Night Passenger

by David Stanley

  Cabot opened the driver's door and sat behind the wheel. He sat there looking straight ahead for several moments. There was something off with what he was seeing but he couldn't put his finger on it. He turned his head one way, then the other. Driver's door, windshield, passenger door. Sometimes you had to change your view to see what was right in front of you. He did two full passes before he had it: not what was there, but what wasn't. The outside of the car was filthy; mud coated the side and rear windows, but the windshield was immaculate. Not just by wipers, the whole area of glass was clean from corner to corner. No dead spots, no bugs. It was so clean it looked like there was no glass there at all. A cloth lay in the passenger side footwell next to a green plastic bottle with a spray head. He leaned down and flipped the bottle over. Glass cleaner.

  “Hey, Barnes,” Cabot said. “Suppose Thorne knew in advance something was going down, what would be different?”

  “He'd call the cops?”

  “Would he? What if he couldn’t?”

  “Why couldn't he?” Barnes asked.

  “Are you kidding me with this shit? I'm just saying supposing.”

  “All right, say Thorne knew. Perhaps he was somewhere he shouldn't have been and overheard the plan to attack the senator. He can't reveal how he knows what he knows, but he can't stand back and do nothing. The threat is real, but if he calls it in anonymously it might be dismissed. Just another random threat to a public official, one of thousands every year. He can’t risk doing nothing, he’d feel guilty the rest of his life if something happened. How am I doing so far?”

  “Sounds good,” Cabot said, nodding.

  “Okay, he knows the target, perhaps even where the kidnapping will take place, so he camps out here in his rental car and waits for the gang to show.” He paused for a moment, before continuing. “Then, armed only with a can of Coke and a screwdriver, saves the lives of two of your friends. The man should be in prison, he's a monster.”

  “Don't be a dick, Barnes.”

  “It doesn't track for me. If he knew of the danger ahead of time, why wasn't he better prepared? He'd be armed to the teeth, surely. Wouldn't you be, in that position? The way it went down seems more spur of the moment. He saw something, he reacted.”

  That much was certainly true. What the hell had Thorne been thinking?

  “Nevertheless, say I'm right. Say he knew about the planned kidnapping and thought it would happen here. Put everything else to one side and…” Cabot stopped mid-sentence, a new thought occurring to him. “Actually, how about this. Take a look around the lot and let me know if you can find a single better parking spot than this one for observing the crime scene, because I don't think there is one.”

  Barnes shook his head and wandered off.

  Cabot knew the detective thought he was obsessed, but there was nothing much he could do about that. The truth was, it wouldn't be long before Barnes had his job. He had the skills, he had the sheriff’s ear, and, most of all, he had the desire. A case as high profile as this one was once in a lifetime and it would swing it either way. Cabot needed to solve the case, and solve it on his own. He couldn't let Barnes get even partial credit or, ultimately, he was finished. They’d move him out of Investigations and put him in Patrol. He couldn’t have that. Patrol was where they put you on the way up, or the way out.

  He leaned across and opened the glove box and arranged the contents on the passenger seat next to him for closer study. Cabot sighed. Rental papers, maps, a cell phone charging cord, and a Mars bar. Squat, that's what this was, squat. The only person committing a crime here was him. He put the bar of chocolate to one side and put everything else back where it was. The sun, low on the horizon now, broke through a bank of clouds and filled the small cabin of the car. He could feel the heat of it through the glass even with the door open. But soon, the sun would sink below the horizon and the car would be plunged into twilight. It would get cold pretty rapidly after that, he thought.

  Thorne would've needed that blanket.

  Cabot opened the candy bar and began eating. What did Thorne think about as he sat here? He glanced up and saw two pale yellow elastic bands wrapped around the sun visor. They were spaced roughly three inches apart and were centered in his vision as he faced forward. He ran his fingertip over one of the bands and found it hard and cracked like an elephant's knee. He pushed the visor down and a smile spread across his face.

