pistol from his ankle holster and a Glock 22C from his waistband. He placed both weapons on the end table, stepped into the kitchen and grabbed a beer. He stood in hesitation for a moment, reopened the refrigerator and removed the remainder of the six-pack; it had been that kind of night. Thorpe waited for the search’s conclusion, then walked out the back door—beer and dogs in tow.