Barnes appeared to think about it.
“You know what? I’ll bet it’s the other way around. That there was never any sound on the store security, but it was added later from another source. On TV it’s an edited clip, right? Not separate streams from different cameras. It’s the exact same one that’s up on the internet, the TV companies didn’t make it. I reckon whoever put it together pulled the sound from a cell phone or somewhere else and stuck that on over the top. The sound volume doesn’t change between cuts, it’s constant which means it has a single source.”
Cabot nodded. “Some damn kid in his bedroom.”
“It’s always some kid in his bedroom. No doubt about it.”
He glanced at the detective to determine if he was being mocked. Instead, he saw Barnes writing something rapidly in his notepad. He smiled. That’s what he liked to see; it was the tell-tale sign of a good cop, always making notes.
“What you got? You think of something?”
“Yeah. I just thought of a really great tweet.”
Cabot didn’t speak to the detective the rest of the drive back.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Thorne sat at Ashcroft’s breakfast bar with a bottle of beer, checking news coverage on the senator’s tablet. He’d been at it for nearly half an hour, searching for news about a stabbing on River Street. Nothing. Not even a generic search for witnesses to an unnamed incident. He’d passed the scene within ten minutes. First responders should still have been there, but they were not. For his own reasons, Blake would’ve wanted to avoid all contact with police and paramedics. He’d managed to skulk off, back to wherever he was lying low, hopefully to bleed out in private.
Satisfied, he looked for items related to the shoot-out. This had become part of his daily routine and he found himself going back to it whenever there was time. He told himself that he needed to keep tabs on Cabot’s investigation, and the enquires of journalists, but he knew that was less than the whole truth. He’d grown used to seeing his name in print and, like any junkie, was chasing his next fix. Again, he struck out. The last piece was from three days earlier and contained no new information, only a summary of events and personalities.
The story was old, and the investigation stalled.
He set the tablet down and looked over at the pool where Lauren was doing laps. She mixed her strokes like an Olympic athlete. Crawl, butterfly, breast, and back. Ten laps of each stroke, before starting over. She swam like this for an hour without resting and did so three times a day. James Ashcroft sat in one of the poolside chairs drinking Scotch, looking not at Lauren’s athletic body cutting through the water, but at a muted television displaying an endless stream of financial information. Stock prices; risers, fallers. It appeared to Thorne to be the most boring channel ever.
Thorne took a long swig of beer and returned his attention to the tablet to check entertainment websites. A reality star had slit her wrists in her hot tub. It was everywhere, wall-to-wall. He flipped past it, unconcerned. He was about to close the tablet again when his eye caught a headline.
Kate Bloom in fist fight with photographer.
He tapped the link without reading the teaser paragraph.
A picture loaded of Kate standing in the doorway of a restaurant. She wore large mirror sunglasses and held her hand outstretched toward the camera to block the lens. Her lower lip was caught under her top teeth and he guessed the picture was taken while she was telling the photographer where to go. It wasn’t the most flattering picture of her he’d ever seen, but it made him smile nevertheless, particularly since it was accompanied by another picture of a creepy-looking man with a black eye. He read the article quickly. She’d been out with an unnamed friend at a steak place on Wilshire called Pacific Dining Car, when a man began to take pictures of her inside the restaurant. He was quickly ejected by staff, but remained outside waiting for her. After her meal he approached her again on the street and was immediately punched in the face. The man gave pursuit along the sidewalk, then began to take pictures of her in the Camaro, knocking heavily on the glass in an effort to make her open the window. Instead, she drove off over the top of his foot, crushing four toes.
Thorne smiled again. He could see the scene so clearly in his mind. Kate was beautiful, but she was no delicate flower and suffered no fool gladly.
The article mentioned him in two places; once as her co-star and partner of five years, and second as the hero of Capitola Mall. Their out-of-date relationship information caused a deep sadness to open inside him and he was filled with a desperate need to speak to her. Perhaps this incident would prove to be the perfect icebreaker between them and offer him a way back into her heart before too much time passed.