  Pinned under the bands, was a photograph of Lauren Ashcroft.

  “Fuck me.”

  Barnes called out. “You say something, boss?”

  He thought for a moment. This picture was exactly what he'd been searching for since his interview with Thorne. It proved there was a link between the actor and the kidnapping attempt. He'd be totally vindicated. But the moment of triumph would be brief and all eyes would turn on Thorne. At that point, he’d lose his advantage. Carson had already passed the case to the feds just to sink his run for sheriff. He'd be a footnote in the investigation, a witness that wasn't called. Nobody would remember he was involved in the case, never mind that he cracked it. For now at least, it would be best to keep this to himself.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Never mind.”

  Barnes muttered something and continued down the lot.

  Cabot reached up and removed the picture from the visor. It was thin, low quality paper, the kind printed out from a computer. The sides had been cut with a pair of blunt scissors and the blades had chewed at the surface of the picture causing it to wrinkle along the edge. The left hand side, however, was smooth having been folded instead of cut. Thorne had run something repeatedly over the crease so that it was as flat as possible. A fingernail maybe. The fold had cropped off part of Lauren's right shoulder and a third of her arm down to the elbow. There was only one reason he could think of to fold at that particular point: to hide a person standing next to her. He pushed the remainder of the candy bar into his mouth and threw the wrapper over his shoulder into the back of the car. With both hands now free, he unfolded the paper and felt his mood darken.

  James Ashcroft's face looked out at him full of health, humor and promise.

  One way or another, he'd make Thorne pay.

  FIFTY-ONE

  The wake dragged on and on. Thorne longed to slip away but Lauren seemed to be increasingly reliant on him for support, both mental and physical. He’d seen Cabot enter the mansion, before pushing through the crowd and out of sight. The lieutenant had been gone for almost ten minutes, and he’d lay money on him spending all that time searching through his belongings. After close to an hour, Cabot and the other deputy appeared in front of him as they took their turn to speak briefly to Lauren. The lieutenant avoided his eye but the younger cop, Barnes, had stared at him with undisguised interest and a thin, knowing smile.

  It was obvious what the cops thought, he would’ve thought the same thing in their position. They thought he and Lauren were an item due to the way she had hung onto him at the graveside. A relationship with Lauren gave him motive to kill Ashcroft, a motive more believable than a random altercation with a drunk he’d just met. The two deputies didn't appear to be the only ones either. Everyone who came to give Lauren their condolences had performed a near identical eye slide from her face up to his and back as they spoke. Something was going on between the two of them, and everyone saw it. He let out a slow breath.

  They could think what they liked.

  There was nothing going on between him and Lauren.

  He scanned what remained of the crowd and saw there were less than 20 people left. Soon, he and Lauren would be on their own, a prospect that he was less than thrilled about. To take his mind off it, he thought about Cabot again. There’d been something new on the lieutenant’s face when he’d stood in front of him, something he hadn’t seen there before. He could be wrong, but it looked like hope. Whatever it was, it had to be something he’d found in his bedroom. A lead. The people around them could be here for another hour, it was like they didn't want to leave her
alone with him.

  Thorne leaned in close to Lauren’s ear.

  “I need to take care of something.”

  She looked up, eyes wide.

  “You’re leaving?”

  Her voice faltered as she said it. He decided to keep it light.

  “Too much caffeine.”

  Her cheeks darkened and she gave a small nod.

  Thorne made his way toward the back of the room where there was more space. His limp was back from having stood for so long without moving. He recognized some of the people from the birthday party. A couple smiled at him, but most did not. Either assuming he was involved somehow in Ashcroft’s death, or remembering the scene he’d created with the pistol. Finally, he was past them and walking down the square pipe of the art gallery. He fought the urge to run, he’d only damage his leg.

  The bedroom door was fully closed.

