Cold Blue (11 page)

The day they’d met, he’d dispensed with his usual precautions and discarded his shirt. Shimmering with sweat, he worked near the road in a pair of work boots and khaki shorts. Al and Trixie had yet to be trained, so the only warning Thorpe received was the sound of gravel crunching underfoot. Thorpe looked up to see Deborah running on the road. A tanned, toned, and pierced midriff was framed by black Lycra shorts and a black sports bra struggling to contain her ample bosom. The sight caused Thorpe to mumble, “Oh, my God.”

As the woman approached, she caught sight of Thorpe, and her pace abated. Thorpe’s body was void of fat with muscle striations popping in his chest, arms, abdomen and back. The woman slowed to a walk, altered her course, and sashayed over to the fence to introduce herself.

“Hi, neighbor…Deborah Jennings.”

Thorpe approached, shed his work gloves, and accepted her extended hand. “John Thorpe.”

Still holding his hand, Deborah broke eye contact and allowed her eyes to drift downward. “John, I hate to be so forward, but you have the most amazing body I’ve ever seen on a man.”

“I bet you say that to all your neighbors.”

“Hardly. How’d you get the scars?”

“I’m a cop…Tulsa PD. Stuff happens.” Not exactly an answer to her question, but not a lie either.

“Well, I feel safe knowing I have one of Tulsa’s finest living close by.”

“Which house is yours?”

“The big obnoxious one on the hill.”

“Nice to meet you, Deborah.”

“Yes, it is,” Deborah replied in full-flirt mode. She played with her hair and repeatedly touched Thorpe’s arm. “Sorry for being such a bad neighbor. I haven’t even brought you and your wife a housewarming gift.”

“Not married.”

“Divorced?”

“Not exactly.”

Deborah didn’t pursue the vague answer.

The barn’s double doors were open, and Thorpe’s makeshift gym was visible from where Deborah stood.

“You have a gym? Mind if take a look?” Deborah didn’t wait for his reply; in fact, she’d already been moving toward his gate while asking the question. Once on his property, she led the way to the barn. Visible from behind, her large breasts overtook her small frame. Deborah strutted through the garage door, paused at the punching bag, and threw a few punches. The scene was one of the most erotic Thorpe had ever witnessed. She’d successfully maneuvered onto his side of the board and used his own bishop to put him in checkmate.

“John, I think you’d be an excellent personal trainer. Though to be sure, I’d first have to try out your equipment.”

“I’m expensive.” Thorpe smiled.

Deborah looked over her shoulder “I’m rich.”

She walked over to a rack, lowered herself under a straight bar with no weights, and began performing squats. Facing away, she arched her back and thrust out her ass with every repetition. “If you’re that expensive you should at least give me a spot.”

Thorpe moved in behind Deborah, laying his hands on the exposed and wanton curves between hips and waist. Deborah stepped backward, arched her back, and drove her firm buttocks into Thorpe as she dipped down. When she came back up, she again pressed herself into him. Thorpe lifted the bar off her shoulders and tossed it over his head. Deborah turned and ran her fingers down his chest and abdomen. She grabbed him from the outside of his shorts. They both collapsed to the padded mat, and with the doors still open, went at each other with little restraint.

Thorpe had no idea whether any passersby had witnessed the exhibition. Deborah had proven to be an insatiable and somewhat violent lover. She’d continuously traced his scars with her fingers and tongue while engaged in relations, and courtesy of artificial nails, might even have carved a few new ones. Lying on the mat, Thorpe asked a question he’d neglected to ask prior to their interlude.

“Are
you
married?”

Deborah hesitated before responding “Yes, but that doesn’t mean we can’t
see
each other from time to time.”

“It does for me.”

“You didn’t seem too interested in whether I was married before we had sex.”

“Like most people, I think a lot clearer after sex than before it.”

“We’ll see,” Deborah said. With that, she dressed, bent over, flicked his nipple with her tongue, smiled, and began jogging toward the gate as if intercourse had just been a water station on her running route.

