“Oh, come on. It’s the land of milk and honey. Hey, could you do me a favor and turn in the gun? There’s nothing left for you guys to do here anyway. I think our cover has officially been blown.”
“Yeah, no problem.”
Thorpe looked at Collins, who’d joined his side.
“Let’s get inside.” He nodded toward the rivers of fleeing people between them and the Jeep. “I don’t think we’ll be able to get to our ride for a few minutes.”
The two ascended the stairs and started for the entrance to the Main Station. “You did a good job back there, you know?” Collins offered. “Probably saved someone’s life, the kid’s for sure.”
“Yeah, now he’ll have a chance to grow up and learn how to kill a cop without getting caught.”
Collins shook her head. “Don’t make this something ugly. You can’t control everyone and everything. Some things are just going to...happen.”
“And some things can be prevented,” Thorpe argued.
“Look, tragedies happen every minute of every day. And someone’s always left behind wondering ‘what if I had done this, or said that.’ None of it can be predicted, yet we all wallow in guilt.”
Thorpe was already thinking Collins’ speech sounded rehearsed when she stopped and put a hand on his shoulder.
“You’re hurt,” she said.
“Look, you’ve obviously done your homework on me, and you know what happened to my family. You’ll know I want your psychobabble when I lie down on a couch for you.”
“Uhh.” Collins nodded down at Thorpe’s hand. “I mean you’re physically hurt.”
Thorpe dripped blood onto the sun-bleached concrete. He looked back, discovering he’d left a crimson trail up the stairs. He felt his face turning the same shade he’d painted steps.
“Look, I’m sorry, I…”
“Forget about it,” Collins said, cutting him off. “Is it painful?”
“Not till you pointed it out. Guess I still have an adrenaline dump.”
Thorpe tugged on his sleeve revealing a gash on his wrist. Until it’d become saturated, his sweatshirt had kept the blood from running down his hand.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Sunday
February 11
Afternoon
AMBRETTA FOLLOWED THORPE ALONG THE empty hallways of the Main Station. Because it was Sunday, the building was closed to the public and the few detectives on duty were occupied with the mess outside. Thorpe led her to the offices of the Domestic Violence Unit, where he said he’d remembered seeing a first aid kit bolted to the wall. While she sifted through the metal box, she noticed him step into a glassed-in office, turn his back, and make a phone call. He was either unable to reach who he’d dialed or didn’t have much to say, because thirty seconds later he returned and sat in a rolling office chair.
Upon her arrival in Tulsa, Ambretta had been given four tasks, two of which were secondary to the others. One was to coordinate security details using local officers and federal agents. Another was to assist with, and oversee the progress of, the investigative unit. But her main objectives were to monitor the movements of Sergeant Jonathan Thorpe and to learn as much as possible about the man. Normally this would be a simple task; she generally had no problem getting men to do nearly anything she wanted. The skill had served her well over the last two years.
Thorpe, however, proved to be a difficult case. If he admired her looks, he didn’t show it. And he’d turned her down for drinks once already—a rejection she’d never before experienced, even with married men. Of course, if Thorpe really were on a murderous rampage, then he was a tad busy.
Ambretta felt she excelled at appraising the quality of a man, and Thorpe didn’t strike her as a serial murderer. At least not one motivated by race. He was obviously capable of violence when necessary. And what had happened to his family would cause anyone to lose moral footing; Ambretta knew that first hand. Still, there was something different about Thorpe.
The man was a mystery. Unexplained scars snaked their way through his eyebrows. He had a wrestler’s ears and a fighter’s knuckles. Although on him, the injuries only enhanced his masculinity. And those green eyes…wow. Ambretta hadn’t felt attracted to anyone in a long time, but she recognized the familiar pang. She realized their shared experiences played a part; they’d each lost loved ones to unspeakable acts of cowardice. Regardless, she had a job to do, and she was not accustomed to failing.
Having gathered what she needed from the first-aid kit, Ambretta turned and caught Thorpe staring at her ass.
So he’s a man after all.
“Please remove your jacket and sweatshirt.”
“I normally demand that my date take me out to dinner first,” Thorpe joked.
“I saw you looking, big boy. You might as well give up on that dream right now.”
Thorpe laughed. As he pulled the sweatshirt over his head, it snagged the underlying t-shirt, exposing his washboard stomach and even more lacerations. Except on the cover of magazines, she didn’t know when she’d seen a man in such phenomenal shape. But those guys trained for months and then dehydrated themselves for the photo shoot. Thorpe resembled a middleweight boxer at a pre-fight weigh-in. There was no fat at all.
“How’d you get cut up like that?”
“Beer and sit-ups.”
“I’m referring to the cuts that left the scars, smart ass.”
“Police work is dangerous.”
Does this guy ever give a straight answer?
Expressing her doubt with arched eyebrows, Ambretta sat on a rolling chair and slid in front of Thorpe. She opened a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. His knee was between hers.
“You know what I say here, right?” Collins asked.
“This is going to sting?”
“Close enough.”
She tipped the bottle, and liquid foamed on the abrasion. She repeated the process two more times until satisfied she’d flushed the wound. Then she grabbed a roll of gauze and began wrapping the damaged wrist. Occasionally she failed to resist the urge to look up.
Those damned eyes of his.
Thorpe looked directly into hers, and smiled. “Isn’t this where we gaze at each other and fall into a long kiss?”
Ambretta was accustomed to men looking at her the way Thorpe did now. She’d been attracted to few, if any. There were so many freaks in the world. If they weren’t self-absorbed braggarts, they usually had good reason. The so-called sensitive ones, the men who actually gave a damn what you had to say, were often a teaspoon of estrogen away from being women. Yeah, they knew how to hold open a door for you, but just try to find one with the steel to stand up and do what’s right when things went to shit. And if they were a man’s man, they might offer a pair of broad shoulders, but there’s no way in hell they’d give you their time, heart, or, God forbid, their loyalty.
Ambretta knew she measured every man against her father—an unfair comparison for anyone. He might not have been perfect, but he’d been the perfect dad. He would’ve given his life, his heart, his loyalty, his everything for his little girl. Her father would also have given his life for complete strangers—which, ultimately, he did.
“Even if I didn’t know what an ass you were, you still wouldn’t have a chance.”
“Ouch. That stung worse than my wrist.”
“Somehow I think you’ll survive both injuries. All finished.”
Thorpe made a fist. “Nice work. Well, on my physical wound at least. As for my ego…”
“Your wound is far more manageable than your ego,” Ambretta said as she leaned back and crossed her arms. His knee still rested between her thighs, his bright green eyes held hers.