  He’d stopped fully closing the door after the first week. He felt safe here, and the room became stuffy due to a lack of natural ventilation. He pushed the door open and studied the room, sweeping his head around slowly. Nothing stood out. He walked in and glanced over at the bed. There was an imprint on the left hand side. Cabot had sat while he’d gone through his belongings in the nightstand. He’d then left his ass-print through incompetence, or as a special message to him. Thorne went over and took out the bottom drawer. The hunting knife was still there. He looked around the room. There was so little of his in here and most of it had already been documented by Barnes at the hospital.

  He walked over to the dressing table and sat down in the chair.

  He went through the drawers. Pulling one open, shuffling around, moving to the next one. He assumed he’d notice what was wrong immediately, but he was mistaken. It all appeared to be there. Laptop, burner cell phone, fake ID, charger cables. Thorne went back to the first drawer and took everything out, spreading it across the desk in front of him. It looked fine. He put it all back and moved to the next drawer. Nothing changed. The result was the same, everything was there.

  He sighed. It was harder to notice something missing, than it was to find something you were looking for, or something that shouldn’t be there.

  Thorne opened his laptop.

  He’d saved this for last, because he knew it was the most likely location for evidence against him. Even a blockhead like Cabot could find something incriminating in his search history. Items about Lauren and James Ashcroft. The dates of those searches preceded the shoot-out, which would undo his immunity deal with the DA. Perhaps he’d found the video of Kate. It wouldn’t be hard to find, he’d put it in a folder on his desktop.

  He opened Console, a diagnostic app that logged processes running since startup. The list was long and mostly meaningless to him, but there was a time noted against each item. He scrolled down past the startup he’d just initiated, to the previous activation. It was from ten past midnight. Thorne let out a long breath. Cabot hadn’t looked here. Computers were obviously not one of the lieutenant’s strengths, but they would be someone’s. He opened his browser and cleared his internet cache back to the beginning of time. He then logged into his Google dashboard and cleared all activity stored on Google’s servers. No doubt the FBI could bring it back, but it was something. He closed the lid and let his hands rest on top of it, his eyes straight ahead at the broken mirror.

  He had no idea what Cabot’s lead was, or how to counter it.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Kate Bloom watched them carefully as they entered the small office. Something about her had changed, but Blake couldn’t put his finger on it. No matter. He could see that the cable ties around her wrists remained in place, holding her arms to those of the chair. He moved in close and stood looking down at her. Her face angled up, her green eyes darting between him and Sara Dawson behind him. The person he’d seen in Pasadena was gone. The effortless beauty and confidence, wiped out. Blood smeared her face and matted down her hair in black clots. He dropped the greasy paper sack he was carrying onto the desk next to her. A bad smell was coming off the sack, but her eyes were drawn to it anyway. She hadn’t eaten anything in 48 hours, and he knew what that was like. He reached out and removed the strip of cotton that was tied around her head and threaded through her teeth. Underneath, her lips were swollen and split, her mouth hanging open. He could hear her breathing through it. She flexed her jaw then ran her tongue around her teeth and gums.

  Her eyes were pinned on his. Fierce. Strong.

  That’s what was different about her. Kate Bloom was a survivor. Something dark and ancient had risen up inside her and assumed control.

  “You must be hungry,” he said.

  She said nothing.

  “There are four quarter pounders in that sack, complete with fries and soda. They’re all yours if you answer my questions right.”

  Kate shot a glance at the paper bag.

  “All right,” he continued, pulling up a second chair. “Now, this is really important. I don’t want you to just give me the answers you think I want. I’m not going to be angry with you, okay?”

  Kate nodded.

  “You and Thorne. Chris. Are you guys in a good place?”

  She shook her head.

  “We had a fight. I’ve not seen him since.”

  This much, he knew.

  “What was the fight about?”

  “I broke up with him.”

  Blake swore loudly. Kate stiffened, her eyes wide.

  When he'd watched them arguing in the hotel bar, he'd seen only passion. He didn’t see a couple breaking up, he didn’t see an explosive ending. He’d seen something of his own relationship with Sara and he’d smiled. It had made him feel close to his old friend, that they liked the same thing in a woman. Someone that didn’t take any shit.

