Candy offered Thorpe a trip to the “Champaign room”, an especially dark area separated from the rest of the bar. In the private room, handjobs could be had for a hundred bucks and blowjobs for two hundred. If you didn’t bring enough cash with you, an ATM machine was conveniently located next to the bathrooms. Thorpe politely declined the offer, claiming he wanted to watch the other girls for a while. But he insisted she return later. Candy accepted a twenty dollar bill courtesy of the city of Tulsa and promised she’d be back. Investigators at SID were given “buy money” to use for purchasing dope, beer, whatever. The Vice Unit dropped quite a bit of taxpayers’ dollars on lap dances, massages and beer—the poor bastards.

L.A. had removed his coat about thirty minutes ago, draping it across the backrest of his chair. Thorpe took a circular stroll behind L.A. and noticed the man wasn’t wearing the boots Thorpe had left as a gift. However, he also noticed the right side of L.A.’s jacket stretched tight toward the floor, while the left remained slack. A heavy object occupied the right pocket, most likely a gun. Thorpe returned to his seat and spoke into his cell phone as a song blasted over the bar’s speaker system.

“Tyrone, I think L.A. has a handgun in his right coat pocket. Don’t wait for him to get in his car. Take him down in the parking lot. Approach him from the east. If he runs, he’ll come back toward me. Get some uniforms set up around the neighborhood in case his buddies run. Got it? Sound it back to me.”

Several minutes later, L.A. took a call from his own cell phone, shot to his feet and almost dumped the girl who’d been sitting on his lap to the floor. He motioned to his companions and hurried for the exit as he pulled on his coat. Thorpe began to follow and used the direct-connect to warn Tyrone. Candy, worried she was about to lose potential income, approached. For the benefit of both Tyrone and Candy, Thorpe spoke loudly into the cell phone.

“Yeah, honey I’m coming home now, RIGHT NOW!”

On the other end, Tyrone decoded the message.

“We’re on boys.”

The six OGU investigators, dressed much like Thorpe, had parked a van next to L.A.’s car. They got out and stood behind it in a circle, pretending to be shooting the shit and drinking beer. L.A. tore out of the bar with his associates in tow. When L.A. drew to within ten yards, Tyrone pulled out his neck badge and yelled, “Police!” Simultaneously, the officers drew their weapons. Associate number one was farthest away from the officers. He broke and ran toward where Thorpe staggered across the parking lot.

Being an ex-con, L.A. would be sent back to prison if caught in possession of a firearm. He took off and followed on the heels of his friend. Tyrone and Jake pursued him. Associate number two remained still and was immediately introduced to the gravel lot.

L.A. would try to run far enough to get rid of his weapon without being seen. Unfortunately for L.A., he fled directly toward Thorpe, who was still doing his best impersonation of a staggering inebriate. In full stride, L.A. risked a glance at his pursuers, giving Thorpe the opportunity to put a shoulder into L.A.’s ribs. The blow knocked L.A. completely off both feet, sending him crashing to the lot. He landed awkwardly on his right side with Thorpe pinning him down. Jake and Tyrone drew near.

“I’m okay. Get his buddy.”

Associate number one was fast, Jake faster, and Tyrone not fast at all. Jake caught his prey in the parking lot of another bar across the street. Though fast, Jake wasn’t much in a fight. He grabbed the larger suspect from behind by the collar of his shirt. The suspect spun and caught Jake with a left hook under his armpit. To Jake’s credit, he held onto the man’s collar as he fell to the ground. Bad guy remained on his feet, bent over at the waist.

What Tyrone lacked in speed, he made up for in mass. Just as the suspect was about to deliver another blow to Jake, Tyrone drove his 250-pound frame into the backside of the jackknifed suspect. With Tyrone on top, the man was driven forward face first onto the asphalt. The landing peeled off a good helping of flesh from the suspect’s forehead and nose. Tyrone almost ripped the man’s arm off as he brought it behind his back and placed him in handcuffs.

Turned out the runner was also an ex-con in possession of a firearm, not to mention seven grams of crack cocaine in his briefs. A lot of people who shouldn’t have seen the undercover officers’ faces came out of the two bars and watched the show. The investigators quickly handed the suspects over to uniforms and got out of sight. Thorpe called Hull.

“What’s up, John?”

Thorpe filled him in, then asked, “What’s happening with the warrant?”

“Just cleared the house of suspects. No one home. Haven’t really started searching yet. I’ll let you know if we come up with something.”

“Be careful, L.A. got a phone call right before he leapt out of his chair to leave this place. Someone’s watching you guys and gave him a call…you going to try and interview L.A. tonight?”

“Think he’ll talk?”

“Doubt it. This ain’t his first rodeo. Don’t know about his buddies yet.”

“Okay, John. By the way Jennifer’s been a huge help.”

“Yeah, she knows her shit. Best warrant writer I got…Bob, if you don’t need me for anything else, I’ll probably be taking off after I fill out my supplemental report; go home and get some sleep.”

“Squeeze in a couple of hours for me…no. Go home. I appreciate your help, John.”

“You bet. Talk to you tomorrow.”

“Don’t call me, I’ll call you. Gonna get some sleep of my own. Maybe.”

Thorpe doubted Hull would get much if any rest. The man probably worked a hundred hours a week. He made good money from overtime, but it’d cost him in other areas. What guys like Hull did for entertainment after leaving police work Thorpe had no idea; probably had a heart attack and died six months into retirement.

Thorpe wouldn’t be getting much sleep tonight either, though it had nothing to do with job devotion.

Wednesday

February 7

Early morning

ACCORDING TO MARCEL NEWMAN, KALEB Moment held secrets about the murder of Thorpe’s family. What Marcel hadn’t known was that his good friend was a police informant. Kaleb had been caught trafficking crack cocaine, and instead of spending his early twenties in the custody of the Department of Corrections, he signed a contract with the Tulsa County District Attorney’s office and was “working off” charges by setting up his friends and associates.

SID maintained a confidential informant file inside the office. Confidential informants, or CIs, were the backbone of undercover dope investigations. Without their assistance, ninety percent of the most substantial cases would cease to exist.

Only SID supervisors had access to CI files. Each CI was assigned a number, and those numbers were the sole identifiers on any related documents. The file was kept in the administrative sergeant’s office in a locked cabinet. Via several simple Rolodexes, supervisors could look up sequential numbers to obtain a CI’s identity. Once they had the informant’s name, they could retrieve his information and case history from a set of alphabetically labeled file cabinets that were secured with a combination lock.

Earlier, Thorpe had gone to the cabinet marked “M,” entered the proper digits and pulled Kaleb Moment’s file. In addition to the cases resulting from Kaleb’s cooperation, it listed personal information, including contact numbers and addresses. Thorpe recorded pertinent data and noted Kaleb’s handler was Brian Hickey, an evening-shift narcotics investigator.