“Wait, what did you just say?”
Cabot couldn’t believe his ears. Thorne had zoned off, re-living the day. He hadn’t interrupted with questions, because Thorne’s story fitted with the footage he’d seen and the witness statements he’d read.
“I said I was shot in the head,” Thorne said.
“No. You said ‘she shot me in the head’.”
“Why would I say that? I never saw the driver’s face.”
Cabot felt something inside him, it was electric.
“The shot to your head was a graze, correct? It basically missed?”
Thorne’s eyes narrowed.
“Didn’t feel that way at the time.”
“Almost like the shooter couldn’t take the shot.”
“Is that a question?”
“Like the shooter is a woman.”
“Women can fire guns just fine, Lieutenant.”
“Sure, in a military or law enforcement environment. I have no doubt about it. Perhaps at a gun range with paper targets. But I’m talking about homicides on the street, one stranger killing another. You’re six to eight times more likely to be shot dead by a man and that’s a fact. Once you remove crimes of passion, the gap only widens.”
Thorne sighed. “Maybe, I don’t know.”
“Finish you story, Mr Thorne. It gets better every time I hear it.”
Anger flashed across the actor’s face.
“I don’t think so. We’re done here.”
Cabot was delighted. He’d got under Thorne’s skin and the man was making mistakes. It was a good sign. He didn’t care about the rest of the story, he knew how it turned out.
“You know, you said something earlier that’s not correct.”
Thorne grunted. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“The man you wounded, or tagged as you say, was seriously injured. About a mile down the road his friends left him for dead at the side of the road. He’s at Dominican Hospital right now connected to the wall. Medically-induced coma they call it. Despite how that sounds, I’m told he’ll make a full recovery.” Cabot paused, noticing Thorne’s frozen face, and smiled his first genuine smile for a long time. “It’s going to be interesting to hear what he has to say when he comes around, don’t you think?”
Thorne turned toward the window. The stubble on his face caught the light as he turned, like facets on a diamond. He spoke without turning back, his voice calm and measured.
“Sounds to me, like all you have to do is sit and wait.”
Cabot closed his notebook and returned it to his suit pocket.
“That’s pretty much what I thought, Mr Thorne. Not much longer now, I figure. A week, maybe ten days on the outside. Well, Barnes, I think we should be heading off to get some lunch. If you could pack up here I’m going to have a quick word with Jimmy.”
“Sure thing, boss,” Barnes said.
It was the first time the detective had spoken since they’d got out the car. Cabot was pleased to note that his colleague’s tone was light and agreeable. He got up and walked to the door then stopped to face Thorne again. He found the actor looking straight at him. His jaw was clenched, and his eyes were narrowed. It was not, he thought, a friendly look.
“Oh yeah,” Cabot said, casually. “Forgot to mention. That wounded man, Samuel Porter, turns out he was a Marine too. Served the same time you did, in Iraq and Afghanistan. What are the odds, right? Popped right up on AFIS. The world is a small, small place.”
Thorne stared back silently.
Cabot nodded slowly, like he was agreeing with something that was being said. After a beat he winked at Thorne and left the room.
THIRTEEN
Cabot. The man was bad news, Thorne could smell it on him like a cheap cologne. The lieutenant wasn’t buying his account of the shoot-out like everyone else, he saw his lies for what they were. He’d been too slick, he could see that now. In his experience, most people prefer a story, even a true story, to be presented with a small amount of style. But others, like Cabot, don’t like everything neat and tidy with a bow on top. To them, it feels like they’re being sold an angle, rather than being trusted to work out the truth for themselves. His story had been too well thought-out. It sounded rehearsed, scripted. But the world wasn’t like that, it was rough and spontaneous. Real life had edges. He should’ve given less detail. He’d sustained a head wound; forgetting some of what happened or getting it mixed up would’ve been believable. If he’d done that, Cabot would never have noticed his mistake.
But he had noticed, and nothing good could come of it.
Thorne watched from the second floor window as the lieutenant walked out to his cruiser with Ashcroft. The senator had his hand on Cabot’s back between his shoulder blades. It was a light touch; friendly, but in control. Presidential. When they reached the car, they turned to face one another, Ashcroft talking a mile a minute. Thorne wished he could hear what was being said, convinced it was about him. But a moment later, both men laughed and he felt himself relax.
The senator had told a joke.
He’d sensed an awkward tension between them when Cabot had arrived, but this now seemed to have dissipated. Now, the two were laughing and joking like old friends. Thorne knew all about old friends, and how the line between friends and enemies could become blurred. Friendship could be faked, used to serve an end.
Friendship could be control.
Ashcroft shook Cabot’s hand, the now familiar energetic fist pump. It was strange to see a man almost in his fifties do this type of handshake, but it reassured him that there’d been no hidden message for him at the hospital. When he was through, the senator turned and walked back toward the mansion. Ashcroft didn’t appear to see him at the window, but when Thorne glanced back at the lieutenant, he saw him smiling grimly up at him.
The longer he stayed in Santa Cruz, the more this fat worm was going to dig up. There were some questionable holes in his story, most of which Cabot hadn’t even dreamed of yet. It could only be a matter of time before the noose started to tighten.