He stood and walked around the island unit and along past the pool area. Lauren had stopped swimming, but he didn’t turn his head to look for her, he didn’t want to get sidetracked. He walked through the mansion, back toward the guest room. It amazed him that he hadn’t spoken to Kate once since he’d gotten out of hospital. Every time he’d thought about it, he’d found a reason not to call. He closed the door and sat on his bed, his cell phone in his hand. Without thinking through what he wanted to say to her, he dialed her number. The call went straight to voicemail. It was a default message provided by her carrier which she’d never changed as a security measure. He hung up without leaving a message and squinted his eyes to make out the tiny digits on his cell phone clock.
00:14.
It was late, sure, but Kate charged her phone next to her bed and never switched it off. He thought about calling the landline. If she was asleep and he woke her up, she’d be annoyed. The landline was out in the hall, she’d have to get out of bed to answer it. Kate could be pretty cranky when she was woken up like that. Thorne decided to risk it anyway. He needed to hear her voice, even if that voice was removing his spleen for ten minutes. He navigated through the address book to find the number. He hit dial and waited for the call to connect, it felt like the signal was going out into space. After an eternity, an automated voice came on. The number you dialed is not a working number. Please check the number and dial again. He cut the call and stared at the screen. How could the number be wrong? They rarely used the landline, but he must’ve called it before from his cell. It looked right. The number ended with a triple six which he’d always made a joke about.
He sighed and lay back on the bed, vexed.
The story about her and the photographer had likely generated plenty of interest. Not just with friends and family, but with the press pack. Kate had no more love for the press than he had. It was, after all, how the situation had started. She would turn off her cell and unplug the landline, wait for things to calm down. In Los Angeles, people moved on pretty fast and there was no shortage of things for the press to cover.
His theory seemed to fit the facts, but in his guts he knew it wasn’t true. The automated message came back to him. Not a working number. If she’d left the phone off the hook or unplugged it he’d get a busy signal, wouldn’t he? What did that leave? His thoughts drifted for a moment. News of their break-up had yet to come out. If the press had pursued her since the shoot-out she might’ve decided to change her cell number and cancel the landline account. He didn’t know what happened to numbers that had been canceled, but he supposed they could easily be tagged as not working.
His cell phone rang and he jumped. He lifted it to his ear, but it remained black and silent in his hand. His eyes moved over to the burner cell on top of the dressing table. The display was lit up, its cheap ringtone like a fairground ride.
Only one person knew the number.
“Turn on the news, asshole.”
Blake disconnected without waiting for him to respond.
He ran back through the mansion to the east wing. The Ashcrofts were both still there next to the pool, ignoring each other. Their heads snapped around as he ran in.
“Put on the news,” he said.
“Which channel?” Ashcroft said.
&nbs
p; “Any channel.”
Ashcroft changed to KCAL9. On screen a large building was on fire. The flames licked out through multiple windows, devouring walls and soaring up into the night sky. In front, five towering palm trees were also on fire. It looked like a movie. He felt sick. Even like this, he recognized his home. The camera swept around to face Ocean Park Boulevard, which was choked by fire trucks and a crowd of shocked residents. As the camera moved he saw a glimpse of his Camaro parked at the curb. His eyes probed the figures on the street looking for Kate. If his car was there, she was there. His building had it’s own parking garage but she rarely used it as it was cramped and had thick unforgiving pillars. He searched for her blonde hair in the crowd, knowing he wouldn’t find it. Along the bottom of the screen the banner changed from BLAZE IN SANTA MONICA to FIRE AT HERO ACTOR’S HOME. The sound came on. Ashcroft must’ve realized it was still muted. An excited male voice was narrating the visuals from off-camera.
“Fire broke out just after eleven and spread rapidly through the building. Early reports indicate that the sprinkler system failed. At this stage, it is believed that the fire started in the apartment belonging to Chris Thorne before spreading into neighboring units. Residents were forced to flee wearing whatever they had on. Kate Bloom, actress and partner of Thorne, as yet the only confirmed fatality.”
