Right now, he had other problems to worry about, like driving a Dodge Durango with seventeen bullet holes, front-end damage and a dead guy in the backseat. He needed to get the car well out of his neighborhood—and do it without getting pulled over by the police. Afterward, he’d have to find a way home that couldn’t be traced. Thorpe had one thing working in his favor: officers hate to stop cars in inclement weather, and conditions didn’t get much nastier than they were tonight. Thorpe sometimes jokingly commented if he sold drugs for a living, he’d only move his product when it was raining.
Thorpe stopped in a secluded area and surveyed the Durango’s damage. A headlight was busted. The windows on both front doors were nearly gone. The windshield was shattered. And there were bullet holes in the driver’s side door.
Thorpe located the vehicle’s lug wrench and used it to rake the remaining glass from the two front windows. Then he returned to the driver’s seat and kicked out the windshield. Yet another pair of boots I have to replace.
It would be hell driving sixty miles an hour in the sleet without a windshield, but seeing through the shattered glass was nearly impossible. Thorpe located a pair of Baker’s sunglasses and put them on. The tinted lenses weren’t optimal but would be an improvement over speed-driven sleet ripping at his eyes.
Thorpe dropped the SUV into drive and sped toward Tulsa in an open cockpit. As he neared the city limits, he retrieved Shaw’s cell phone from his pocket and thumbed through its contacts. He located the one he wanted, and dialed.
“Thadius? What are you doing calling me in the…” Samantha Daniels—Cole Daniels’ recent widow—answered the phone, clearly irritated.
Hoping to keep his voice indiscernible, Thorpe interrupted her with raspy speech aided by the whipping wind.
“Samantha? Samantha, I need help. They’ve got me…the same people who got Cole got me…”
Thorpe didn’t like using Samantha, considering the woman had just lost her husband, but now was not the time for niceties.
“Thadius, what’s going on? I…”
“Listen! I’m in the trunk of a white Lincoln Town car. They’re going to kill me, Samantha. My phone couldn’t get through to 911. You gotta call the police.”
“Where are you?”
“I don’t know. We’re parked somewhere in North Tulsa. I think we’re close to Reservoir Hill. White Lincoln Town car. Three white males. You gotta call. They’re going to hear me…I gotta go.”
Hopefully Samantha would phone 911 and make for a credible caller. Even if she thought it was a prank, she’d most likely report the phone call. Every available unit would respond to North Tulsa, looking for three white males in a white Lincoln Town car. Taking into consideration the caller and recent events, even the State Troopers and the Tulsa County Sheriff’s Department would be notified. Thorpe should have a “police free” zone where he was headed.
Even if units did remain in the area, they’d be looking for three Caucasian males in a white Lincoln—a far cry from a black Dodge Durango with one headlight. Thorpe turned east onto the Creek Turnpike making his way around the south side of the city before connecting with Highway 169 and continuing north. He merged with I-244 before exiting onto Memorial Drive, thankful he hadn’t yet spotted a marked patrol unit and angry with himself for not having brought along a police radio. He entered a neighborhood north of McClure Park, where he removed his equipment from the Durango and set out on foot.
The offices of SID were just over a mile away, but since he’d be traveling peripheral streets, his urban hike would be closer to two miles. He looked forward to the exercise; despite his layers of protective clothing, sixty-mile-an-hour subfreezing winds had taken its toll. Thorpe hid his AR and equipment in the shrubbery of a nearby house. Not many people were up at this hour, but a man ensconced in camouflage toting an assault rifle would likely raise an eyebrow or two. Thorpe had some distance to travel, but in an effort to keep all eyebrows at an acceptable elevation, resisted the urge to run.
Twenty-two minutes later Thorpe approached the offices from the southwest. He only had keys to one extra vehicle in the lot. If that car were gone, he’d have to enter the building via his keycard, which would electronically record his presence. He preferred to avoid leaving any indication he’d been in the area.
Thorpe climbed the parking ramp and avoided using his keycard by scaling the chain link gate. The sight of the green Jeep Wrangler brought instant relief; he wouldn’t have to enter the office to retrieve a set of keys. Thorpe got behind the wheel and pulled up to the gate, where a weight-sensitive pad released him without any electronic documentation.
He wished he could buy a gas can and fuel, but knew every convenience store in the Tulsa area would receive follow-up investigations after tonight. And most stations had video, at least on the inside of the stores. Instead of using a gas can, he had another idea.
Thorpe drove the Jeep to a dark, isolated area inside McClure Park where prostitutes often serviced their johns. He doubted any officers would check the area because, hopefully, they were busy searching for a Lincoln Town car, and because like cops, hookers hate working in poor weather. Having parked, Thorpe returned to where he’d stashed his equipment, retrieved the items and made his way back to the Durango.
There, he considered his options on how to collect an accelerant.
There were really only two: he could slide under the SUV and go to work on the plastic gas tank with a knife. It probably wouldn’t take long to puncture, and the drainage would be fast. There was just one problem: he’d end up with gasoline—a.k.a. evidence—all over his person and clothing. Plus, he’d transfer that evidence to the Jeep when he drove away. He decided on option number two, which would be much cleaner but more time consuming.
Thorpe climbed into the driver’s seat, inserted the key and turned it on to activate the fuel pump. He then popped the hood, removed the bladder from his Camelbak, stepped outside and dumped the water on the street. Lifting the hood and using his knife as a screwdriver, Thorpe released the fuel rail and slowly began filling the bladder. When it was full, he poured the gasoline in the cab of the vehicle and on the body of Brandon Baker, careful not to get any on his own clothing.
Taking one last look around, Thorpe sparked a lighter he’d found in the console. Flames leapt into the air. This time, Thorpe did run. As he approached the Jeep, he removed his gloves hoping to avoid leaving traces of the accelerant on the steering wheel. He started the engine and with a flaming ball in his rearview mirror, headed for home.
He still had work to do.
Saturday
February 10
Morning
IT WAS 9:00 A.M. WHEN Thorpe’s pager started going off. He’d been asleep for exactly one hour and still had a dead man lying in the woods across from his house. Thorpe returned the page and reached his captain, Don Cory. The captain had “unsettling news.”
“Brandon Baker was killed last night and set on fire, and Thadius Shaw is missing. I’d give you more details, but I have about a hundred calls I need to make. There’s going to be a full briefing at SID at 1300 hours. Everybody’s coming in, regular days off or not. Vacation and comp days are cancelled. Be here.”
The line clicked dead.
Thorpe would be paid overtime to help search for the killers. He conceded to the irony, looked at his watch, and decided to get a few more hours of sack time. His father’s words floated alongside him into unconsciousness.