Cold Blue (25 page)

Lagrone rose to get back to work, and Hull asked him to close the door on his way out. Alone in his office, Hull flipped over a sheet of paper that’d been lying face down on his cluttered desk. It was a Field Interview Report (FIR.) The FIR had been completed by an officer conducting a canvass of the area near Marcel Newman’s murder. The officer had been approached by a citizen who lived inside the Greystone Condominiums. The citizen wanted to report a suspicious vehicle that had parked inside the gated condos the night before Marcel’s body was found. The vehicle was a Ford pickup, and the citizen had written down the license plate number. The officer taking the report noted that the plates weren’t on file and surmised the citizen probably recorded the tag incorrectly.

Always thorough, Hull had called the equipment manager for SID and requested the tag numbers for all the undercover vehicles assigned to the division. The tag on the FIR matched the tag of Thorpe’s SID-assigned Ford. Hull remembered Thorpe telling him that the Gangs Unit had been conducting surveillance on Marcel, but he’d also said they’d wrapped up the operation over a week ago. Hull’s leap to Thorpe as a potential suspect wasn’t as great as he’d led Lagrone to believe. Not wanting to compromise his friend, Hull withheld the information in case the report became “misplaced.”

Hull picked up the Field Interview Report and stared at it for a full minute before tearing it into very small pieces.

Friday

February 9

Afternoon

BECAUSE OF HIS ASSIGNMENT, THORPE
was required to keep a pager and cell phone on his person at all times. And because of Price’s untimely death, he knew gossip seekers would be out in force, so he’d turned off both devices before going to sleep. He’d never before missed a call-out so he shouldn’t get in much trouble for his first offense. After rising from bed in the early afternoon, Thorpe checked his messages and, as expected, most were inquiries about Price’s murder. No pages had been sent directing him to come into work—good, he wouldn’t have to explain why he hadn’t responded. From the assortment of missed calls, he only returned one.

“What’s up, Carnac?” Jeff answered.

“You rang?”

“Just letting you know I won’t be working out today. We’re all too busy with Price’s murder—no long lunch breaks for a while. Crazy shit. I assume you’ve heard?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s why I turned everything off. Didn’t want to be woken up by the grinding of the gossip mill. Any leads?”

“Not according to Homicide. Looks premeditated though. Fucking bow and arrow! Can you believe that shit?”

“Like you said, ‘crazy.’ How’s Marcus handling his nephew’s death?”

“I heard he took it pretty well. Who knows what’s going on inside his head though. Gotta be rough losing your…uhh, sorry, man.”

“Jeff, don’t you start that crap, too. I’m tired of everyone walking on egg shells around me.”

“Well, just wanted to let you know I wouldn’t be working out. I might be on a tight leash for a few days.”

“That’s all right. When we’re sparring, I hardly notice you’re there anyway.”

“Bite me. I’m going to whip your ass next time.”

“You
are
making progress.”

“Want to go out this weekend? I should be able to get a pass from the wife.”

“How ‘bout you go out, and I’ll make a pass
at
your wife.”

“She don’t like white meat. We on or what?”

“We’re on. Saturday night?”

“Sounds good. See you then.”

Terminating the call, Thorpe looked out his front window, happy to see Al and Trixie chasing one another around the yard. He needed to do something about the two dogs. He’d purchased the shepherds for purposes of security, but recently realized the animals served an entirely different need—companionship. Al and Trixie, like most people’s dogs, had become part of the family.

He decided to implement measures to protect them even at the expense of his own safety. If someone came after him here, the perpetrators would most likely want to remove Al and Trixie from the equation. To keep them safe, he’d lock them in the barn at night while he was away. Hopefully, the furry little bastards wouldn’t shit all over his gym equipment in gratitude.

Thorpe dressed and grabbed some cash. Because the dogs appeared relaxed, he stepped outside without fear of a bullet parting his skull. He entered the barn and rolled up his wrestling mat before callings his dogs inside. Thorpe pointed at his friends.

“No shitting, understand? No poo poo.”

With two cocked and confused heads staring back at him, he locked the animals inside. Then he left for the Bass Pro Shops in nearby Broken Arrow. The outdoorsman’s paradise carried equipment he planned to put to use. Plus, since he’d been in the unfortunate but necessary habit of destroying his soiled garments, he needed to replenish his outdoor clothing.

THERE WERE SIX MEN PRESENT
in Cornelius Johnson’s North Tulsa home. All of them were having heated discussions about the killing of Stephen Price. Sergeant Carl McDonald sat back and carefully regarded his fellow officers, wondering who’d crack first.

Technically Corn Johnson wasn’t a police officer any longer, having resigned after a nasty little affair in which he was accused of providing sensitive information to some of his old neighborhood pals. The department gave him an option—resign or face criminal charges. Corn wisely chose the former. Though no longer a police officer, he remained in the group and needed his lucrative friends now more than ever. Aware of the man’s financial desperation, McDonald had asked Corn to host this meeting. McDonald never assembled The Band at his own home.

McDonald had started referring to himself and his associates as The Band a couple of years ago, not to sound cool, but to simplify conversation. Price had accused him of naming the group after the miniseries
Band of Brothers
; said he’d been trying to pull an inside joke because four of the six men were black. In reality, a different movie,
Band of the Hand
, was the source of the name.

Whatever.
The Band they were. How they’d come into being hadn’t been planned. It just happened.

Though perhaps not the most moral of men, McDonald had joined the department with good-enough intentions. He spent his first years working Gilcrease Division, or as it was called then, Uniformed Division North. Between marriages, he earnestly went about putting criminals behind bars. Promoted early in his career, his work ethic earned him the supervisory position on the department’s Organized Gang Unit. That’s where he first dipped his toe in murky waters.

