My God that woman had a hard body. Thorpe glanced down to a trailing Al and Trixie “I should find a social life before the two of you start looking good to me.”

Thorpe had been too consumed with finding his wife and daughter’s killers to fall into loneliness. It was moments such as these—when confronted with an attractive woman—that he was reminded of some basic needs missing from his life. He hadn’t been celibate for the last thirteen months; he’d had a few one-night stands. To engage in anything substantial seemed to be an affront to his lost family. If he were to become intimate with a woman, it would suggest he was moving on and starting afresh. Thorpe knew he wasn’t being logical, but he feared establishing a new relationship would feel like discarding his lost wife and daughter.

Thorpe disappeared inside his home, and Jeff Gobin rolled up the drive. In addition to being his best friend, Jeff was the only person to visit on a regular basis. Other than his sister, he was also the only person aware of the combat prowess Thorpe possessed. Still, even Jeff didn’t know the extent of his training. He was also the only officer on the department Thorpe fully trusted. Not that he’d tell Jeff of his extracurricular activities; he wouldn’t want to put his friend in such a position.

“You look like shit,” Jeff said as Thorpe pulled open his front door.

“Thanks…drank a six-pack last night.”

“You? A six-pack to you would be like a case to me. Thought you gave up drinking?”

“I figured, under the circumstances, I’d better keep away from booze for a while,” Thorpe said, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“But you think you can handle it now?”

“No, but kicking your ass still gives me much more satisfaction and is a hell of a lot cheaper than alcohol.”

“Uh-huh. You’re in trouble today. I watched The Last Dragon last night. Learned some old-school moves.”

“Shit, I remember that movie. Guess that makes you Sho’nuff, the Shogun of Harlem.”

“I can’t believe you actually know that movie,” Jeff laughed.

“Hey, maybe after our workout we can rent Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo.”

“Very funny. You probably have a special edition of Dirty Dancing, don’t you?” retorted Jeff.

“Another good movie. Nobody puts Baby in a corner.”

“The sad thing is, you know the lines to all these fucking movies.”

“It is sad, isn’t it? So what’s new in the Rat Squad?” Jeff was an investigative sergeant with Internal Affairs. Some officers just referred to the unit as The Rat Squad.

“Same old shit…officers beatin’ the hell out of innocent citizens,” Jeff sarcastically declared as he waved off a cup of coffee.

“My name come across your desk lately?”

“No. Maybe we should get you a damn medal…no complaints for an entire week.”

“Yeah. The only cops who don’t get complaints are the ones who don’t do real police work.”

“You don’t have to tell me, brother. You’re acting like I wasn’t your partner for four years.”

Thorpe smiled “Just making sure you haven’t crossed to the dark side.”

“Why does it have to be the dark side, asshole? Why can’t it be the white side?”

Both men laughed. Despite their lasting friendship, Thorpe and Jeff knew little of the other’s past. Thorpe figured his friend sensed his reluctance to talk of his childhood, or perhaps Jeff avoided inquires because he didn’t want to reciprocate. Either way, the arrangement suited Thorpe just fine.

Thorpe’s pager started going off. He recognized the number of Robert Hull, the sergeant over Homicide.

“Getting a call from Hull. A misdirected youth must have been on the wrong end of a bullet.” Thorpe punched the numbers into his cell phone.

“Hull.”

“Hey, Bob, what’s up?”

“John, I think we found one of your boys. You know a Marcel Newman?”

Sure Bob, I killed him just the other day. “Oh yeah, he’s a regular.” They found the body.

“This isn’t your typical spray and pray. You’ll want to see this for yourself.”

“Whattaya got?”

“Son-of-a-bitch has been bound to a pole, looks like he’s been tortured. Been dead a couple of days.”

Actually, Bob, it’s only been about twenty-seven hours. “Where you at?” Thorpe asked, already knowing the answer.

“Go to Newton and Waco. A uniform will guide you in.”

“Okay, Bob, I’m at the homestead. You going to be there for a while?”

“Oh, yeah. This is a pretty fucked-up scene. We’ll be here all afternoon and then some.”

“Okay, I’ll start my dayshift guys your way. I should be there in about thirty minutes.”

“Hey, John, one more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“You know anybody goes by the initials L.A.?”

“A couple guys. Why?”

“Looks like your boy wrote those initials in the dirt before he died.”

“No shit?” Thorpe said, feigning surprise. “Marcel’s been trading rounds with a guy named Dwayne Foster who goes by ‘L.A.’”

“Might be an easy case then.”

“Well, we definitely have a starting point. I’ll start that way, Bob.”

Thorpe left Jeff to finish the workout on his own. A few minutes later, as he crossed from the house to his truck, Thorpe heard the song “I touch myself” coming from the barn’s radio.

Thorpe stuck his head through the door and yelled, “You better not be touching yourself in my barn.” Jeff grabbed himself and smiled. Thorpe laughed and walked to his truck. By the time he started the engine, his smile was gone.

Tuesday

February 6

Afternoon

THORPE TOOK THE SAME ROUTE to the scene as he had one day earlier. Was it just yesterday? It seemed like so much had happened since then. Traveling west on Newton, he could see boom cameras from the local TV stations towering above the trees. Thorpe approached a herd of slavering reporters held back by magical “Police Line Do Not Cross” tape like mooing heifers at a cattle guard. Risking a stampede, Thorpe parted the crowd with his truck, badged the uniformed officer manning the post and was allowed to drive underneath the tape. He pulled behind an assortment of detective vehicles and parked. Climbing out of his truck, he noticed several cameramen had their lenses trained on him. Thorpe walked back the direction he’d come. He informed the gathered news personnel he was an undercover officer and asked that they not air his image for officer safety reasons. The cameramen assured him he’d be edited out or given the standard pixelated treatment.

Skeptical, Thorpe returned his attention to the crime scene and headed toward the gate to the gravel drive that wound through the woods and to the barn. The gate stood open and was manned by another uniformed officer.

“Hey, Todd, what’s going on?”

“Don’t really know, Sarge, haven’t got to see the scene. I’m just guarding this driveway and some boot prints. Heard Marcel Newman’s body was found in a barn up there,” Todd said as he threw a thumb over his shoulder. “And he’s all fucked up.”

“Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

“Where’s the boot prints?”

Todd pointed at the ground near the section of barbed wire that Thorpe himself had severed.

“Mind if I take a look?”

Todd motioned to an acceptable vantage point. “Go ahead; you can see it from the gravel here.”

Thorpe could see a portion of the boot print in the dirt, a print he knew would never be traced back to him. “They think it belongs to the killer?”

“I don’t know what they think. They don’t let me in on their circle-jerks.”

Thorpe pointed up the drive. “I get to the scene this way?”

“Yeah, Sarge, but I gotta call you an escort. Hull says nobody comes up the drive without one.”