The simplest thing would be to leave town. The cop was small time, and without easy access to him his investigation would stall and fall apart. Cabot obviously suspected him of some kind of involvement, but that wouldn’t be enough. The hunt for the remaining gang members would have to take priority and while the lieutenant looked for them, he could slip away. He should return to L.A. and try to work things out with Kate.
Cabot drove down the driveway and out of sight.
But he couldn’t leave, not while the painting was still in play. Blake would remain a threat to the Ashcrofts as long as there was any chance he could complete his robbery. Only when the painting was back in the gallery would they be safe. He had to convince Ashcroft to return the painting before his birthday, before it was too late. But how could he do that without exposing his involvement? Nobody so far had made the connection to the painting and he was inclined to leave it that way.
“He got to you, didn’t he?”
Thorne turned and saw Lauren standing behind him holding two highball glasses. She was wearing a man’s pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and light pink bob socks. He tried not to stare at her legs and focussed on her face but there was something strange about it that he couldn’t identify.
It was Lauren, but at the same time, it wasn’t.
“He made me go through that day again. I already went through it at the hospital with that other guy, Barnes.” Thorne sighed. “I misspoke and he thinks it means something. He thinks I lied to him. The guy’s infuriating.”
“That’s probably because of me.”
“How’s that?”
Lauren turned and walked over to the sofa. She placed the glasses on the low table and flopped down where Cabot had been sitting. She folded her legs up under her like a Buddha. Somehow, folded up, there seemed to be more leg than ever. She seemed blissfully calm, and there was a smile on her face like she was in on a joke he didn’t know about.
He’d seen this look before and it made him smile too. He crossed the floor and sat opposite her, laying his crutches on the floor. Sitting next to her looking like this would’ve been a mistake; at least with a table between them there was a chance he might not make a fool of himself.
She was watching him closely, as if sensing his discomfort.
“He’s in love with me,” she said. “Has been since we first met.”
Thorne stared at her.
“Cabot,” she added, a sparkle in her eyes.
He felt his face turn scarlet.
“Isn’t he in his sixties by now?”
“Oh, at least.”
Lauren leaned forward and picked up her glass. Ice tinkled as she lifted it from the table. It was a nice sound, an angel getting its wings. She took a sip, swirled the glass, then took another, longer pull. He watched her throat move up and down as she swallowed. The hairs on his neck stood on end. If he was honest with himself, his reluctance to leave Santa Cruz was a lot less noble than he was prepared to admit. She put the glass back down, leaving a pink bruise on the side where her lipstick had rubbed off.
“I made you one too,” she said. “Thought you could use it.”
“I see that. What is it?”
“Gin and tonic.”
“Lauren, I can’t drink alcohol. It screws up my meds.”
“Oh.” Her face fell. “You want me to fix you something else?”
He glanced at the drink again. Gin had been Kate’s poison, he’d always been a Scotch guy. But this, this looked good. As much as it tempted him, he knew it wasn’t worth more pain. He had all he needed.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “So you were saying before that Cabot is being a hardass because, what? Because he’s jealous of me? Because he wants me out the way? You’re already married, it’s not like I’m a rival.”
Her smile reappeared.
“I think the he has a clearer understanding of the situation than you do.”
She was getting him all turned around.
“Lauren, are you high right now?”
She giggled. “What gave me away?”
“I’ve not seen you this relaxed before, it suits you.” Thorne paused, then continued. “I also couldn’t help noticing that you’re not wearing any pants.”
Lauren looked down at her legs and laughed. She appeared genuinely surprised to see her own bare skin and she stroked her legs experimentally. When she glanced back up at him she had a serious expression, like she were about to testify in court.
“Do you want to get fucked up?”
A smile spread across his face and he nodded a couple of times, amused at the idea. He hadn’t been high since before he joined the Corps. Lauren stood and held out her hand to him across the table. He took it and let her lead him out the room. Her grip was firm, confidant. In the hallway she looked back at him and made a shhh face, then glanced toward Ashcroft’s office. The door was pushed over, but not closed. Music played softly through the gap, something classical. A tug on his hand brought him back and they were once again moving down the hallway. At the end of the hall they turned into the master bedroom, then through a side door into an en-suite bathroom.
The walls and floor were white marble, large square slabs joined together by thin lines of gray cement. A shower stall, a bath big enough for two, a sink, and a toilet and bidet side by side. A window ran the full length of the bath without a ripple pattern for privacy. Lauren let go of his hand and shut the door behind them. There was a lock, but she didn’t turn it. She reached into the shower stall and turned the water on, and the room filled with the static hiss of the droplets crashing onto tile. She bent down on one knee in front of the sink and from a wooden cabinet underneath, took out a cardboard box with the name of a detergent on the side. She passed this up to him, before returning to the cupboard again, this time for a double A battery and a strap designed to wrap around a suitcase at an airport. Thorne looked at the strap, his eyebrows knitted together in concern.
Lauren saw his reaction and smiled.
“Don’t worry, it’s not that kind of party.”