An extensive background check is performed on all applicants for the Tulsa Police Department. Officers who later transfer to the Special Investigations Division go through additional checks, most of which financial. SID personnel are perpetually around large sums of money and drugs, an environment not conducive to those with monetary debts.

McDonald had been supervising the OGU for several months and succumbing to a suspicion most officers share some time during their careers—the feeling he was nothing more than a hamster on a wheel. No matter how many criminals he and his unit tossed into jail, no matter how many drugs and how much dirty money they took off the street, their efforts seemed useless. The dealers were often back on the streets only hours after being arrested.

The DA’s office, wanting a high conviction rate, offered plea deals to everyone. Those actually given prison time normally had their already-short sentences cut by half. McDonald felt he was a member of a losing team in an inconsequential game; the only people not making
good
money were the
good
guys.

Why shouldn’t he profit as well? Is stealing from criminals really stealing at all?

A twenty started disappearing here and there, enough to buy his lunch for the next week. Then one day, he pulled his toe out of that murky water and dove headfirst. The plunge happened on a search warrant where he found himself alone in a bedroom staring at sixty-thousand dollars in cash.

If he took just a little, who would notice
?
If he turned it in, who would get it anyway? A bunch of fucking politicians who hadn’t done anything except make his job harder—that’s who.

Fifty-five thousand dollars made its way into evidence. No one missed the five K. No one even asked about it.

In filling his pockets that night he’d emptied his soul. Having taken the dive, swimming was easy.

People of like mind always have a way of finding each other. With little conscious thought, he’d formed a tight group of officers who began planning search warrants and other endeavors with the purpose of financial gain. The Band was born. Before long, they’d started stealing dope as well. They’d either give the drugs to informants to sell, or they’d offer those they busted an option: lose your dope and go to prison, or keep it and share the proceeds with The Band. For most, the choice was easy.

McDonald knew better than to meet with dealers directly. The easiest way for a criminal to avoid prison was to give up a dirty cop, and McDonald sure as hell wasn’t going to let that happen. On those rare occasions where a personal visit was necessary, he’d always concealed himself.

As for The Band, he made it perfectly clear if anyone in the group snitched, the man’s loved ones would pay—a promise he intended to keep. If any one of these assholes even
thought
about turning on him, he’d kill them and their families. They knew the score. Just as he knew if he talked, Phipps would kill his family. The cost of betrayal had to be more expensive than the threat of prison. It was the only way he could survive; a simple but effective technique he’d learned from Mexican cartels—rat and everyone you love pays the price.

It’d all been going smoothly until Jonathan fucking Thorpe replaced him as supervisor of the OGU. The man had been doing serious damage to his enterprise and arresting far too many people who were associates of The Band. Sooner or later, one of those associates would decide to talk. They wouldn’t be able to identify McDonald, but they’d damned sure be able to name others. If Band members were exposed, they might consider federal protection despite the threat to their family’s lives.

The situation escalated further when Thorpe arrested Charlie Peterson’s sons. The two sold dope for The Band and were extremely close to Price. Lyndale was sentenced for one hell of a stint. McDonald and Phipps in particular feared Lyndale would tire of sitting in prison while the rest of The Band continued in prosperity. That’s when McDonald hatched the idea of planting dope in Thorpe’s home. If Thorpe was discovered to be a dirty cop, all the cases he’d been involved with would be closely scrutinized and many overturned. Coupled with the allegations from Lyndale’s father that Thorpe had planted drugs on his sons, Lyndale’s release would be certain. As an added bonus, Thorpe would be fired and sent to prison. The man wouldn’t be around to fuck up McDonald’s business anymore.

Within The Band, Daniels presented his biggest worry. The man simply didn’t have the stomach for what needed done. Folks with a conscience as developed as Daniels’ had no business swimming with sharks. He’d have Phipps keep a close eye on him—maybe provide a reminder of what awaited him if he talked.

If Phipps ever had a conscience, it’d abandoned him years ago. His brutal demeanor was matched by his physical appearance. A battering-ram shaped skull sat atop a thick frame packed with dense muscle. Small deep-set eyes peered out from beneath his pronounced forehead. When unsavory acts were required, he was the man McDonald called. Unfortunately, Phipps had just made his opinion known to the rest of the group.

“We need to do
what?
”

“You heard me the first time, Daniels. You wearing a fucking wire or something?” Phipps accused.

Daniels began to pull off his shirt.

McDonald had remained silent till now. But things were getting out of control, and he needed to instill calm.

“Keep your shirt on, Daniels,” McDonald said. “We know you’re not wearing a wire.”

“Damn right, I’m not. I’m also not going to be part of no killin’.”

“If we don’t act first, he’s damn sure going to kill us,” Phipps argued.

“We don’t even know if Thorpe was the one who killed Price.”

“Let’s go over this one more time, you fuckin’ moron,” Phipps growled. “On Wednesday night, Price got an anonymous phone call from someone saying he knew about the incident last year.”

“
Incident?
We killed an innocent woman and child,” Daniels interrupted.

Phipps warned off the man with a glare, and continued. “Let me finish, Daniels. The anonymous caller told Price he was going to the police with this information unless we paid him twenty-thousand dollars. After getting the call, Price called McDonald, and we all met at Shaw’s house. Daniels, you were the only one not there because you didn’t answer your fucking phone. Price, Leon, and the rest of us met, and we talked about who might have known what we did. We figured someone in this group was talking. Leon starts trippin’ about a police sting. He went out the back door. Says he left to see if anyone was watching us. After a few minutes, we look for him and notice his car missing. We all figure he got scared and skipped town…”