Thorpe sat down on the sidewalk across from his target, removed the handheld thermal imaging device and discreetly surveyed the screened porch of L.A.’s home. No hot spots; the porch appeared to be clear of occupants. Putting the device back into his coat, he zipped his collar up to his chin before crossing the street. Thorpe entered the unlocked screen door and shrugged off the backpack. Removing the boots from the plastic bag, he placed them in the corner.
The leather boots were L.A.’s size—a fact determined while serving the previously mentioned search warrant. L.A. would probably be curious as to how the footwear wound up on his porch but would most likely keep them; they were expensive boots. Hopefully L.A. would take them inside his house. Thorpe had removed most of the blood splatters but made sure trace amounts remained to be discovered in lab tests.
Thorpe exited the porch and took a more expedient route back to his vehicle, purposely avoiding the alley. Working his way through the neighborhood, Thorpe arrived at his truck and observed a dark SUV approach from the north. It pulled into the lot just as Thorpe entered the cab. The Chevy SUV with chrome wheels backed into a space and parked. No one got out. Damn, either he had shitty luck or the foursome had put spotters in the neighborhood—probably the latter.
Thorpe sat for a moment and considered his options. Obviously, the men didn’t want to approach him in this parking lot. It was well-lit and too many cops drove up and down Lewis. Thorpe didn’t want to call the police and be placed so close to L.A.’s house. He considered flashing his badge at the SUV from a distance to scare them off—but what if one of the spotters had seen him enter L.A.’s house? No, he couldn’t risk that coming up in an investigation—someone seeing a cop sneak into a murder suspect’s home. He had to try and lose them. Thorpe decided to drive away as if unaware of the men’s presence and to stay on populated streets so as not to get shot—always a good plan.
Thorpe pulled out onto Lewis Avenue, immediately getting a green light at the intersection. He continued south to 11th Street. The dark SUV followed. Catching a red light, Thorpe stopped in the inside lane with a compact car on his rear bumper and the SUV behind the compact. The signal turned green but Thorpe remained still. The driver of the compact got intimate with his horn. The SUV did nothing. Thorpe ignored the impatient honking and waited for the signal to turn red again. When it changed, Thorpe allowed cross traffic to begin moving before he accelerated hard. As Thorpe cut through the intersection, the compact’s honking was joined by those of other irate motorists.
To Thorpe’s surprise, the compact car also ran the red light, followed by the SUV.
“Damn it.”
Either the compact was really pissed with Thorpe’s shitty driving or the group had split into two cars. Or worse, they might be reinforcements. There was at least one way to find out.
Everything inside the cab slid to the right as Thorpe made a hard left onto 13th Place. A street sign indicated the road was a dead end, but Thorpe knew that wasn’t exactly true. The compact and the SUV followed. No doubt now, they were together. Here, 13th Place was only a block long, bordered by a steep, wooded embankment on his right, and a closed charcoal-grill manufacturing plant on his left. The street came to an abrupt end at a wooded area, but one could make a sharp left turn behind the plant onto a gravel road that curved back to Lewis.
Thorpe pushed the truck down the short street, pumped the brake pedal, and turned behind the plant. He briefly accelerated before sliding across the gravel to a stop. The area was isolated, and the building now sat between him and his assailants. He jammed the truck into park and sprang from the cab with a Beretta 9mm in hand just as the nose of the compact car made the corner of the building. Thorpe fired five rounds into the driver’s side window and three more into the windshield of the car. He was already climbing back into his truck when he heard the SUV slam into the rear of the compact. Thorpe fed the accelerator and sped down the gravel road and back onto Lewis Avenue. He raced north, checking his mirrors. Nothing followed. He had no idea if he’d struck anyone in the vehicle and wasn’t going to wait around to find out.
Thorpe increased the volume on his police radio and concentrated on slowing his breathing. He turned into a neighborhood to avoid major intersections. If a shooting call were dispatched, nearby officers would respond as quickly as possible using arterial streets.
Ten minutes later, Thorpe pulled into a parking lot near the office and changed back into his original clothes. So far he hadn’t heard any radio traffic reference his extracurricular activities.
Thorpe pulled into the office lot and wiped down the borrowed truck. Gathering his belongings, he entered his assigned vehicle. He spent the next twenty minutes driving to the Arkansas River, where he threw the pistol in the water part by part. The Berretta had been a fine weapon he’d acquired during an earlier search warrant. He’d dispose of his tainted clothing later.
Almost an hour after perforating the compact car, Thorpe heard radio traffic that could be related: “Lincoln 101, Lincoln one-zero-one and a car to back. Shooting victim at St. John Hospital, 1923 South Utica Avenue, one-nine-two-three South Utica Avenue, break…See security in the E.R. Black male arrived with a gunshot wound to the face. Security reports the car he arrived in, a white Ford Focus, has multiple bullet holes.” That had to be the car. Thorpe retrieved his cell phone and contacted one of his investigators.
“What’s up, Sarge?”
“Hey, Jack, I just heard a shooting call go out over the radio. Sounds like someone got himself and his car all shot to hell. A couple of uniforms are en route to St. John Hospital to contact the victim. Don’t know where it happened. You mind running over there to see if he’s one of ours?”
“Yeah, no problem. I’ll start that way.”
“Thanks, Jack, let me know what you find out.”
Thorpe’s unit was responsible for investigating gang-related shootings. Sending one of his officers to the hospital wouldn’t be seen as unusual. First, Jack would check to see if the suspect was a certified gang member. If so, the OGU would handle the investigation. If not, Jack would inspect the suspect for gang tattoos, associates and so on. If he discovered the victim should be certified, OGU would take the case. If Jack found no indications of gang involvement, matters would be left to uniformed officers and the Special Investigations Unit.
Thorpe had planned to gather intel on Kaleb Moment tonight, but in light of recent events, he decided it would be best to stand-down and assess the situation. He drove back to his office to tackle some of Major Duncan’s deforestation experiments.
Sitting at his desk, Thorpe had barely put a dent in his in-basket, when Jack used his phone’s direct-connect feature to reach his boss.
“Hey, Sarge, you over here?”
“Yeah, Jack. Whatta you got?”
“Kid’s name is Christopher Ruble. He’s not certified yet but probably should be. Has some tats indicate he’s a Blood.”
“What’s up with the shooting?”
“Kid was hit in the face. Bullet went in his left cheek, fucked up his teeth, and exited his right cheek. He’s going to live, but he’ll be eatin’ through a straw for a while.”
“Who, where, and why?” Thorpe inquired.
“Don’t know who the shooter is. Kid can’t talk worth a damn, so he’s writing shit down with a pen. Claims he was driving down the street minding his own damned business, when someone just shot up his car for no good reason. Typical deal. Didn’t see anything and doesn’t have any idea who would want to hurt him.”