“We’re on boys.”
The six OGU investigators, dressed much like Thorpe, had parked a van next to L.A.’s car. They got out and stood behind it in a circle, pretending to be shooting the shit and drinking beer. L.A. tore out of the bar with his associates in tow. When L.A. drew to within ten yards, Tyrone pulled out his neck badge and yelled, “Police!” Simultaneously, the officers drew their weapons. Associate number one was farthest away from the officers. He broke and ran toward where Thorpe staggered across the parking lot.
Being an ex-con, L.A. would be sent back to prison if caught in possession of a firearm. He took off and followed on the heels of his friend. Tyrone and Jake pursued him. Associate number two remained still and was immediately introduced to the gravel lot.
L.A. would try to run far enough to get rid of his weapon without being seen. Unfortunately for L.A., he fled directly toward Thorpe, who was still doing his best impersonation of a staggering inebriate. In full stride, L.A. risked a glance at his pursuers, giving Thorpe the opportunity to put a shoulder into L.A.’s ribs. The blow knocked L.A. completely off both feet, sending him crashing to the lot. He landed awkwardly on his right side with Thorpe pinning him down. Jake and Tyrone drew near.
“I’m okay. Get his buddy.”
Associate number one was fast, Jake faster, and Tyrone not fast at all. Jake caught his prey in the parking lot of another bar across the street. Though fast, Jake wasn’t much in a fight. He grabbed the larger suspect from behind by the collar of his shirt. The suspect spun and caught Jake with a left hook under his armpit. To Jake’s credit, he held onto the man’s collar as he fell to the ground. Bad guy remained on his feet, bent over at the waist.
What Tyrone lacked in speed, he made up for in mass. Just as the suspect was about to deliver another blow to Jake, Tyrone drove his 250-pound frame into the backside of the jackknifed suspect. With Tyrone on top, the man was driven forward face first onto the asphalt. The landing peeled off a good helping of flesh from the suspect’s forehead and nose. Tyrone almost ripped the man’s arm off as he brought it behind his back and placed him in handcuffs.
Turned out the runner was also an ex-con in possession of a firearm, not to mention seven grams of crack cocaine in his briefs. A lot of people who shouldn’t have seen the undercover officers’ faces came out of the two bars and watched the show. The investigators quickly handed the suspects over to uniforms and got out of sight. Thorpe called Hull.
“What’s up, John?”
Thorpe filled him in, then asked, “What’s happening with the warrant?”
“Just cleared the house of suspects. No one home. Haven’t really started searching yet. I’ll let you know if we come up with something.”
“Be careful, L.A. got a phone call right before he leapt out of his chair to leave this place. Someone’s watching you guys and gave him a call…you going to try and interview L.A. tonight?”
“Think he’ll talk?”
“Doubt it. This ain’t his first rodeo. Don’t know about his buddies yet.”
“Okay, John. By the way Jennifer’s been a huge help.”
“Yeah, she knows her shit. Best warrant writer I got…Bob, if you don’t need me for anything else, I’ll probably be taking off after I fill out my supplemental report; go home and get some sleep.”
“Squeeze in a couple of hours for me…no. Go home. I appreciate your help, John.”
“You bet. Talk to you tomorrow.”
“Don’t call me, I’ll call you. Gonna get some sleep of my own. Maybe.”
Thorpe doubted Hull would get much if any rest. The man probably worked a hundred hours a week. He made good money from overtime, but it’d cost him in other areas. What guys like Hull did for entertainment after leaving police work Thorpe had no idea; probably had a heart attack and died six months into retirement.
Thorpe wouldn’t be getting much sleep tonight either, though it had nothing to do with job devotion.
Wednesday
February 7
Early morning
ACCORDING TO MARCEL NEWMAN, KALEB Moment held secrets about the murder of Thorpe’s family. What Marcel hadn’t known was that his good friend was a police informant. Kaleb had been caught trafficking crack cocaine, and instead of spending his early twenties in the custody of the Department of Corrections, he signed a contract with the Tulsa County District Attorney’s office and was “working off” charges by setting up his friends and associates.
SID maintained a confidential informant file inside the office. Confidential informants, or CIs, were the backbone of undercover dope investigations. Without their assistance, ninety percent of the most substantial cases would cease to exist.
Only SID supervisors had access to CI files. Each CI was assigned a number, and those numbers were the sole identifiers on any related documents. The file was kept in the administrative sergeant’s office in a locked cabinet. Via several simple Rolodexes, supervisors could look up sequential numbers to obtain a CI’s identity. Once they had the informant’s name, they could retrieve his information and case history from a set of alphabetically labeled file cabinets that were secured with a combination lock.
Earlier, Thorpe had gone to the cabinet marked “M,” entered the proper digits and pulled Kaleb Moment’s file. In addition to the cases resulting from Kaleb’s cooperation, it listed personal information, including contact numbers and addresses. Thorpe recorded pertinent data and noted Kaleb’s handler was Brian Hickey, an evening-shift narcotics investigator.
The files led Thorpe to the Bainbridge Apartment complex. Bainbridge, by any name, was one of the most malignant locales in the city. Federally funded, the apartments constantly changed names. As an officer, Thorpe had once been assigned to the Foot Beat Unit. Foot Beat officers had patrolled these housing complexes nightly, but the unit faded away with grant losses and manpower shortages. Now the only crime fighting the apartments applied were name changes. When a particular housing project was featured one too many times on the evening news, preceded by the words “another shooting at,” the complex would simply change its name.
About a month ago, uniformed officers had cornered a homicide suspect inside one of Bainbridge’s units. A mob formed and started throwing rocks at the police. During the subsequent melee, a reporter became part of the story when a reveler grabbed her by the hair and threw her against the side of a news van. The event culminated with a couple of shots fired at officers. As with most incidents like this, the complex became one of the safer places in the city for the next week as officers made examples of anyone who poked a head out a door. Prior to the riot, the North side community complained of a lack of police enforcement: after, they claimed racial profiling. Damned if you do… Police personnel had since been shuffled to other hotspots, and the complex resumed its status as a federally funded criminal housing project.
Thorpe drove through the complex with the hope of spotting Kaleb’s car parked outside his girlfriend’s apartment. The vehicle wasn’t in the lot, and Thorpe couldn’t linger without drawing attention. But he needed to find Kaleb soon; these guys had a way of leading short lives, and if Kaleb went and got himself killed before Thorpe got a chance to interrogate him, the secret would die with the little shit.
Thorpe exited and stopped at a nearby convenience store, yet another prime crack-buying location, and a place where Thorpe had initiated many foot pursuits. The store provided a payphone, which the drug dealers appreciated, and didn’t have surveillance cameras, which the dealers loved. Thorpe climbed from the vehicle and used the payphone to dial Kaleb’s cell phone number.
“Who this?” A male answered.