“Switch it off!”
His voice was loud and cut across the droning voice of the reporter. Ashcroft immediately hit the power switch and the screen went black, its shape disappearing into the black window behind it. Silence filled the room. He stood frozen, still staring at the blank screen. A poison entered his body, he could feel it spreading out with each beat of his heart. The Ashcrofts stared at him from their lounge chairs, he could feel their eyes on him. Several seconds passed before he turned toward them. Tears were running down Lauren’s cheeks and when he looked at her, she began to sob. She’d never met Kate, but she could cry for her. His own eyes remained dry. Within him, rage was building and building, without end. Ashcroft stood and walked over to him, his face pale and frozen. Thorne knew what was coming, and he was in no mood for it. He held his hands up to block the senator’s embrace.
“Don’t. I can’t do this. I can’t be around people.”
He turned and walked out the room.
Lauren called out after him. “Chris! You can’t be on your own.”
Thorne continued to walk away. He felt himself shiver. The muscles in his body were tightening up. His jaw was clamped shut, like he was holding a scream inside.
He should have killed Blake when he had the chance.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Thorne walked next to Lauren down the small path of pine needles as they finished another run in the woods. It had been a run marked by impenetrable silence and unspoken sadness. As they popped out through the gap in the hedge, Thorne saw a man in his late sixties sitting on the step in front of the mansion. He was facing down the drive, as if waiting for someone to arrive by car. He wore faded blue jeans and a leather jacket, both of which were baggy and ill-fitting. Rather than projecting an image of strength, his outfit did the opposite, drawing attention to his thin frame and wasted muscles. Despite the obvious lack of threat, it was nonetheless disconcerting to see someone randomly appear inside Ashcroft’s security gate. For all he knew, the man could have a gun in his pocket.
The crunch of gravel under their feet made the old man’s head spin around. Thorne recognized him from a framed photograph inside the mansion. It was Adam Mathews, Lauren’s father. Mathews rose to his feet, his face twisting up in disgust.
“Look at you two, all sweaty and out of breath. Did I interrupt something?”
“Dad!”
Lauren’s face colored and Mathews saw it.
“There’s that red face of innocence!”
“You’re embarrassing me, is all.”
“No, I don’t think so. In fact, it’s the whole reason I came up here, to talk to you about this guy,” Mathews said, looking at Thorne with undisguised hostility.
Inwardly, Thorne sighed. It seemed like there was a solid 25% of men that hated him on sight due to the way he looked. He’d worked hard his whole life to look the way he did, it wasn’t some genetic lottery like this type of man seemed to think. They were in front of the old man now and he could smell alcohol coming off Mathews every time he exhaled.
“I guess you’re not here to thank him for saving my life.”
“That’s a joke, he was probably in on it. You need to open your eyes!”
“What the hell’s your problem?”
“Do you really need me to spell it out?”
Lauren straightened her back and put her hands on her hips. At five nine, she was several inches taller than her father and her new posture made muscles pop out on her arms and shoulders.
“You know what? Yes. I want you to say the words to my face.”
“Don’t act so high and mighty with me. I’ve seen the pictures, just like everyone else. The two of you are obviously fucking.” Mathews leaned into this last word like he was pitching a baseball, a grim pleasure carved into his face. “You’ve turned yourself into a real whore, Lauren, I hope you’re proud. First that sugar daddy, Ashcroft, now this guy. I’m glad your mother isn’t alive to see this, it would’ve broken her heart.”
Thorne grabbed the front of the man’s jacket, twisted it a quarter turn and lifted him off the ground like a sack of potatoes. Mathews’ mouth dropped open in shock and he looked at Thorne’s emotionless face, then the single arm that held him aloft.
“Jesus!” Lauren said. “Put him down.”
But he did not. Instead, Thorne moved his face closer to her father’s. He saw his own bared teeth reflected in the small, dark eyes in front of him. These were the eyes of some kind of burrowing animal, designed for perpetual darkness. He wanted so much to hurt this vile little man. What kind of dad calls his daughter a whore?
