As Ashcroft turned away, Thorne saw a smile on his face.
This is making the senator feel good, he thought.
Thorne had misjudged him. Despite knowing nothing about the man or his politics, he'd automatically assumed the worst; that he was only helping him to help himself. It made him feel bad, because he hadn't done any of this for James Ashcroft, who he assumed probably had it coming in some way. He'd done it for Lauren, who he'd taken for an innocent.
He lowered himself into the wheelchair. He was tired and wanted to curl up somewhere like a dog and sleep, preferably for a week. It occurred to him that he’d pretty much done that already and that he needed to be more on the ball. Lauren squatted down next to him, her face inches away from his and spoke softly.
“You won’t tell Jimmy about what happened will you?”
Thorne had no idea what she was talking about.
“No.”
“Good. He wouldn't understand.”
Thorne nodded. Him and me both. Lauren remained in front of him, like she was waiting for him to say something else, but he had nothing. Her eyes flicked up, over his head, toward her husband. The stones crunched under his feet as he approached. She got to her feet and spoke at a normal volume.
“How about I show you around, Chris?”
“That’d be great.”
Lauren opened the door and wheeled him inside. A chirping sound kicked off as soon as the door opened and she stood on tiptoe to type a five digit code into a control panel on the wall. There was a long chirp, then silence. Her calm reaction and speed of number entry told him the alarm was always on, the Ashcrofts weren't putting on a big show for him.
He looked around for the first time.
They were in a large entrance hall with a polished marble floor. The room was cold and empty except for a full-size piano covered in framed photographs, and a console table with a selection of car keys on a silver plate. In front of them, a staircase rose up to the second floor, while to their left a corridor opened up. Lauren pushed him toward the corridor. He was tired, and the sunlight pouring through the glass wall hurt his eyes as though he were hungover.
For a moment, he considered pulling out his sunglasses and threading them onto his face Jake Vasco style, but decided against it. These people were reaching out to him, trying to repay him, and sunglasses would be too much. He’d look like an ungrateful douche. As they moved along the corridor Lauren spoke constantly, like a torrent of water. About her move to Santa Cruz from Los Angeles, about meeting James Ashcroft, about the architect of the building. In less than a minute, she’d spoken more than he had the previous month.
Three doors opened off the corridor and Lauren seamlessly interrupted her own monolog to show him a large gymnasium, a steam room, and a combination shower and dressing area. The corridor opened out in a vast space filled with hot, humid air. In front of them was a swimming pool surrounded by an outdoor-style deck with loungers and low tables. Beyond, lay plush chairs arranged around a TV, and a kitchen with a breakfast bar. He could tell that this was the room they spent most of their time in. Lauren parked the chair and walked past him into the kitchen. The wheelchair put his eye line at the same height as her ass, which appeared to be one of the seven wonders of the world.
“You want some water?”
“Sure,” he said.
Lauren opened a stainless steel refrigerator and bent down, disappearing entirely behind an island unit. She passed him a bottle of water and began to talk about the kitchen renovation they’d just had done. Thorne smiled and tried to make it convincing. He looked at the bottle of water. She hadn’t opened it, it was still sealed. He eased the sling off his right arm and straightened it out in front of him. It immediately began to shake so he let it drop down the side of the chair where she couldn’t see it and began clenching and releasing his fist to restore blood supply. His fingers felt weak and the touch sensation of his fingertips against his palm was almost non-existent. He brought the arm up into his lap again and used the hand to grip the soft plastic of the bottle as his left hand gripped the lid. It was harder than he imagined. He was right handed and had never opened a bottle this way before. Finally, he got the lid off and drank gratefully from the bottle until it was empty.
“Wow, you were thirsty.”
He hadn’t noticed Lauren watching him.
“It’s the medication,” he said. “Makes my throat dry.”
“Have mine. I don’t really need it.”
She reached out to him, offering her bottle. The seal was broken but there was barely any liquid missing. He went to take it but she continued to hold on to it, like she'd changed her mind. Their fingers were touching.
“You don’t mind that I drank from it, do you?”
“Not really.”
“There might be spit from my mouth in there.”
“I can only hope.”
A smile spread across her face. She let go of the bottle and looked up.
“What about you, Jimmy? You need a drink?”
“Yeah. A Scotch,” Ashcroft said.
“Hon, it’s four in the afternoon.”
“I’m still on D.C. time I guess.” The senator walked past him and into the kitchen where Thorne could see him. Ashcroft set out two glass tumblers on the counter. “Chris, you want something stronger? You a Scotch man?”
“I’m good thanks.”
“Fair enough.”
They left the senator sitting in front of the TV watching news, a glass of Scotch in one hand, remote in the other. He was relaxed, in his element, yet the shift in posture made him look older and more troubled than he had just moments earlier. Everyone had their problems, he thought, even rich people. Lauren wheeled him out the room in silence, her conversational flow at an end. He glanced through the large glass windows to the tree line beyond. Both the glass and the thick forest that surrounded the property represented a security problem, one Blake was sure to get through. The alarm made little difference, police response times out here had to be at least a quarter of an hour, by which time Blake would be long gone. Blake was out there somewhere, and he’d be coming.
