Thorpe backed into a driveway on the darkened street and watched the Hummer speed past on 81^st. Thorpe allowed for separation before resuming his follow. The receiver indicated an easterly route for nearly a minute, then it turned left and the signal began to rapidly weaken. Price was northbound on Highway 169. Once on the highway himself, Thorpe pushed the Impala as fast as it would go.

The Hummer was a half-mile ahead with several cars separating the two vehicles. At this distance, the Impala would only be a pair of obscure headlights in Price’s rearview mirror. As Price topped an incline, Thorpe noticed the signal on the Birddog quicken. Price had come to a stop on the other side of the hill. If a car had been conducting a visual follow, it would crest the hill and pass Price before the driver realized what had happened.

Impressive. Price was pretty good at countersurveillance for someone who’d never done UC work. Of course Price had been a dope dealer, and those guys learned the same skills on the streets. Thorpe pulled to the shoulder and waited for the signal to indicate movement.

For the next twenty minutes, Price continued to use similar tactics in an attempt to identify a tail. If Thorpe hadn’t been using a tracking device he would have been “burnt” multiple times. Eventually the Birddog came to a rest, and Thorpe tracked Price to an area in North Tulsa. Thorpe drove in a somewhat circular pattern, spiraling closer with each cycle, finally isolating the stationary Hummer. Thorpe parked his car to the southwest, retrieved a gear bag, and set out on foot.

This particular neighborhood had been undergoing redevelopment and consisted mostly of middle-income African American families. Thorpe appreciated the colder temperatures, late hour and amiable neighborhood. All three elements allowed him to march through the area without encountering fellow pedestrians.

He found the Hummer parked on the south side of the street in front of a two-story house with a brick face. There were two vehicles in the driveway and a Pontiac in front of Price’s Hummer. Thorpe memorized the license plate of the Pontiac and continued walking east. When he reached the end of the cul-de-sac, he turned and walked back along the opposite side of the road, scanning for a hiding place. The foliage here wouldn’t sufficiently conceal an adult, and the backs of the properties were surrounded by wooden privacy fences. Thorpe risked a glance over one fence and found a fairly deep yard. As quietly as possible, Thorpe called to see if any dogs were inside. No growls or barks sounded in reply, so he scaled the fence.

This particular yard gave him the best view of the target house across the street. Thorpe hit the ground with a fixed-blade knife at the ready. Even though he’d heard no barks, he half expected to be fighting or fleeing a large dog any minute. Had this been a neighborhood anywhere north of here, he most likely would be leaping back over the fence with a disagreeable pit bull at his heels.

Venturing deeper into the yard, he again called quietly for a dog—better to encounter one now than to feel Brutus breathing on the nape of his neck later. Both the house and backyard remained quiet and dark.

Feeling more relaxed, Thorpe returned to where he’d crossed the fence. Using his knife partly as a cutting instrument and partly as a prying tool, he removed a section of fence at eye level. Now he could watch without sticking his head above the fence and silhouetting himself. Thorpe took a pad of paper from his jacket and recorded the license plate he’d memorized. Next he retrieved binoculars from his equipment bag and noted the make, model and plates of the two cars in the driveway.

A few minutes later, another vehicle turned onto the street and into the driveway. Its arrival activated motion lights on either side of the garage door. Thorpe trained his binoculars on the exiting driver. His theory was falling apart; the distinctive form of Brandon Baker walked toward the front door. Brandon was a white police officer who worked in Gilcrease Division’s Street Crimes Unit. He resembled Big Foot, not because of his size but because dark coarse hair covered every square inch of his person. A passenger accompanied Baker to the door. The second man was dressed a lot like Thorpe—in heavy garb, making it impossible to determine the man’s identity or race from Thorpe’s vantage point.

Five minutes after their arrival, an old beater pulled onto the street and parked along the north curb, directly in front of where Thorpe was concealed. His original theory appeared to be reviving itself; Leon Peterson stepped out of the car. Leon was the youngest son of TPD officer Charlie Peterson. When Thorpe’s unit had executed the “buy-bust,” arresting a Chicago Latin King and both of Charlie’s sons, Leon received a thirteen-month sentence, though he was released much earlier. His brother, Lyndale, was still locked up on a twenty-year stint.

The diminutive Leon, who stood all of five-foot-four, appeared nervous as he exited his car. He looked in every direction. Once he arrived at the doorstep, he searched his surroundings again before ringing the bell. As he waited for the door to be answered, he faced away from the house and shifted his weight from one foot to another.

He’s scared shitless, Thorpe thought. After a few seconds, the door opened.

Leon poked his head inside before committing his body to the interior. Thorpe figured Leon had ample reason to be nervous. Unlike his associates, who probably felt beyond reproach, Leon had once been held accountable for his actions. He’d done time. Thorpe checked his watch; five minutes remained until he was supposed to make his ransom demand. Of course he wasn’t going to make that phone call—his goal had been achieved; he’d already discovered some of those involved in his family’s murder. With a few simple interrogation techniques, he would soon have his answers. Still, Thorpe wished he could hear the conversation inside the home. The directional microphone he’d brought along would be totally useless. He’d been hoping for an outdoor meeting.

Thorpe imagined their discussions were quite heated: who all knew about the murders? Which one of the group had been talking? How should they handle the ransom call?—the one that wasn’t coming. Thorpe wondered if they’d figure out this had been a ruse to get them in one location to be identified. Then he considered what his plan of action would be if he were in their place.

The first thing he’d do is send a scout out the back door to conduct countersurveillance. Suddenly, Thorpe’s backside felt very exposed. There wasn’t a whole lot he could do about it except stay attuned to his surroundings. It was a quiet night; hopefully if someone started skulking about, he’d hear him coming. Dry leaves littered the yard Thorpe occupied. If the neighbors’ yards were similar, Thorpe should be able to hear the person in time to take evasive action. Should.

Despite the dropping temperature, Thorpe removed his hood, favoring hearing capabilities over shelter. It’d been some time since the last arrival. Periodically, Thorpe would do squats in an effort to warm himself. Thankfully, he’d dressed for the occasion. However, the nip was beginning to chew at his ears and through his boots.

Comfort aside, if the group didn’t disperse before daybreak, he’d need to find an alternate location or risk discovery by a homeowner or a dog let out for its morning piss. But he wanted to maintain surveillance as long as possible; there were others who had arrived before him, and they needed to be identified.

Thorpe caught a flash of movement to his left. A figure, possibly Leon based on height, approached on his side of the street. Thorpe noticed the figure disappear around the far side of the neighboring house. Was the man searching backyards? Thorpe quieted his breathing and concentrated on his hearing. The sound of rustling leaves preceded the man’s reappearance. Was he peering over fences? The man walked to a car parked along the north curb, cupped his hands against the glass, and looked inside. He’s definitely looking for surveillance. The gloom made it difficult to see, but Thorpe felt confident he was watching Leon.