“Chris, he doesn’t know any better. Let go.”
He released his grip and Mathews fell backward on his ass.
Lauren’s father lay there breathing rapidly through his mouth. Thorne noticed that both of Mathews’ hands vibrated nervously at his side, his eyes fixed on him as if he expected more violence.
“What a hero! Beating on an old man!”
Thorne smiled, causing Mathews to recoil. Lauren’s father saw who he really was, the way he saw himself. Without Kate in his life, he was capable of terrible things. Death was inside him, and the only way he could think to get it out was to kill Blake. A life for a life. Even then, he wasn’t certain it’d be enough; the anger he felt toward this man he’d just met was extreme. If he were to hit Mathews he knew he’d enjoy it. He’d hit him, and as it was during the bar fight with Blake, he wouldn’t want to stop. Part of him longed for it to happen, to let the monster inside take over so that he didn’t have to be here.
Lauren put herself between them and placed her hand lightly on his chest. He felt his heart beating against her palm. It was slow and steady, same as ever. Despite the depth of anger he felt toward Mathews, he was perfectly calm. Her father was no threat to either of them and he knew it. He had better things to worry about than this old fool talking trash about someone he cared about. Lauren moved her head in small, birdlike movements, trying to get his eyes to lock on to hers. When they did, he saw compassion and love.
“Go inside,” she said. “This battle I can fight for myself.”
Thorne nodded. He didn’t know what to say to her. He couldn’t admit that he needed the rage, that it was all he had left. That if she robbed him of it with her empathy, that he’d be unable to continue. He turned away and went back to where he’d dropped the backpack. He saw Mathews out of the corner of his eye getting awkwardly to his feet. Thorne picked up the bag and walked toward the front door of the mansion.
“Come home with me Laurie. You aren’t safe here.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.”
Thorne fished around in his pock
et for the keys. He was taking his time, waiting to hear what Mathews said next.
“That guy is bad news, honey. He’s a stone cold killer and he’s under the same roof as you. What do you think is going to happen? Is this the prince you used to dream about?”
“Dad! That’s enough. Chris saved my life and was badly wounded in the process. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
Mathews laughed.
“You’ll see. That clown in the coma? He’s awake now. It was all over the news while I was driving up. The cops are interviewing him as soon as the doctors finish up with him. I’m guessing your boyfriend here will be in jail before lunch.”
Thorne froze.
Porter.
“I want you to leave. In future, I want you to call in advance before you show up here. And dad? You better be sober next time.”
“Maybe there won’t be a next time. That’s what I’m thinking. Maybe you’re planning to run off and play Bonnie and Clyde with this asshole.”
Thorne snapped out of the spell he was under, opened the door and went inside. The control panel of the alarm lit up and began to beep and he calmly entered the code. It was a sign of how long he'd been here that this was now second nature. The alarm deactivated, he tossed the backpack to the side of the door and walked back through the building to his bedroom. He cursed his bad luck. To prevent himself hearing about Kate again and again, he’d avoided news. He hadn’t looked at a TV, tablet, or cell phone for over twelve hours.
Back in the bedroom, he stripped off his clothes and crossed the hall into the bathroom. He turned on the shower and used the time before the hot water came through to remove his dressings. The room was small and unventilated and quickly filled with steam. It was a feature that he liked because the mirror almost immediately misted, hiding his new appearance from himself. On previous occasions, he’d also found the thick, soup-like atmosphere useful to his thought process. He could tune-out and think things through without distraction. But he no answers came to solve his predicament with Porter. Instead, the only thing that came to him, was a resurfacing desire to hurt Mathews. It felt like the man’s animosity had brought this whole Porter situation about. It was stupid, yet the feeling was hard to shake. Somehow, like Cabot, this old alcoholic had seen straight through his act to his initial involvement. Mathews had managed this just from watching him on television, where he should be most convincing.
Night Passenger Page 24
