Night Passenger

by David Stanley

  If the cop came after him, he was happy enough to shoot him dead. He wouldn’t have a choice, the man had probably spent most of the morning looking at grainy stills of his face. There was no way he wouldn’t be recognized. Besides, blowing the lieutenant’s brains all over the sidewalk might even be the smart play. He knew how cops worked; one of their own gets killed and they pretty much forget about all other cases they’re working on. The bungled kidnapping would go on the back burner until new evidence came to light, which it wouldn’t because they would’ve stopped looking for it.

  Sara drew alongside and flicked up the visor on her helmet. There was a light in her eyes he hadn’t seen for a while and it was good to see it back. He put the Glock back in his pocket. His helmet was hanging on her arm and she tossed it to him. He pulled it on and swung his leg over the seat and his arms around her waist and they tore off down the street. Around a minute later, she peeled off the main drag into the gloom of a parking garage. The flat concrete walls bounced the deep boom of the motorcycle engine at them from all sides.

  His thoughts drifted from the lieutenant back to Thorne.

  Two million dollars. He almost shook his head in amazement. It was half what he’d expected Throne to ask for - didn’t the man know how to divide twelve by three? Perhaps he was playing it smart, not pushing his luck by asking for too much. There was a point when it became easier to kill someone than pay them and he didn’t feel that was the case here. He and Sara would walk away with a perfect ten mill. Double digits. Breaking into that ten for another two would’ve been hard but two million off the top? He could live with that, particularly since his share of the payout was set to double from the previous heist.

  Sara stopped next to a space and rolled them backward into the spot with her boots on either side so that the motorcycle was facing out, then killed the engine. He dismounted and took off his helmet then silently watched her wrestle with the bike. Every time, the same routine. The motorcycle was heavy, but he knew better than to help her get it up on its stand.

  “What did he say?” Sara said over her shoulder. “Are we good?”

  “Yeah baby, we’re good. But let’s be ready with Plan B just in case.”

  She finally got the Kawasaki on the stand and turned to him.

  “Aren’t we already on Plan D?”

  “Well, shit,” he said. “The waffle waitress can count.”

  Sara slapped him hard across the face. He’d known it was coming but he let it happen anyway. Knowing how a joke ends doesn’t stop it being funny. He ran his tongue around his mouth in a practiced movement. Sometimes she made him bleed. Not today. His cheek pulsed from the slap, which was right where Thorne had hit him during the bar fight. If he knew her like he thought he did, he’d say she aimed for that spot on purpose. She removed her helmet and shook loose her long brown hair. It spilled out across her shoulders like a liquid, sliding about on the polished leather as it uncoiled itself. He loved her hair, loved its feel between his fingers and against his skin. Most of all, he loved when she told him to pull on it when they were fucking. Her eyes were piercing now, her lips peeled back to show her teeth.

  This was no smile, this was a wild animal preparing to bite.

  He held her tight as they kissed.

  FIFTEEN

  Thorne’s body felt like it was on fire. He lay on the bed, teeth gritted, waiting for the pain to pass. A low growl forced its way out of his throat and through his teeth. He couldn’t stop it any more than he could stop the pain. Minutes passed before it eased off again. He lay still, listening to the sound of his own breathing. His body was covered with sweat and the sheets stuck to him. He sat up and swung his legs onto the floor. Immediately, the pressure across his chest eased. Thorne raised his hand up and touched the bandage encasing his head. For a second there’d been a wet feeling like he was bleeding and instinctively he checked his fingertips for traces of blood.

  Nothing.

  He got to his feet and paused to check his balance. The dizziness was still there, but not as bad as before. No worse now than after a couple of drinks. The space next to him was narrow and he was able to use the wall to steady himself as he moved toward the end of the bed. He couldn’t keep lying there, he had to move around. A charcoal gray robe hung on the back of the door and he put it on. It was small and the sleeves stopped halfway down his forearm. He lifted the lapel, buried his nose into the soft fabric and smiled. Lauren. Her shampoo, her moisturizer, her body.

  The door of his room opened silently, with a viscous dragging from the thick carpet that made him think of a good milkshake. Thorne set off toward the kitchen. His mouth was dry and he craved a glass of water with chips of ice in it. Halfway down the hallway, he came upon the Picasso in its security housing. It was a small picture, not much larger than a sheet of legal paper and the frame probably doubled the space it occupied.

  Thorne put his face up to the armored glass and peered at the contents.

  He hadn’t been sure before but he was now.

  He really hated the painting.

  There were three other pictures hanging on the wall, but none of them had protective cases over them. It didn’t mean they weren’t worth something, but probably not a hundred million dollars. He tried to imagine having that kind of money to blow on a painting, but he just couldn’t. He remembered that security cameras were pointed at the painting and moved off down the hallway as casually as possible. He avoided the temptation to look up at them and continued down the hallway as he had before.