She put her hand on his left shoulder to steady herself and stepped into the bath. He saw her feet were now bare, the bob socks lay discarded on the marble floor. A white shadow crossed the top of her foot where sandals had blocked the sun’s rays. It was the first sign he’d seen that her honey-golden skin tone was not her natural coloring. She slid the long window open and pulled herself out through the gap in a smooth, cat-like movement, twisting around so that she could sit on the window frame. Her shirt become hitched up and Thorne found himself staring at the pink satin briefs she wore underneath. Lauren paused to do something outside, then swung her left leg sideways through the opening into the sunlight, followed moments later by her right.
A better man might’ve looked away while she did this, but he was the only man there. She dropped down out of sight, making no sound on the other side as she landed.
He pulled off his shoes and socks then stood in the bath and looked out the window. A white stucco shelf stuck out below like a balcony formed by the roof of the room below, which Thorne figured to be the southern corner of the pool. The space formed a right triangle with walls on either side and an open outlook into the woods on the third side. As it wasn’t a balcony, there was no wall or guardrail. A series of brightly colored rectangles covered the majority of the white stucco. Padded tops for sun loungers, he realized, a single empty lounger frame sat to one side. Lauren’s face looked up at him with a big smile on it.
“Pass me the box.”
Thorne passed it to her and she was able to take it out his hand without him having to toss it. The drop wasn’t as far as he’d imagined.
“Stay away from the corner coming out,” she continued.
He wasn’t sure what she meant until he looked. Top left was a magnetic sensor for the alarm system. It had been disabled in a very simplistic manner; the two units had been glued together and the magnet part detached from the sliding window. The tops of the screw heads had been left in place, giving the impression while the window was closed that nothing was wrong.
He shook his head.
Why would they disable their own alarm like this?
But all too quickly the answer came to him: because James Ashcroft knew nothing about it. That’s why she’d shut the door and turned on the shower. He moved over to the edge of the window to follow her out, and noticed that she’d pushed the double A battery into the track of the window and hooked the suitcase belt around the far edge of the window. He smiled to himself. It was obvious to him what she intended to do and it was ingenious.
Thorne wasn’t as flexible as she was, and he tumbled out the narrow opening onto the lounger cushions below. He lay still on his back, waiting for pain that he felt certain was to follow. Nothing. He hadn’t fallen far, just badly. Lauren’s face slid into view above him. She was close, the ends of her hair touched his face.
“You okay?”
“I think so,” he said.
Her face was against the light and he couldn’t make out her expression. For a moment he thought she was Kate. The mess of blonde hair, the proximity. Kate Bloom was all he’d known for so long, that his brain hadn’t adapted to his single status. Thorne felt her breath brushing against his cheek, the faint flowery scent of gin washing over him. He wished he’d taken the drink she’d made him. She’d done something nice for him, and he’d rejected it. Thinking about the drink made him remember his crutches, he’d left them next to his chair and he hadn’t even noticed.
“Let me close the window,” she said, softly. “I’ll be right back.”
Her face disappeared. He turned to find her again, rolling over onto his side and propping his head with his hand. She was standing on her toes and the bare insoles of her feet were right in front of him like two pale curls of butter. His eyes flipped up the length of her legs to the two half moons of her butt, where they stopped. Her shirt was lifted up as sh
e worked. After a beat, his eyes continued up her torso to her head and arms. Lauren was pulling on the suitcase strap to close the window shut behind them. The large area of glass would’ve been too heavy for her to move from this angle; but with the strap it slid easily along the track until it hit the battery, just short of the window frame. She jiggled the material lengthwise to disengage the end and pulled the strap out through the gap. The window looked closed, it was perfect. If James Ashcroft walked into the bathroom he’d never notice.
Lauren turned and saw the way he was looking at her.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he said.
“Jesus, Thorne. Spit it out.”
“Falling out your window is the most fun I’ve had in a long time.”
Her smile returned.
“Let’s see what we can do about that.”
She picked up the detergent box and walked around the end of his feet and sat on the padded matting next to him, her back up against the hard stucco wall. Their positioning reminded him of the end of the shoot-out, so he pushed himself upright next to her and watched her hands expertly roll two joints. She lit them both and passed one to him. He took a long draw. The smoke burned his lungs and he had to fight to control his body’s desire to cough. The high hit him immediately, with no latency. He felt mildly dizzy, but at peace. Neither of them spoke and after a while Lauren tucked herself in tight against him, his right arm around her like a protective wing. They looked out into the distance together, across the tops of the trees, and into the blue nothingness of sky above.
FOURTEEN
Today it was a black Lexus. Blake watched it flash through the gaps in the pines as it sped down Ashcroft’s driveway. A compact, nothing fancy. Totally anonymous and forgettable. It looked like the senator was trying to blend in and disappear. A wise move. If he hadn’t been watching the mansion directly he would’ve missed it. He tracked along, following the car’s progress. The sun obscured his view of the driver, but he caught a glimpse of Thorne in the passenger seat. He was hard to miss, half his head was covered in white tape. Blake lowered his binoculars and turned to Sara, who was already looking at him. They’d waited over two hours for this moment and an unpleasant tension had grown between them. But now, Sara was smiling. The plan was back on track.
Night Passenger Page 14
