Thorpe inspected the vehicles around the patrol car, looking for any clues that might indicate which one was Price’s privately owned vehicle. His Carnac powers failing miserably, Thorpe returned to the Impala with the hope of formulating a plan.
Minutes later Thorpe was saved from his mental wrangling. Price descended the outside stairs wearing slacks, a leather jacket and size fifteen-ish dress shoes. He got into a vehicle befitting his size, a silver Hummer III. Thorpe waited until the Hummer backed out of its space and rounded the corner before following.
Despite movie portrayals, it’s nearly impossible to follow someone using one vehicle—unless the person you’re following is absolutely clueless or you’re utilizing a tracking device. Most folks engaged in criminal activity watch their mirrors more than the road in front of them.
Thorpe barely caught a glimpse of the Hummer turning west on 81st Street. Pulling up to the complex’s exit, he let several cars pass before falling in line. The traffic lights at 81st turned green, allowing Price to turn left on Memorial Drive. Thorpe watched as the Hummer traveled south a quarter of a mile before pulling into the parking lot of The Ocean Floor, a nightclub that attracted a younger, sexually-driven clientele.
Continuing south on Memorial Drive, Thorpe watched the Hummer search for a parking space outside the busy bar. He continued on, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds to make sure the Hummer didn’t leave the lot. Another quarter mile south of the bar, he conducted a U-turn. Back at the Ocean Floor’s lot, he found a space several rows behind the Hummer, waited about ten minutes, retrieved the transmitter and exited his Impala.
Thorpe wore a heavy jacket over a hooded sweatshirt; he pulled the hood over his head before passing in front of the hopefully unoccupied SUV. He scanned the cars near the Hummer and, not seeing anyone inside, walked up to the passenger side, bent down, and—with a loud, cringe-inducing whump—attached the Birddog. The bulk of the transmitter was comprised of heavy-duty magnets that always made attaching the device a noisy affair.
Thorpe looked to see if he’d garnered any attention, then reentered his own car and drove to an Irish bar directly across the street from QuikTrip. There, he activated the Birddog’s receiver, which was, so far, receiving a strong and accurate signal.
Thorpe grabbed the voice changer, left his car and walked across Memorial to the QuikTrip. Unsure about the presence of surveillance cameras, he didn’t want to drive onto the lot. From experience, he knew the cameras didn’t provide quality pictures, but they were capable of picking up the make and model of a car. In addition to his heavy jacket and hoodie, Thorpe wore gloves and baggy pants. As he approached the convenience store, he altered his gait and the manner in which he carried himself. He would have liked to make this phone call farther away but feared Price would drive out of range of the receiver before he returned. In the age of cellular technology, it was becoming more and more difficult to find pay phones; fortunately, QuikTrip still kept the antiquated devices outside their stores.
The handheld voice changer he’d acquired from SID was a cheap model, and he wasn’t certain why they even had one. Whatever the reason, it was good enough to serve his purpose. Thorpe stood with his back to the cameras and punched in the cell phone number listed on Price’s Rolodex card. After five rings, the line clicked open. Loud techno music thumped in the background.
“Hello?” boomed Price’s unmistakable baritone voice.
Thorpe spoke into the cheap electronic instrument, producing an unnatural metallic tone.
STEPHEN PRICE STOOD INSIDE THE Ocean Floor nightclub, enjoying views of short skirts and pedestal tops. He retrieved a vibrating phone from his pocket, not recognizing the number displayed on its screen.
“Hello?”
“Get somewhere you can hear me.”
Price thought one of his friends was fucking with him again; the person was obviously using some kind of contraption to alter his voice.
“I can hear you…who’s this? This a joke?”
“I know you killed Demarius Davis. I also know you killed his brother, Deandre.”
Price winced from an acute pressure in his chest.
No fucking way he just heard that. He must have misunderstood. Price fought to gather his breath before he spoke.
“What? Who the fuck is this?”
“You killed them both, and I have proof.”
Motherfucker! Price’s mind was racing. Feigning ignorance was all he could come up with as a defense.
“What the fuck you talkin’ about?”
“I want twenty-thousand dollars, or I’m going to the police. I’ll call you in exactly one hour at this number with instructions. Understand?”
Price’s brain battled itself. This can’t be fucking happening! I knew this shit would happen!
“I don’t understand shit, motherfucker! Who is this?”
“One hour, at this number, with instructions.”
The stranger cut the call. Price snapped his phone closed. He pushed through the crowd toward the exit. Once outside, he flipped open his cell, retrieved the last number received and hit send. The phone rang with no answer. Price paced up and down outside the bar, sweating despite the cold weather. He brought up the number and again hit send. This time a male answered—but without the ominous metallic voice that had shattered his night.
“Hello?”
“Who are you?” Price demanded.
“Who are you?” the voice replied.
“Who the fuck is this?”
“I’m answering a damn pay phone, asshole!”
Price couldn’t get his mind to settle down. “Shit! Did you see who was on the phone before you?” Price asked.
“Look, buddy, there wasn’t anybody on the phone. I was walking into the store, it was ringing, I thought, ‘what the hell’ and answered it.”
“What pay phone is it? Where you at?”
“The Q.T. at 81st and Memorial.”
Suddenly Price felt very exposed. His head was on a swivel as he closed his phone. He ran to his Hummer, peeled out of the lot and dialed a familiar number.
THORPE WAS BACK IN HIS Impala on the southwest corner of 81st and Memorial. He was about to get “eyes on” his target when the Birddog notified him of Price’s approach. Thorpe watched as the silver Hummer pulled up to the intersection and turned right. He listened to the audible alert on the receiver and realized Price had driven past his apartment.
He’s on the move.
Thorpe followed, staying well behind his quarry.
Halfway between Memorial and Mingo, the signal slowed, stopped and reversed directions. Price was headed straight back at Thorpe, prompting him to hastily pull off into a neighborhood and kill his lights. He watched through the rear window as the Hummer went past. Thorpe used a driveway to turn around and was pulling back up to 81st Street to follow when he noticed the signal coming toward him again. Price was performing a classic tail shaker, making U-turns in an effort to identify trailing cars. Good. If Price was trying to shake a tail, it meant he was going somewhere he didn’t want to be followed.
Thorpe backed into a driveway on the darkened street and watched the Hummer speed past on 81st. Thorpe allowed for separation before resuming his follow. The receiver indicated an easterly route for nearly a minute, then it turned left and the signal began to rapidly weaken. Price was northbound on Highway 169. Once on the highway himself, Thorpe pushed the Impala as fast as it would go.
The Hummer was a half-mile ahead with several cars separating the two vehicles. At this distance, the Impala would only be a pair of obscure headlights in Price’s rearview mirror. As Price topped an incline, Thorpe noticed the signal on the Birddog quicken. Price had come to a stop on the other side of the hill. If a car had been conducting a visual follow, it would crest the hill and pass Price before the driver realized what had happened.