“Are you an alcoholic?”
The question pulled him back into the moment.
“I try not to be.”
“I’m being serious, Chris. If you’re staying here I want to know.”
“You’ve nothing to worry about.”
They were in the entrance hall where they’d begun.
This time, Lauren pushed him through to the back of the room where another passage lead off to the other side if the building. The corridor was as wide as it was tall, a long square pipe with no windows. Paintings hung on the nearside wall, eight in total, with the last one protected inside a glass or composite case. He could guess which held the Picasso. Lauren rolled him quickly along, zipping past the art without a word. Thorne marveled. They had a painting worth a hundred million dollars and she said nothing yet, minutes earlier, she’d taken the time to explain a faucet in the kitchen that dispensed boiling water.
Blake was right, the painting made no difference to their lives.
His mind turned the new information over. If the Picasso disappeared, it was conceivable they might not notice for several days, perhaps longer. His eyes rotated to watch the protective case go by, but he kept his head static, giving nothing away. He was low and saw nothing but a vague blur. He guessed that the corridor was used as a gallery precisely because it lacked windows whose light might damage the art, but the location also likely meant that the Ashcrofts barely came to look at it.
The corridor took a sharp right and dead-ended after thirty feet in a long, narrow window. There were two doors on his left and a third on his right. Lauren pushed the first door open and he saw the end of a bed and an antique dressing table with a large mirror. Ashcroft had placed his backpack on the bed, next to a white plastic bag with no branding on the side. His medication.
“This is it. Sorry it’s so small, we have better rooms o
n the second floor, but with the stairs…we thought this would be easier.”
She wheeled him into the room and swung him back to face the door. Fury was boiling over inside him. He was through with being pushed around like a piece of goddam furniture. Better he shuffle along like a train-wreck meth addict than fucking roll.
He kept his face calm, his eyes bright.
“It's perfect, Lauren. Really.”
“The bathroom is directly opposite. The hot water takes a while to come through, but the shower’s pretty good.”
He said nothing and she shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.
It seemed to him that beautiful women were frequently uncomfortable with silence, preferring to surround themselves in a bubble of often meaningless conversation. Kate was the same way, but she’d grown used to his quiet presence. At least, so he thought. It now appeared she’d wanted to talk about her feelings and where they were headed as a couple. She’d wanted them to marry and have kids.
Why did she have to break up with him to tell him that?
“Can you help me out of this thing?”
“Of course,” she said.
Lauren held his left hand as he stood, quickly wrapping her right around his back the way Ashcroft had. The move brought them together in an embrace, the front of their bodies briefly pressed together. He shifted unsteadily as his wounded thigh went into spasm, but it passed and he was able to straighten to his full height. She was strong, he felt her arm muscles flexing against his back.
“Lauren, you can let go. I’m okay.”
She looked up at him and her cheeks filled with blood again, her mouth slightly open. This face, Thorne thought, this is why I’m here. She smiled.
“I forgot how tall you are.”
He wasn't sure how to respond to this, so gave a small nod. She remained uncomfortably close to him. Either Lauren had some serious issues with personal space, or she was doing it on purpose. He began to feel light headed.
“Lauren, I hope you don’t mind, but I’m wiped out.”
“I'll bet.”
She didn't move. He glanced at the door and back.
“I thought I’d try get some sleep.”
“Oh, sure.”
She hesitated for a moment, then leaned in and wrapped her arms around him, her face pressed into his chest. Her grip was tight, like a kid doing a bear hug, and he winced as her arms tightened around his fractured rib. The hug lasted no more than a couple of seconds, after which she turned and walked out the room, pulling the door closed behind her.
Thorne moved to the edge of the bed and sat down. What the hell was that? Was she thanking him again, is that what that was? He pulled his cell phone out the backpack they’d brought from the hospital. The battery was almost flat, it’d been on for days. It dropped from 8% to 7% as he looked at it. He sighed and selected recent calls. As he expected, there hadn’t been any, but it always seemed to be the easiest way to bring up Kate’s number. His finger hovered over her name until the screen dimmed and went black.
He lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
TWELVE
The entrance to the Ashcroft place was closed, the tall steel gates blocking his path. In front of them, news crews milled about hoping to get footage of their new hero. Lieutenant Cabot slowed to a crawl as he left the road and began to nose his cruiser through the crush of reporters and camera crews. A camera turned his way and a light snapped on. Within seconds, other cameras did the same, the reporters perhaps sensing that footage of him coming and going might be the only thing they’d capture all day. Cabot sighed. When he reached the gates he swung open the door and stepped out into the glare of the camera lights. An intercom was built into one of the gateposts and he made his way toward it, surrounded by a swarm of cameras and reporters.
“Lieutenant Cabot! What progress have you made on the case?”
“Is there an ongoing threat to Senator Ashcroft?”
“Was this a kidnapping or an assassination attempt?”
They moved alongside him, microphones held out to capture any response. He regretted not sending Detective Barnes to deal with the gate, but it was too late for that. He decided to say nothing and act as if they didn’t exist. It was better that way, if you engaged them you risked getting pulled into their world and drawn down to their level. They could take something you said and twist it around to mean something else.
