“We’re going anyway?”
“Yeah.”
Sara moved closer until she was standing in front of him, her bare feet set wide apart. He could smell the natural musk of her body. She wasn’t wearing deodorant and hadn’t showered since the previous morning. Blake smiled. She stared at him for several long seconds while she chewed on her bottom lip. When she spoke, her voice was harder, more direct.
“Put your hands on me.”
Blake reached out and held her hips, pulling her closer.
“No,” she said. “Up here. Around my throat.”
He stood.
Blake arrived with ten minutes to spare. He’d hoped to be a full half hour early so he could spot suspicious traffic movement in the streets around the bar, but there was no rushing Sara Dawson when she set her mind on something. He drove a slow circuit of the area, looking for spaces available on the street. There weren’t many, though one was less than fifteen feet from the bar. Too close, he thought. He decided to park in a two level parking structure on Church Street. Before committing, he did another loop around the block. This time, instead of looking for parking spots, he pulled into a red zone in front of a fire hydrant and looked directly across at the entrance to the bar and the bench that sat to one side. A man sat on it, hunched over, elbows resting on his knees like he’d been there a while. He was wearing a baseball hat and sunglasses, despite sitting on the shaded side of the street.
Thorne, not wanting to be recognized.
Satisfied, Blake pulled away before his parking drew attention.
“Suppose this is a trap,” Sara said, her voice trailing off.
“Yeah?”
“You should call him, say we’re meeting some place else. Last minute change of plan, kind of thing. Doesn’t have to be that far away. If it’s a trap, there won’t be time to move their people into different positions, or set up microphones or whatever.”
Blake nodded.
“That’s pretty good. I like it.”
He took the burner cell out of his pocket and dialed Thorne one handed as he drove. It went straight to the network’s answering service. Blake sighed and hung up, dumping the cell into a cup holder.
“His cell’s off.”
Sara made a face. “They don’t want us moving the venue.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe it’s just turned off.”
She said nothing and they fell into silence with just the sound of the AC moving through the car’s interior. What she didn’t understand about men like them, was that they barely used phones to call anyone. Naturally it looked suspicious to her, but to him, not so much. Thorne assumed he was about to see him, so he’d turned off his cell. They came up to the Church Street junction and he made the turn. He was now a couple of minutes late for the meeting. Blake took the first level of the parking structure and found plenty of spaces. He reversed into one of them and turned the steering wheel hard over at the last second. If they had to leave in a hurry they could power out of the space without hitting the cars in the next row.
“Okay, here’s what’s going to happen,” he said. “I need you to hang tight here. This meeting is just going to be Thorne and me.”
“All right.”
Blake almost laughed, he had anticipated an argument.
“I don’t see this taking long, we’re not exactly big pals anymore. I figure that if you don’t hear from me in ten minutes you should assume it’s gone to shit and you should drive back to the motel. If you still don’t hear from me within a couple of hours you’re going to need to clean house and get out.”
He studied her closely in the low light to see if she understood what clean house meant. She looked down at her hands resting on her legs and nodded.
“Relax, it’s not going to happen.”
He opened the door and stepped out.
“Aidan?”
He bent down so he could look into her side of the cabin.
“He’s not meeting to hand you the painting, is he?”
“No.”
“So why are you going?”
Blake shrugged. “Because he asked.”
“I thought you said we don’t need him?”
“I don’t have an answer for you.”
He closed the car door and walked off toward the exit.
It was strange now he came to think about it. Thorne wasn’t bringing the painting, not without a swap for Kate Bloom, so why were they meeting at all? He had been too busy questioning whether it was an FBI sting, to think about what else it could be. If it wasn’t a set-up, he didn’t know what it was.
He walked down Pacific Avenue, a cool wind blowing up from the sea. Unlike Thorne, he wore no sunglasses or cap and he felt like he was drawing looks from passing pedestrians. He crossed over, cutting between slow moving vehicles, to the shaded side of the street. He walked with his head tilted down, like he was looking at his feet. Blake knew from experience that the angle made the scar on his face less obvious, a detail that Cabot had thought to add to his wanted picture. After a moment, he noticed he was wearing the same Doors T-shirt he'd worn at the mall.
He was getting sloppy, making crazy mistakes. He should’ve disposed of the shirt immediately. He could even make out some specks of Porter’s blood across the front.
He zipped up his warm-up jacket.
He was almost at Rosie McCann’s, when a crowd of people burst out the bar’s entrance laughing. Blake slowed his pace so they’d have time to get clear before he arrived. When a gap opened up he saw Thorne. The sunglasses were off and their eyes connected. The actor made a small movement of his head; left, right, center. The gap closed again. Was he shaking his head? Blake stopped and stood looking in the window of a store. Women’s clothing. Slacks, dresses, sportswear. He glanced back at Thorne. The crowd had moved off and he could see him clearly. With his right hand, Thorne was scratching his neck with straight fingers, when he noticed Blake watching the scratch became a sideways chopping motion, like he was cutting his throat. Once, twice. He dropped his hand and tilted his head.
