Thorpe pointed at the crude cutting instruments still lying on the bed. “If I hear you’ve breathed a word of this to anyone, you will die a slow and painful death. If you don’t believe me, watch the news the next few days. In fact, first thing in the morning you’re going to see on TV how your good friend Marcel Newman died a horrific death in a lonely barn. In case you haven’t figured it out yet, Marcel is the one who gave me your name. I decided I didn’t like—or trust Marcel—and he got fucked up royal for it. I may be letting you go now, but I barely came to this decision. I figure it this way—I let you decide if you live or die. If you talk, then you’ve decided your fate for me. My conscience won’t be bothered because it was your call. Do you think I’m capable of killing you, Kaleb?”

Kaleb nodded his head but didn’t say a word.

“Someday, Kaleb, you’re going to get caught pushing dope again and you’ll think, “If I give up a cop, I’m golden,” and then you’ll consider protective custody. Don’t. I can, and I will, find you anywhere.”

Thorpe hoped he’d driven home the point. He needed to put enough fear into Kaleb so he would keep his mouth shut at least for the immediate future. “Kaleb, I’m a different kind of cop. That’s something you’re going to realize in the next few weeks.” Thorpe pulled out a serrated knife and held it up to Kaleb’s face. He used the blade to cut the bindings then instructed his captive to remove the excess tape. Thorpe gathered up his belongings, checked the lot outside, and had Kaleb get in the driver’s side door and slide over. Thorpe drove around the building and across the street to the dark parking lot of a nearby biker bar. He parked the SUV and turned toward Kaleb.

“Kaleb, are we friends?”

“Uh…sure…”

“Bullshit. We’re never going to be friends, asshole. You so much as mention my name, and your family won’t be able to recognize your remains.” Thorpe grabbed Kaleb by the chin and watched his eyes fill with fear. With one swift motion, Thorpe slashed Kaleb diagonally across the face with a sharp blade. “Now every time you look in the mirror, you’ll be reminded what I’m capable of.”

Thorpe cut the tape on Kaleb’s wrists and tore away the bindings. Blood from Kaleb’s wound ran down his face and onto his shirt.

“Get the fuck out of here, and be glad you’re still alive. Your first test will be explaining that wound to the hospital staff.”

Kaleb staggered out of the SUV on weak legs. As Thorpe drove away, he noticed Kaleb making his way toward Memorial Drive. Wherever Kaleb’s first stop would be, it sure as hell wouldn’t be the biker bar.

Thorpe turned onto Memorial and couldn’t help but think he was on borrowed time.

Wednesday

February 7

Afternoon

THORPE HAD A LONG BUT restless sleep, rife with recurring dreams. In them, he was armed with an assortment of weapons while hunting large game. The terrain in his visions shifted from city, jungle, forest to desert. One thing remained constant: every time he had his quarry in his sights he was overcome with a sense of being hunted himself. Feeling a presence looming behind him, he’d pivot to find nothing. When he would return his attention to his prey, he’d discover the animal gone.

The meaning of the dreams wasn’t lost on Thorpe. Just because IA hadn’t rousted him out of bed in the middle of the night didn’t mean an investigation hadn’t been launched or that Kaleb hadn’t notified the FBI. The smart thing would have been to put a bullet in the kid’s head. Because he’d left Kaleb alive, Thorpe felt pressure to act immediately. But mistakes were generally the fruit of haste, so he decided to take no action until tomorrow. He needed time to formulate a plan. Thorpe picked up his cell phone and called Gail, a civilian employee who served as the office’s secretary. All the investigators referred to her as “Ms. Moneypenny,” in reference to Ian Fleming’s fictional character in James Bond novels and films.

“Special Investigations Division.”

Thorpe delivered his best Sean Connery impersonation. “Hello, Miss Moneypenny.”

“Hello, James.”

“Actually, it’s John.”

“Hello, John.”

“Do you ever get tired of this routine?”

“Never,” Gail lied.

“I’m sure. Could you put me down for a vacation day?” he asked. “I’ve decided to give aspiring world dictators a holiday.”

“Everyone needs a day off.”

“How’s M?” Thorpe jokingly asked. ‘M’ is James Bond’s and Miss Moneypenny’s fictional boss in the British Secret Intelligence Service. In this case, he was referring to their actual boss, Major Richard Duncan, aka The Walrus.

“She’s an idiot and a bitch,” Gail replied. Duncan was a man, but the gender swap allowed Gail to insult the Major even if he were standing right next to her. It also added an extra bit of amusement for parties on both ends of the line.

“I think she needs to find a man,” Gail giggled.

Having phoned in a vacation day, Thorpe had the entire afternoon and night to himself and decided to begin his free time with a workout in his barn. As he lifted weights and worked on the heavy bag, he obsessed on the connection between Stephen Price and his family’s murder.

Why would that asshole want to set him up to take the fall on a drug charge? Thorpe could remember having only one incident with the man.

He’d been in his current position as supervisor of the Organized Gang Unit when one of his officers arrested a dealer for trafficking crack cocaine. A first time offender, the suspect didn’t want to waste his get-out-of-jail-free card from the District Attorney’s Office. He signed an agreement to take down five bigger fish to keep the incident off his record.

The first credit on the informant’s payment plan would be a man he knew only as “Rocc.” According to the CI, Rocc was always good for at least an 8-ball on short notice. The CI refused to do a buy-bust; he was too scared to be present when officers swooped in and arrested the dealer. Instead, the CI called Rocc and ordered an 8-ball of crack. He agreed to meet Rocc at a convenience store at a busy intersection. The only suspect information Thorpe’s unit had was a vague physical description and that he usually drove a newer white Dodge Stratus.

The plan was to get the Stratus stopped for traffic violations before it reached the convenience store—a tactic used to keep from burning informants. The CI would be sequestered away at another location. As with all dope deals, the plan changed, then changed again. After a tedious game of musical “meets,” the Stratus finally showed. Of course, by this time the marked patrol units were spread across the city and in no position to make a stop. Thorpe and his team were forced to don raid jackets and take the Stratus down in a parking lot.

Two sons of a Tulsa police officer were inside the vehicle. Lyndale Peterson sat behind the wheel. His younger brother, Leon, occupied a backseat. Interestingly, a Hispanic gang member—a Latin King out of Chicago—rode shotgun. Eventually, officers found an 8-ball in Lyndale’s sock and two loaded handguns under the driver’s seat. More cocaine was found hidden in the engine compartment, and Leon held a small amount of marijuana in his pants’ pocket.

The three suspects were arrested. Surprisingly, Lyndale manned-up and took responsibility for both weapons and all the cocaine. Unfortunately, that led to the release of the Chicago gang member. Leon received a stint in the county jail because the marijuana charge was a second offense, but Lyndale got hammered. A three-time loser, he was sent to prison for a serious stretch.

After the incident, Officer Charlie Peterson filed a complaint with Internal Affairs, claiming Thorpe planted dope on his sons. In order to protect the identity of the informant, Thorpe couldn’t tell Peterson that his boys had been set up in a sting or share any of the details of the investigation. Doing so could get the CI killed. However, I.A. investigators obtained the information, and Thorpe was exonerated.