Following the encounter, he’d avoided the fence line any time he saw Deborah approaching. Eventually, his dogs were trained not to let anyone inside the fence with the exception of Jeff—unless Thorpe issued the proper command. This kept Deborah from coming onto his property uninvited. And she couldn’t phone him because, like any decent cop, Thorpe had an unlisted number.

Thorpe’s most recent encounter with a Jennings had been with the husband. Thorpe was running on the road when approached by a Mercedes with tinted windows. At first Thorpe worried Deborah sat behind the wheel, but as the car came to rest, the darkened driver’s window powered down and revealed an individual by whom he had little fear of being seduced.

Mr. Jennings appeared to be in his late sixties, looked down a bulbous capillary-mapped nose indicative of a lifetime of alcohol abuse and was grossly overweight. He told Thorpe he worked as a corporate attorney in one of Tulsa’s larger law firms. Mr. Jennings appeared unaware of Deborah and Thorpe’s tryst. During their short conversation, Mr. Jennings had conveyed they had a live-in maid/chef and bragged about several belongings, including his young bride. Deborah was the quintessential trophy wife and probably no more cherished than the man’s other possessions, a thing to be worn on his arm and shown off at parties. Thorpe didn’t have much sympathy for Deborah; she obviously married the money, not the man. Still, maybe he’d been a little hard on the woman, though most of his avoidance measures were taken so he himself wouldn’t fall again.

Today, on this warm winter’s morning, Deborah wore long tight running pants and a pink Lycra shirt with zippered front. The zipper dangled below a chasm of exposed cleavage. As Deborah approached, Thorpe smiled and raised his hand. She slowed to a walk. Al and Trixie began to let out low guttural growls until their master called them off.

“You’re not going to release your hounds on me today?”

“Sorry, Deborah. You were right. I was just as much to blame as you were. I didn’t want to know the truth.”

Deborah tilted her head and studied him. “I had it coming…didn’t give you much of a chance. Look, I heard about your family. You were in a bad place.”

Thorpe nodded his head; he was
still
in a bad place.

“My husband says you two met the other day?”

“Yeah. Although it wasn’t quite the rendezvous you and I had.”

Deborah laughed. “I certainly hope not. He told me we needed to move. He said he’s embarrassed to share the neighborhood with a civil servant.”

Thorpe figured the guy would pop a nose capillary if he knew what else they’d shared. “And here I thought he and I were going to be BFFs. Why do you guys live way out here, anyway?”

“Thomas wanted a ‘country retreat.’ You should see the entertainment area we have behind our house and the view of Tulsa’s skyline. It was great at first, but now he has trouble getting his colleagues out to visit because of the drive. He’s all about entertaining and showing off. I have a feeling we’ll be moving back toward town soon.”

“Well, I’m sure it’ll all work out.”

“John, what happened between us…that’s not something I normally do. I don’t want you thinking I jump from bed to bed. I was in a bad place, too. I still am.”

“Deborah, I don’t mean to sound callous, but it’s none of my business. I’m doing my damnedest not to break all Ten Commandments this month. You should be having this conversation with your husband.” Thorpe backed away from the fence. “I wish you luck, Deborah. I really do.” As he walked toward the house, he risked a glance over his shoulder and watched the overtaxed Lycra top resume its bouncing burden.

My God that woman had a hard body
. Thorpe glanced down to a trailing Al and Trixie “I should find a social life before the two of you start looking good to me.”

Thorpe had been too consumed with finding his wife and daughter’s killers to fall into loneliness. It was moments such as these—when confronted with an attractive woman—that he was reminded of some basic needs missing from his life. He hadn’t been celibate for the last thirteen months; he’d had a few one-night stands. To engage in anything substantial seemed to be an affront to his lost family. If he were to become intimate with a woman, it would suggest he was moving on and starting afresh. Thorpe knew he wasn’t being logical, but he feared establishing a new relationship would feel like discarding his lost wife and daughter.

Thorpe disappeared inside his home, and Jeff Gobin rolled up the drive. In addition to being his best friend, Jeff was the only person to visit on a regular basis. Other than his sister, he was also the only person aware of the combat prowess Thorpe possessed. Still, even Jeff didn’t know the extent of his training. He was also the only officer on the department Thorpe fully trusted. Not that he’d tell Jeff of his extracurricular activities; he wouldn’t want to put his friend in such a position.