  He was almost at the east side of the house when he saw bright moving shapes dancing across the dark stone wall. The pool. He could hear it now too; the gentle hum of the filter pump and a soft slapping of water. When he turned the corner, the room was not quite as he expected and he stopped to get his bearings. To his left, the large floor to ceiling windows were now black, like a movie screen showing deep space. Above the windows lights shone on the blond wood of the slanting roof space, causing a golden glow to fall down on the rippling surface of the water. To his right, a series of small lamps he hadn't noticed before were scattered around, emitting small pools of light. Thorne was so absorbed taking in the scene that it took him a moment to notice Lauren watching him from the far end of the pool, just her head above the surface. Her hair was stuck to her skull and it made her eyes look bigger and her face younger. She looked startled.

  “I was getting a glass of water.”

  “I trust you, Chris, I just wasn't expecting to see you.”

  “Kind of early for a swim isn’t it?”

  “Jimmy snores. Either I come here and swim or I pull a plastic bag over his face and wait for him to stop thrashing about. This seems easier.”

  “You're pretty dark, Lauren.”

  “Thank you.”

  She sank beneath the surface for a moment then reappeared. Thorne wondered what she was thinking but her eyes gave nothing away. He felt awkward staring at her but he couldn’t help himself. She made him forget his injuries and for that reason alone he wanted to keep the conversation going.

  “So, how bad is it?”

  Lauren tilted her head to one side.

  “How bad is what?’

  “The snoring.”

  “Oh, it’s terrible. Worse when he’s been drinking like he was tonight. He’s been drinking a lot recently. I think he's worried about something but he never speaks about it. Sometimes he talks in his sleep as well, you know? Real nasty stuff. I don’t like it, but I’m not sure telling him about it would do any good.” Lauren paused. “When I told him about the snoring he just shrugged and said it’s natural, that it’s designed to discourage animals from attacking us while we sleep.”

  Thorne nodded. “I’ve heard that before.”

  “Even when he’s asleep I hate him.”

  Lauren’s words seemed to hang in the air between them. In his mind it was like a door opened, but a door to what he wasn’t sure. Nothing good.

  “Normally you sleep where I'm sle
eping don't you?”

  “Yeah, sometimes. It's cool though, don't sweat it. You save a girl's life, she owes you forever, right?”

  “You don't owe me anything, Lauren.”

  “That’s precisely what I do owe you. Anything.”

  Heat fanned out inside him like after a good Scotch. Anything. It was such a dangerous word and the way she said it, the eye contact…he turned his head away from her, as if that alone could turn off the thoughts that were now filling his mind. Anything. Jesus Christ. He walked to the edge of the pool and sat down, dropping his feet into the water. It was a lot cooler than he expected, but it felt nice against his skin. He found his thoughts drifting back to the kiss she'd given him at the hospital. It was one of the best kisses of his life, he was certain of it. He could see she was waiting for him to reply.

  “Okay,” he said. “A kiss. Then you owe me nothing.”

  Lauren smiled and swam toward him. Her arms and legs were lean, with clearly defined muscles, no doubt from hours in the pool and from the gym down the hall. She was carrying a little extra padding around the hips and chest, but he had no problem with that. Curves were good. Lauren slowed and began to tread water in front of him as she appeared to look him over. He didn’t envy her, he wasn’t at his best. After a moment, she smiled again, her mouth small and pinched. He amused her, like the punch line to a joke. Another guy drawn in by her looks, willing to do what she wanted. He wondered what that must be like, to have that power. Thorne supposed it all depended who was looking, it was a tough world out there.

  She let her legs sink to the bottom of the pool and rose up, walking the last couple of steps to where he sat. The water came to the bottom of her ribcage. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, she was stunning.

  Lauren put out her hands and held his knees as if to balance herself. Her hands were cold and wet. She looked down at his lap, from knee to hip. He saw her problem. He was tall, and his long legs created a gap between them. Thorne said nothing, she’d figure it out. Her hands slid slowly up his thighs, pushing the robe up, and pulling herself forward.

  Pushing his knees apart.

  A shiver went down his spine. She was between his legs now, his feet touching her hips, his knees gripping her chest. The robe pushed high, barely covering what it needed to. His legs moved with her as she breathed, a slow rhythmic pulse. He couldn’t say he disliked it.

  Lauren looked into his eyes, then down to his mouth.

  She was in front of him, no more than a foot. He felt her breath brushing against his cheeks. Before he thought too much about it, he leaned forward and kissed her. It was a tender kiss, but there was no passion in it. Not like the kiss he wanted to give her. But a kiss like that, it wasn’t something you did without knowing the reaction of the other person beforehand. She might not like it. This was a gift, after all. A toll for having saved her life. She seemed happy to offer it but that wasn’t the same as giving it on impulse, like at the hospital.

  The kiss ended and he drew back to look at her face. Her eyes crinkled with amusement and a wet hand gripped the back of his head, pulling them back together, holding him in place. Her tongue pushed past his teeth into his mouth, forcing it open.

  This is a kiss, he thought.

  Finally, she broke away and smiled again.

  “I still owe you, Chris. Maybe I always will.”

  Lauren pushed herself backward through the water, her honey-colored body turning as it disappeared below the surface. Kissing her had been a mistake. Instead of scratching an itch, he found himself more consumed with her than ever. Worse than that, was the knowledge she'd really liked it. Lauren sat on the pool steps opposite, studying him. He realized he could hear himself breathing. His mouth was open and he was breathing through it like an animal.

