“The FBI, having your name and a tip that other TPD officers are involved, calls a private meeting with high-ranking members of TPD. They discuss their options and decide to go out to your house and pick you up for questioning. At least that was the plan until Agent Collins entered the meeting…”
Thorpe listened to Jeff and thought his friend possessed a lot of information for someone who wasn’t supposed to be in the know. Most likely, Jeff’s source was a certain deputy chief he’d befriended.
“…I guess the special agent over the Tulsa office doesn’t know Agent Collins from shit. She walks in, produces her credentials, and tells them in no uncertain terms she is now in charge. The SAC protests, but Collins tells him to take it up with his boss and spits out the man’s cell phone number from memory. According to my source, the SAC phoned his boss, turned five shades of red and subsequently handed over the reins to Agent Collins.
“Agent Collins addressed the group and informed them that you have an airtight alibi for the murder of Cole Daniels. So if you are a suspect, then there are others involved as well. She also tells them the only reason you were named as a suspect was because of the phone call from the now-missing Kaleb Moment. If you were indeed one of the killers, they had no corroborating evidence and would only be ‘showing their hand’ if they brought you in for an interview so early in the investigation. Agent Collins went on to say that the best course of action would be to monitor your activities. She then excused the few TPD personnel present and had a private talk with the gathered FBI officials. Again, according to my source, when the local feds walked out, they looked like they’d all been kicked in the balls. The same night they had this meeting, Brandon Baker was killed and set on fire, and Thadius Shaw went missing.
“Other than that, I don’t know much. After the initial meeting, the FBI has disclosed little to TPD. I was threatened with having my nuts cut off and shoved up my ass if I relayed any of this information. Anyway, Agent Collins is in charge of the entire investigation, and she’s been riding around with you for seven or eight hours a day. I wouldn’t trust her for shit if I were you.”
“Yeah. I should definitely stay away from her,” Thorpe agreed.
“By the way, what’d she say to you outside my car?”
“Oh, nothing. We were just planning our date for this evening.”
“What? That your sorry-ass sense of humor again?”
Thorpe shrugged. “No. That’s just my sorry-ass decision making.”
Jeff laughed. “You dumbass. You never were very smart with women.”
“Shit, I don’t even know how it happened, Jeff.”
“I do. If she were five-foot-three and four hundred pounds, you wouldn’t be in this position. The feds probably sent her on purpose. Well, at least you have nothing to worry about since you’re not involved in this shit. She’s just wasting her time. Damn good-looking, though—doesn’t even wear much makeup. Female feds never look like her—‘cept in the movies.”
AFTER A COUPLE MORE BEERS, the two men loaded up in the car and continued to Thorpe’s residence. As Jeff entered the neighborhood, he didn’t pay much attention when Thorpe asked him to pull over to the side of the road—not until Thorpe grabbed his gear bag and climbed out of the Ford.
“You’re walking?”
“Yeah, the feds are keeping tabs on me, and I don’t like to make things easy for anyone. Thanks for everything, Jeff.”
“No problem, and be careful around Agent Collins. Don’t let her use her feminine wares against you.”
“You know me. I’m like a rock.”
“Yeah. ‘Bout as smart as one,” Jeff replied.
“If you don’t mind, don’t drive by my house. Just back up and head out the way we came.”
Jeff’s nod turned into a disappointed shake as he watched his best friend disappear into the woods. He’d expected Thorpe to have more faith in him.
Sunday
February 11
Evening
THORPE SPED TOWARD TULSA UNDER a clear, starlit night. Earlier he’d arrived home and, after a close inspection of his wax seals, felt confident no one had entered in his absence. He’d taken a nervous shower during which he’d directed a remake of Psycho in his head with Andrew Phipps playing the part of Norman Bates.
Following the shower, Thorpe had settled into a chair to think. Instead, he’d fallen asleep for nearly two hours, the toll of the last few days demanding payment. After waking, he’d donned a pair of coveralls to protect his date garb and packed dress shoes in his ever-present gear bag. Then he’d plodded through the woods to retrieve his personal truck from Deborah’s barn.
Now, as Thorpe neared the Creek Turnpike, he retrieved his phone and called Ambretta.
“I was beginning to think you were going to stand me up,” she answered.
“I’m a man of my word. I’m almost to Tulsa now. Where do you want to meet?”
“I’m staying at the Renaissance. You mind picking me up here?”
“I’ll be there in fifteen or less.”
Thorpe cursed himself. He still had three hostiles at large: Phipps, Corn, and McDonald, who all wanted him dead. But instead of dealing with these somewhat pressing issues, he drove straight into the lion’s den for a date with the FBI agent in charge of his investigation. Thorpe shook his head. Logic told him to avoid this encounter; intuition argued the opposite. Or maybe testosterone had clouded his judgment. He was definitely attracted to the woman—hopefully, the attraction wouldn’t prove fatal.
Located north of 71st Street and east of Highway 169, The Renaissance was one of Tulsa’s nicest and newest hotels. The 71st Street corridor was a mecca of shops, malls, restaurants, and bars. He redialed Ambretta’s number to tell her he’d arrived.
“I just ordered a drink inside the hotel bar, Merlots, I believe it’s called. Care to join me?”
Thorpe entered, dressed in black slacks and a tailored, long-sleeve dress shirt that covered his injured wrist. He found Ambretta sitting at the bar facing the entrance—as all good cops do. She wore a simple, formfitting black dress that, as she sat, reached mid-thigh. It marked the first time he’d seen her with her hair down—literally. Her wavy black tresses were draped in front of her left shoulder, exposing her long slender neck. She posed rather nicely. On the other side of the horseshoe-shaped bar were two middle-aged men in business suits who appeared as if they were working up the courage to approach the beauty across from them. Then again, maybe they were her muscle.
Thorpe muttered to himself as he crossed the room. “I might as well turn myself in and get it over with.” As Thorpe stepped up to the bar, Ambretta gave him a warm smile—painted full lips framing her perfectly white teeth. Shit.
“John.”
It sounded odd to hear her refer to him by his first name.
“Ambretta.”
“Were you talking to yourself?”
“Yes. And it was not a pleasant conversation,” Thorpe admitted.
Ambretta laughed. “You clean up pretty well,” she said touching his arm.
“I didn’t want you to outclass me. But I’ve failed in that endeavor yet again.”
“I’ll consider that a compliment. I promised to buy the drinks…what’ll you have?”
They were having drinks at the hotel where she was staying? He noticed that despite the outside temperature she hadn’t brought down a jacket; she wasn’t planning on going anywhere. That was either very good for Thorpe, or very bad. Would he be headed to her room, or would he be leaving here in handcuffs?