“You look like shit,” Jeff said as Thorpe pulled open his front door.

“Thanks…drank a six-pack last night.”

“You? A six-pack to
you
would be like a case to me. Thought you gave up drinking?”

“I figured, under the circumstances, I’d better keep away from booze for a while,” Thorpe said, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“But you think you can handle it now?”

“No, but kicking your ass still gives me much more satisfaction and is a hell of a lot cheaper than alcohol.”

“Uh-huh. You’re in trouble today. I watched
The Last Dragon
last night. Learned some old-school moves.”

“Shit, I remember that movie. Guess that makes you
Sho’nuff
, the Shogun of Harlem.”

“I can’t believe you actually know that movie,” Jeff laughed.

“Hey, maybe after our workout we can rent
Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo
.”

“Very funny. You probably have a special edition of
Dirty Dancing,
don’t you?” retorted Jeff.

“Another good movie. Nobody puts Baby in a corner.”

“The sad thing is, you know the lines to all these fucking movies.”

“It
is
sad, isn’t it? So what’s new in the Rat Squad?” Jeff was an investigative sergeant with Internal Affairs. Some officers just referred to the unit as The Rat Squad.

“Same old shit…officers beatin’ the hell out of innocent citizens,” Jeff sarcastically declared as he waved off a cup of coffee.

“My name come across your desk lately?”

“No. Maybe we should get you a damn medal…no complaints for an entire week.”

“Yeah. The only cops who don’t get complaints are the ones who don’t do real police work.”

“You don’t have to tell me, brother. You’re acting like I wasn’t your partner for four years.”

Thorpe smiled “Just making sure you haven’t crossed to the dark side.”

“Why does it have to be the dark side, asshole? Why can’t it be the white side?”

Both men laughed. Despite their lasting friendship, Thorpe and Jeff knew little of the other’s past. Thorpe figured his friend sensed his reluctance to talk of his childhood, or perhaps Jeff avoided inquires because he didn’t want to reciprocate. Either way, the arrangement suited Thorpe just fine.

Thorpe’s pager started going off. He recognized the number of Robert Hull, the sergeant over Homicide.

“Getting a call from Hull. A misdirected youth must have been on the wrong end of a bullet.” Thorpe punched the numbers into his cell phone.

“Hull.”

“Hey, Bob, what’s up?”

“John, I think we found one of your boys. You know a Marcel Newman?”

Sure Bob, I killed him just the other day.
“Oh yeah, he’s a regular.”
They found the body
.

“This isn’t your typical spray and pray. You’ll want to see this for yourself.”

“Whattaya got?”

“Son-of-a-bitch has been bound to a pole, looks like he’s been tortured. Been dead a couple of days.”

Actually, Bob, it’s only been about twenty-seven hours.
“Where you at?” Thorpe asked, already knowing the answer.

“Go to Newton and Waco. A uniform will guide you in.”

“Okay, Bob, I’m at the homestead. You going to be there for a while?”

“Oh, yeah. This is a pretty fucked-up scene. We’ll be here all afternoon and then some.”

“Okay, I’ll start my dayshift guys your way. I should be there in about thirty minutes.”

“Hey, John, one more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“You know anybody goes by the initials L.A.?”

“A couple guys. Why?”

“Looks like your boy wrote those initials in the dirt before he died.”

“No shit?” Thorpe said, feigning surprise. “Marcel’s been trading rounds with a guy named Dwayne Foster who goes by ‘L.A.’”

“Might be an easy case then.”

“Well, we definitely have a starting point. I’ll start that way, Bob.”

Thorpe left Jeff to finish the workout on his own. A few minutes later, as he crossed from the house to his truck, Thorpe heard the song “
I touch myself
” coming from the barn’s radio.

Thorpe stuck his head through the door and yelled, “You better not be touching yourself in my barn.” Jeff grabbed himself and smiled. Thorpe laughed and walked to his truck. By the time he started the engine, his smile was gone.