The office door opened.
She looked up to see Jeff Gobin, Thorpe’s best friend, standing at the threshold.
“John. You ready?”
“I’m ready.”
Ambretta reestablished eye contact. “Ready for what?”
“Jeff here is taking me home.” Thorpe lifted his bandaged limb. “Being that I’m injured and all.”
Their eyes remained locked on one another.
Asshole.
“The phone call you made?” she asked.
“The phone call I made,” he confirmed.
Ambretta found herself in the backseat of Jeff’s car spitting mad and trying desperately not to show it. Thorpe had graciously offered to have Jeff drop her off at the Jeep on the way out.
How did he put it? “I wouldn’t want someone else to take a crack at my dream.” Ugh. She didn’t bother arguing. She’d known it’d be useless to try and keep him at work. If he wanted to use sick time or injury leave or whatever the hell, she couldn’t stop him.
Jeff stopped next to the Jeep, and Thorpe stepped out followed by Ambretta. He unlocked the Wrangler, retrieved his gear from the back seat, and tossed her the keys.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he said.
Thorpe had left the passenger door on Jeff’s car open so he could make a quick escape. Ambretta slammed it shut.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked.
“Are you a man who keeps his promises?”
OH SHIT, WHERE IS THIS going? Thorpe thought. He was a man who kept his promises. His father would roll over in his grave.
“I am.”
“Yesterday, you promised to have drinks with me tonight,” Ambretta reminded him.
“I didn’t exactly promise,” Thorpe argued.
“Are you going to argue over semantics now?” Then, “John…what if I buy all the drinks and swear not to talk shop?”
She’d referred to him by his first name—pulling out the big guns. He could use a couple of drinks, and he could absolutely use the company of an attractive woman—beautiful, really—but not one who was trying to put him in federal prison.
“I’ll tell you what. You buy the drinks, you don’t talk shop, you don’t ask any questions about me, and you let me call you Ambretta. Then you have yourself a deal.”
“Done. In private you may refer to me as Ambretta.”
“Okay, Ambretta. Jeff is taking me home first; I have some things I need to take care of.”
“I can drive you home.”
“I appreciate it. But Jeff and I have some catching up to do.”
“What time shall we meet?”
Shit, how’d I let this happen? He’d finally gotten a free pass away from this woman only to make what sounded a lot like a date with her.
“How ‘bout seven?”
“All right. If you don’t show, I’m going to come looking for you.”
“Of that, I have no doubt,” Thorpe replied as he climbed into Jeff’s city-issued Ford Taurus.
Jeff pulled away and Thorpe put an index finger up to his own mouth as an indication to Jeff he didn’t feel comfortable speaking confidentially in the car.
“Let’s grab a couple of beers before you take me home,” Thorpe said.
“Anywhere in particular?”
“How about Los Cabos; it’ll have a good crowd on a Sunday afternoon.”
Sunday
February 11
Afternoon
LOS CABOS RESTAURANT WAS THE anchor for Riverwalk Crossing, a collection of shops, bars, restaurants and theaters that sat on the west bank of the Arkansas River. The establishment wouldn’t be too out of the way for the drive to Thorpe’s compound, as Jeff liked to refer to it.
Los Cabos had finished concrete floors. The hard surface bounced sound waves and—when the restaurant was busy—made audio surveillance next to impossible. Upon arrival, Thorpe removed his cell phone and left it in the car, motioning for Jeff to do the same. Once the two were seated at a booth inside the noisy restaurant, Thorpe felt free to speak, but it was Jeff who initiated the conversation.
“John, what the hell is going on?”
“It’s obvious the FBI considers me a suspect in these murders.”
“I know that, but why? Why would they think you’d kill those guys? I mean, I realize they weren’t your favorite people—mine either, for that matter. But being an asshole is no reason to kill a man.”
“Maybe I’m a closet racist, Jeff. Maybe I befriended you, just to get near you. Make you feel all comfortable around me then…” Thorpe snapped his fingers and smiled.
“The only thing you’re killing me with are your lame jokes. And it’s a slow-ass death, let me tell ya.”
“I’ve been getting that a lot lately. My timing must be off.”
“Could you be serious for one fucking minute? You have an airtight alibi for Daniels’ murder. You were in the middle of a search warrant with your entire squad when he was killed. So why does the FBI suspect you?”
“Why don’t you tell me, Jeff? You know something, you’ve avoided me like an infectious disease since the feds blew into town.”
“Do you have anything to do with this?”
Thorpe didn’t want to lie, but telling the truth would only put Jeff in a predicament. His friend would have to choose between ratting out Thorpe or keeping his secret and becoming an accessory to murder. Hull had figured out matters on his own. Jeff still struggled for answers—but he knew something.
“Jeff, do you think I’d commit cold-blooded murder just because of someone’s fucked-up views?”
“No.”
Thorpe hadn’t lied, but he hadn’t exactly answered Jeff’s question either. “You know I wouldn’t. Jeff, please tell me what you know, so I can figure out what the hell is going on.”
“You repeat it, I’ll be fired and tossed in prison.”
“It won’t leave this table.”
“Fuck.” Jeff shook his head. “First of all, what I know I’m not supposed to know. I’m not going to tell you who I got my information from, so don’t ask. All I can say is they’re a reliable source.” Jeff looked nervously around the restaurant. “From what I understand, the FBI received a phone call from a kid named Kaleb Moment. You know him?”
Thorpe nodded. Should’ve killed that little snitch bastard. He could justify the other killings, as a kind of justice. Killing Kaleb would’ve been purely out of self-preservation. Thorpe had tried to salvage part of his soul by releasing the kid from that motel room.
No good deed goes unpunished.
Jeff continued, “Anyway, I guess this Kaleb fucker calls up a Texas FBI office and tells them some Tulsa police sergeant is fixing to go off the reservation. Tells them a bunch of police officers are about to get killed. Tells them this sergeant will be the one responsible for their murders. Tells them you, Jonathan Thorpe, is that sergeant. He says he can’t go to the police because other TPD officers are involved.
“Kaleb demands to be placed in the witness protection program and wants a document promising a deal. He called the FBI office in Texas instead of the local office because he’s so freaked out. He’s afraid you have friends in high places. I guess the agent who took the call is thinking, ‘Yeah, right, another caller with conspiracy theories.’ But the agent tells the kid to drive on in, and he’ll take a statement. If the information pans out, and TPD officers start getting whacked, he’ll make sure Kaleb gets in the program.”
Jeff nervously looked around the restaurant before he continued. “Well, guess what happens? Stephen Price gets killed with a bow and arrow, and Cole Daniels gets sniped in his living room, and this kid never shows up for his meeting in Texas. The Texas agent catches the national news and thinks, ‘Holy shit! The kid was legit.’ He contacts the FBI office in Tulsa and passes on the information Kaleb had given him over the phone.