Cabot was almost at the intercom when he saw the reporter from Channel 9 News standing waiting for him. He tried to remember her name. She was a light-skinned African-American, attractive, but styled to minimize her looks. Her hair was folded up on her head and clipped in place. She smiled, but not in a way he liked. He ignored her and pressed the intercom button, looking at the lens embedded in the post. He felt the reporter lean in toward him, the cameraman just over her shoulder. They were close, he could smell her perfume.
“Do you honestly believe the Sheriff’s Office is capable of carrying out an investigation of this kind? Wouldn’t this be better handled by the FBI?”
He bristled. Fuck the FBI! The special agent in charge of the San Francisco field office had called twice already, offering assistance. He spoke of a joint task force, increased manpower, and a bigger budget. But he knew what that added up to. They’d take over and squeeze him out. That smug bastard wanted all the glory and Cabot refused to give it to him.
“Sheriff’s Office has jurisdiction, ma’am.”
The panel buzzed and Ashcroft’s voice came out a speaker.
“Hey, Victor. Come on in.”
The gates began to open and the reporter spoke again.
“If you’re on this case, who gets lost cats out of trees?”
A ripple of laughter went around the press pack. He pushed his way back to the car, teeth clenched. His face was scarlet, he could feel the heat on his cheeks. The woman had made him a laughing stock. Jocelyn Cooper, that was her name, he remembered now. They called her Coop. Coop with the scoop.
He got into the Ford and slammed the door.
“What did she say to you?” Barnes asked.
“Never mind,” he said, not wanting to get into it. He drove through the gates and paused on the other side, his foot on the brake, eyes fixed on the side mirror. If anyone followed them through the gates, he would arrest them. He willed them to follow. They wouldn’t be laughing then. “This whole thing was a mistake, I should never have agreed to it. We should be doing this in interrogation.”
“You never explained why we’re doing it at all. I already interviewed Thorne at the hospital. He knew nothing, or as close to it as makes no difference. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It happens.”
“You answered your own damn question, Barnes. We’re here because you interviewed him without me and didn’t record any of his answers.”
“I took notes. He’s a witness, not a suspect.”
The gates finished closing and he took his foot off the brake and hit the gas. Hearing Barnes talk about Thorne made his skin itch.
“We got Thorne on video murdering three people in cold blood and seriously wounding a fourth. What would you have me do? Give him a goddamn parade?”
Mason Barnes stared at him for several seconds.
“I don’t get you, man. He nearly died saving your friend’s life.”
Cabot pulled up in front of Ashcroft’s huge home and cut the engine. In truth, he wasn’t certain if he and James Ashcroft were still friends and it made him uncomfortable to hear the word from Barnes. Six months earlier, he’d said something to Lauren after too much Scotch and he hadn’t heard a peep from either of them since. Ashcroft had been busy, sure, but it was an unusually long break in their communications. He had to assume she’d told her husband what he said and that neither of them appreciated it.
“Barnes, listen. I want to try something when we go in there. I don’t want you to engage with Thorne at all. I want to throw him off balance and I figure he thinks you believe him. Nothing persona
l, okay, just the way I want to play it.”
“You’re the L-T.”
Cabot got out the car and walked toward the mansion, leaving Barnes to bring the flight case and tripod. On the whole, he had no problem with the informal way the younger man spoke to him. He was the best detective in the department and that was all that mattered to him. Sometimes, however, this informality strayed dangerously close to insubordination and it struck him how often around Barnes he had to pause and wonder if he’d just been insulted.
The front door opened and James Ashcroft emerged wearing a crisp new suit and an off-the-rail smile. Cabot swore silently to himself. The smile was as fake as a porn star’s breasts and it confirmed that his friend knew all about his comment to Lauren. He tried to return the smile, but he wasn’t sure how natural it looked.
“Thanks for this Victor, I know it’s probably not protocol.”
“No problem,” he said. “Just tiding up loose ends.”
“Of course. Chris is waiting up in the library.”
It shouldn’t have surprised him that Ashcroft would be on first-name terms with the actor since the man was living in his home, but it was jarring to his ear. Chris. He was instantly annoyed. It felt personal, as if this new friendship replaced the lost friendship with him. They crossed the entrance hall and began to climb the staircase to the second floor. At the top of the stairs they turned down a hallway and entered the large room Ashcroft called his library. Thorne sat stiffly in a straight back dining chair, staring straight ahead like he was watching a television. His head was covered in bandages, and his right arm was in a sling. Thorne looked in a bad way and Cabot tried not to react as he turned to look at him.
“Good morning, Mr Thorne, I’m Lieutenant Cabot of the Santa Cruz County Sheriff’s Office.”
“Yeah, I saw you on the news.”
Cabot flashed back to his encounter with Jocelyn Cooper at the gate. It took him a second to realize that Thorne was referring to previous coverage.
“I’ve seen a lot of you on the news too. Quite the action hero.”
Thorne grunted, but said nothing.
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