  “Can you bring me my towel and the robe? They’re on the chair behind you.”

  “Sure,” he said.

  Thorne pulled his feet out of the water and stood awkwardly. Over by the chairs he picked up the towel and a white silk robe that lay next to it and held them in front of him as he walked around the corner of the pool. He looked away while she dried herself and when he looked back she was knotting the robe’s belt around her waist.

  There was a trace of sadness in her eyes.

  “They’re not real you know, Jimmy had me enhanced.”

  “That doesn’t matter to me. You’re kind of beautiful.”

  She pulled a face and threw the towel at his head.

  “Kind of, huh? You’re such a dork, Thorne.”

  He followed her to the kitchen, his legs moving as slowly as they could. Lauren had a way of walking that made her ass twitch from one side to another, as if she were wagging an invisible tail and it was one of the most delightful things he had ever seen.

  SIXTEEN

  Cabot stood in front of the evidence wall and stared at the faces of those pinned to it. The wall was a cork noticeboard five feet long by three and a half feet high. Most of the time this board was used to log bowling tournaments between the Sheriff’s Office and the Police Department. A tournament that was characterized by the SCPD thrashing them at every opportunity. He didn’t remember how the wall had come about, though he suspected it might owe a lot to TV cop shows who had repeatedly proved its potential as a way of quickly summarizing a lot of information in a single place.

  On the left hand side of the board were photographs of Lauren and James Ashcroft, then Christopher Thorne, Samuel Porter, the three dead men; Lucas Foster, Ricky Martinez, and Taylor Lynch. That left the two unknowns who were still in the wind. He noticed this had changed. Morrison was now written over one, while Chelsea DiMarco was written over the other. The other photographs were all pin sharp, but that’s where their luck ended. Morrison was a grainy security picture, while Chelsea was a silhouette. The driver had never left the van so there were no photographs, grainy or otherwise.

  Mason Barnes approached and stood silently alongside.

  Cabot had never liked numbering unknown subjects of an investigation, he found the practice caused a barrier to form between his officers and those they were chasing. There would often be multiple unknowns of the same sex which could lead to a lack of clarity over who someone was talking about at any given moment. Additionally, if there was more than one investigation ongoing at the same time, a situation could arise where different suspects could be confused for one another due to generic naming. The best solution he’d found, was to give the subjects aliases that would be changed when their real identities were known. It was an approach that Barnes had enthusiastically endorsed and he had since allowed the detective to come up with all the names.

  Cabot tapped the grainy picture of the man Thorne couldn’t shoot.

  “Why Morrison?”

  “That’s easy. He’s wearing a Doors T-shirt. Jim Morrison was-“

  “I know who Jim Morrison was,” Cabot said, cutting him off. He was annoyed with himself for not making the connection. “What about this Chelsea DiMarco?”

  “It was the name of a girl at school. The guys used to debate whether she was a he, on account of her mustache. She had a mustache before most of us did, it was embarrassing. Anyway, I figured since we don’t know if the suspect is male or female, this was a perfect compromise. If we confirm he’s a man, we can call him DiMarco.”

  Cabot nodded. “I like it, but let’s drop the DiMarco part. I want to keep the naming format consistent; single names for aliases, double for real names. Surnames for men, first names for women. We can’t risk mixing them up in the field. I’m not worried about the driver being male, I’m a hundred percent we’re looking for a female.”

  Barnes looked like he was going to comment on this, then obviously thought better of it. Cabot knew what it meant, that nobody thought the driver was a woman. It hadn’t taken him long to discover this, all he’d had to do was walk around the department, it was everywhere. The sidelong glances, the conversations that mysteriously dried up as soon as he was near enough to hea
r. He didn’t care. People could have their opinions, but the facts would speak for themselves and he knew how they’d shake out.

  Cabot sat watching the interview footage again. He’d watched it at least ten times already, and every time he did it made him angry. The sound was muted now, he was watching Thorne’s body language, facial movements, anything that gave him away. So far, he didn’t have much. Most of the time, the actor had spoken continuously, relating events from the day, his face flat, relaxed. The only time anything was different, was after he’d caught the actor making a mistake. His eyes had flickered up and to the right, and his smooth, line-free face had scrunched up in worry. It was his favorite part of the video.

  Barnes sat on a chair opposite him, his body reclined way back and his right ankle resting on his left knee. He had his left arm out straight along the back of the chair next to his, like he was at the movies with a sweetheart. Cabot glared at him over his desk. Whenever Barnes came into his office he seemed to own the space, like he belonged there and that it would be his very shortly. As long as that happened after he became sheriff, he had no complaints.

  “I pulled Thorne's service record, you should take a look.”

  Cabot sighed. Not only did he not want to read it, he didn't want to hear about it either. He could tell from Barnes' face that it had impressed him and he was going to hear about it no matter what.

  “Let me guess, your big hero now was a hero back then?”

  “He has a Medal of Honor, two Silver Stars, and a Bronze Star.”