  He took out a small knife and held it between them.

  “I apologize,” he said. “I promised I wasn’t going to get mad.”

  He thrust the blade toward her, making her scream. She pulled her arm back in a defensive pose, then stared at it as she registered that he’d cut the cable tie. He tore open the paper sack and held out one of the burgers and she reluctantly took it. She paused with it in her hand, her face less than thrilled by the reality of the food. The moment passed, and she bit deep into the limp, lukewarm meat. Her hand shook with hunger.

  “How’s that?”

  She swallowed the mouthful half-eaten. “Disgusting.”

  She took another huge bite, undeterred.

  “Let’s continue. Were you seeing someone else?”

  She shook her head, but her eyes dipped to the floor.

  “But?”

  She shrugged.

  “When I broke up with him, he never asked. I think he automatically assumed I was and didn’t want to know any details. Things hadn’t been right between us for a while and he probably took this as the reason why. I should’ve told him the truth, but his assumption made it easier for both of us. I knew he’d never stop trying to win me back as long as he thought I was available. I didn’t want that, I’d made my decision.”

  Blake stood and rubbed the back of his neck in frustration.

  This was his problem. It had been his problem all along.

  She continued to eat. Her first burger down, Kate Bloom began to work her way through a bag of fries. She ate quickly, either from hunger or because she feared he’d take the food away before she was finished. She started on another burger.

  “How long were you and Thorne in a relationship?”

  “Five years, nearly six.”

  “Do you think he’s still in love with you?”

  “Yes.”

  He liked her confidence, but she hadn’t seen what happened at the funeral. Thorne and the Ashcroft woman had practically made out in front of the mourners, the cops, and the long lenses of the nation’s news networks. The whole of America knew Thorne was banging Lauren Ashcroft, except for his old girlfriend.

  “How long do you think he’ll feel that way?”

>   “Chris? Forever. He’d die for me.”

  Sara spoke up.

  “Why would you give up on a man like that?”

  “Because I forgot what my life was like without him.”

  Sara shook her head. “That kind of love? It’s once in a lifetime.”

  A silence fell over them and Kate went back to eating. The girl could sure pack it away. She was onto a fresh burger, which would make it her third. Her right arm was steady now as the hunger shakes passed. She looked brighter too, with more color in her face. He wondered if she’d given any thought to how this conversation might affect her life expectancy. She’d all but told him she was of little value to him as a hostage. Did she think he’d let her go?

  Blake sighed. Lauren Ashcroft was now a very wealthy woman, or would be soon enough. If Thorne played his cards right, his money problems were over. He recalled how the two of them had interacted in the coffee store. She’d touched his hand, her puppy dog eyes locked onto his. It had been right there all along. Thorne had been working the long con and by shooting the old man he’d only made things easier for him. Instead of having to convince Lauren to leave her husband and take half his money, she’d get all of it guilt-free.

  Thorne had no need for deals and paintings, nor for the exposure involved in pulling off a robbery while the FBI sniffed around. The actor could just sit back and let things play out. But he couldn’t. Sooner or later, he and Sara were going to get caught. The whole county was looking for them and with the level of media interest, he wasn’t sure how far away they’d have to be before they were safe. He made a mental list of the options open to him.

  Send Thorne one of Kate’s fingers, tell him the whole hand’s next.

  Kidnap Lauren Ashcroft, repeat his threat.

  Give up on the painting and the deal, go back to L.A.

  Find another way to the painting.

  It wasn’t a long list, now that he came to think about it. Four options, two still requiring Thorne’s assistance, and one ending in failure. He couldn’t face walking away with nothing now. Would Sara stay with him if he did that? Not likely. Yet any option that relied upon Thorne’s help seemed doomed to fail. There was a time when the actor was willing to do what he was told, but he sensed that time had come and gone. There’d been too much bad blood between them for any plan to work. That left one option.