“Interesting. Anyone else want Marcel dead?”

“Shit, Bob, that list could be almost as long as the one for you.”

“Not fucking likely,” Hull laughed. “By the way, if I ever wind up dead and tethered to a pole, make sure my ex-wives are looked at extensively.”

“You know it’s weird, Bob, we just stopped surveilling Marcel a couple of weeks ago. Didn’t get anything of use from it.” Thorpe spent a few minutes describing the investigation and what they’d learned and agreed to hand over all their notes.

“Too bad this didn’t happen then, you guys would have been here when the shit went down,” Hull commented.

“Good thing we weren’t here; we might‘ve stopped it,” Thorpe said with a grin. “Bob, I’ve already got Tyrone dressed up like a hab and en route to L.A.’s house. L.A. lives near Sixth and Lewis, so Tyrone should fit-in dressed like a homeless drunk. Jennifer’s at the office and ready—with help from your guys—to knock out a search warrant. Given the documented background we have on these two and the physical evidence here at the scene, we should be able to get a warrant pretty quick.”

Hull spoke with artificial irritation. “John, I am the head Homicide dick around these parts, you know.”

Thorpe smiled. “Too easy. What do you want from my end?”

“How ‘bout you get eyes on L.A.’s house and have one of your people start on a search warrant?”

“Gee, that’s a good idea. Where do you come up with these epiphanies?”

“Epiphanies… big words don’t compensate for your small penis,” Hull shot back.

“Small penis? Your wife been talking in her sleep again?”

“No, but your sister has.”

“Ouch. You cut me deep, Bob, real deep,” Thorpe joked. “One of your guys can get together with Jennifer. With what we’ve got on file, and with what you guys come up with here, we should be able to spit out a warrant in no time.”

The two sergeants walked to Marcel’s car where they met with Hull’s senior homicide detective, Chuck Lagrone. Lagrone was in his early sixties but looked eighty if he was a day. He was short and slight, maybe 130 pounds. Most officers physically expand along with their tenure, but Lagrone weathered away with each passing year; one day he might disappear altogether. He was a thin layer of skin wrapped tightly around bone. Because of his appearance, he’d earned the departmental nickname of “The Skull.” The Skull was one hell of a detective and, despite his looks, a genuinely nice guy. A gruff but nice guy.

Lagrone extended his hand. “Well, if it isn’t Carnac the Magnificent. How’s it going, asshole?”

“Skull, the seventies called; they’re running out of polyester,” Thorpe shot back as he accepted the handshake. “I’m good. How you doin’?”

“Ain’t dead yet, but I got one foot in the grave and another on a banana peel.”

“Just like your clothes, that joke is worn out.”

The three men discussed the case for several minutes before Thorpe excused himself. As he walked to his truck, he reflected on his conversation with Hull. Thorpe had jokingly insinuated he was sleeping with Hull’s wife, and Bob instantly shot back about having relations with Thorpe’s sister. No hesitation. Lagrone had interviewed his sister following the murders. Standard procedure. But Hull had popped off with “sister” instantaneously. Thorpe wondered how much Hull knew about his life.

AS LAGRONE WATCHED THORPE WALK away, he spoke to his boss out of the corner of his mouth. “Bob, I’ve been in the shit in Vietnam and been in three shootings on the force, so it means something when I say…I wouldn’t ever want to get cross with that boy.”

“Me either, Chuck, but that’s because you and I know what he’s capable of. Most people don’t. And John’s gone through a lot of trouble to keep his skills a secret—so we’re going to honor that.”

“How’s he holdin’ up anyway?” Lagrone asked.

“This was the first time in thirteen months he didn’t ask about his family’s investigation.”

“Huh. If John ever finds those cocksuckers before we do, they’re in for one helluva bad day.”

“If we do find those cocksuckers first, I’ll personally help John put those sons-of-bitches in the grave.”

“Sounds like something worth going to prison for. Count me in, boss.”

“Shit, Skull, a life sentence for you is the equivalent of a long weekend. Whatta you got to worry about?”

“Fuck you. I’m going to outlive all you bastards.”

“Probably, you are a bit like a cockroach.” Hull laughed, heading back toward the barn. “Let’s get to work.”

“Yeah. Dead body pick up.”

Tuesday

February 6

Evening

THORPE SAT IN A DARKENED corner of Monkeyshines Gentlemen’s Club. The strip bar’s property abutted that of a cheap motel. If you wished, you could pick up a crab-infested stripper-whore and retire to a flea-infested motel room. Because Monkeyshines was “all nude,” liquor or beer could not be served inside. Crack or crank, sure, but not alcohol. To compensate, the patrons took frequent bathroom breaks and trips to their vehicles to consume the mind-altering drug of their choice. To be fair, the bar’s customers did include the “Average Joe” types who returned to their car every thirty minutes or so to slam beers before returning to “the beautiful women of Monkeyshines.”

Thorpe currently had one of those “beautiful” women sitting on his lap as he watched L.A. and two friends at a table across the dim, expansive room. The woman seated on his thighs went by the stage name “Candy,” and by Thorpe’s reasoning, must have had plenty of the sweets growing up because she had at least two missing teeth and those still in her mouth were in various stages of decay. Candy had the classic look of a crankster.

Heavy methamphetamine use causes calcium depletion in the bones, often resulting in a fine set of Billy Bob teeth. In addition to a winning smile, Candy was also emaciated and covered with crank sores. Very sexy!

Most Tulsans didn’t realize Monkeyshines was owned and operated by associates of an outlaw motorcycle club, who made a fair amount of untaxed profits from the sale of meth, and who were also, in all likelihood, Candy’s supplier. One of the reasons methamphetamine earned the name “crank” was because motorcycle gangs—so the rumor goes—used to transport the illegal substance in the crankcases of their bikes.

Often the employees of Monkeyshines were blatant enough to wear their club’s patches inside the bar. Thorpe couldn’t understand why black patrons like L.A. continued to drop huge amounts of money in a bar operated by a gang known to commit hate crimes against them. One thing was certain, they were happy to take L.A.’s cash, and L.A. seemed to enjoy giving it away. Everyone’s a winner.

As Thorpe sat conducting surveillance, he continuously received updates on his cell phone. Lagrone and Jennifer had obtained a night-service warrant for L.A.’s residence and vehicle. They’d also gotten a warrant for L.A.’s person in order to collect DNA evidence.

Jennifer was the only investigator from Thorpe’s unit who would participate in the warrant service on L.A.’s home, which should be executed any minute now. The rest of Thorpe’s investigators were concealed in the parking lot of Monkeyshines and were to execute the warrant on L.A.’s car after he drove it from the bar. Thorpe had been sitting inside the club playing the part of a sexual deviant while he watched L.A. and his crew. Thorpe wore a wool skullcap pulled down to his eyebrows, blue jeans and an insulated flannel shirt. He was thankful for the extra layers of clothing as Candy ground her rancid wares on his thigh. His first order of business upon returning home would be to toss the jeans into the washer with a generous supply of detergent.