Abort.
Thorne was telling him to get out.
Blake turned and walked back the way he’d come. Not moving too quickly, not drawing attention to himself. He could hear his heart thumping in his ears. If Thorne had been trying to set him up with this meeting, he wouldn’t warn him off at the last second, he’d want him caught. Blake stopped at another store window and used the glass to see if he was being pursued. Nobody stood out. The sidewalks were populated by the usual mix of older tourists and younger hipsters. If there'd been cops or FBI near Thorne, none of them had noticed him.
He moved off again, his ears straining for the sound of running feet or shouts from behind. As he crossed back over Pacific he risked glancing down the street to where Thorne had been seated. He was standing now, his height obvious even at this distance.
In front of him, were two men in suits.
Blake smiled. The meeting hadn’t been a waste of time after all. Without saying a word, Thorne had proved who he was, and that he was no snitch. He could trust him again.
FIFTY-SIX
Cabot stood in Subway looking at the list of options above his head while a server glared at him. It was Saturday lunchtime, and the place was packed. Eventually, he told the teenager what he wanted and moved down the line to the register. He wasn’t hungry, not even close, and the idea of eating what he’d just ordered was almost too much to think about. What he was, was hungover. He ordered a Gatorade and cookies, then paid. When he turned, he saw Mason Barnes standing watching him. He was wearing jeans and a sports jacket, and looked like he’d just stepped out of an Abercrombie and Fitch catalog. A large smile broke out on the younger man’s face and they nodded at one another in greeting.
“I found you,” Barnes said.
“Were you looking?”
“Yeah. I came from your house, this was the next place I tried.”
“After my house, the mall is the next place you look for
me?”
Barnes raised an eyebrow.
“I am a detective you know.”
Cabot found an empty table and put his purchases on top of it. The last occupant’s waste was still spread out across the surface and he had to push it aside to clear a space. Barnes sat next to him and laid a file folder he’d been carrying on the table. Cabot glanced at the folder, assessing it. Thin. No more than half a dozen sheets of paper inside.
“Did it occur to you to call my cell, Detective?”
Barnes smiled. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Cabot picked up his sandwich and bit into it. Fun. He almost didn’t know what that was anymore. He’d been thinking about how Thorne had framed him all morning and his mood had been darkening ever since. The man had ruined his life, there was no other way of saying it. He sighed. The bread of his sub was like a tree trunk and appeared to be designed for a human with bigger jaws and sharper teeth. He looked around the food court at the other patrons as he ate.
The older he got, the less he liked other people.
“You mind if I have a couple of cookies, L-T?”
“Knock yourself out.”
The detective stared at him.
“Sorry, Mason, poor choice of words.”
“That’s all right.”
They sat eating for several minutes without speaking, an easy silence between them. Finally, he forced down the last of his sub and drank some Gatorade.
He eyed the folder under the detective’s hand.
“You got something for me?”
“Boss, there’s something I have to tell you first.”
Cabot held his hand up to cut him off. “It’s Saturday, Mason. By Monday I might be out of a job or in county lockup. Call me Victor, OK?”
Barnes’ face twisted uncomfortably. “OK.”
“Unless you’re here to take me in.”
“No, never.”
Cabot set his large cup down on the table in front of him.
“If it comes to it, Mason, I’d rather a friend took me in.”
“The thing about that is, I might not be here.”
There was something almost familiar about the detective’s words, as if he’d heard them already. Perhaps he’d imagined this conversation so many times he was getting flashbacks.
“Let’s hear it.”
“I’ve been accepted by the Bureau. I leave for Quantico next week.”
“Jesus. How long have you been working on this?”
“Nearly eight months. I never said anything because I thought it would go nowhere. When I found out, I asked the Sheriff and the Chief not to tell you so I could do that myself, but we’ve been so busy it kind of got away from me.”
Cabot sighed. He’d frozen Barnes out of his investigation because he believed the detective was a threat and the whole time he’d been planning to leave anyway. Of course he was, a man as sharp as Mason Barnes wouldn’t stay in a place like Santa Cruz.
Cabot put his hand across the table and Barnes shook it.
“Congratulations, Mason. You more than deserve it.”
“Thanks.”
There was an awkward moment as they let go of each other’s hand and to cover it, Cabot took another long drink from his cup. He realized he had two differing views on Barnes; one where he was a rival, and another where he felt almost like a father to him. Now he knew Barnes wasn’t staying, the threat vanished leaving him with bittersweet regret. For all his boy scout attitude, he was going to miss the younger man and not just for his natural abilities as an investigator.
“So you’re leaving me with Summersby? That’s cold.”
Barnes laughed.
“For that, I am sorry. Listen, I need a coffee, you want one?”
“Sure.”
Barnes rose out his chair and set off, leaving the folder where it was on the table. Cabot stared at it. The longer it took him to get to the point, the more fascinated he became by whatever lay inside. Perhaps it wasn’t related to the case at all, but was instead a form the FBI had given the detective for his superior officer to fill in. An evaluation, something like that. Was his leaving the only reason for chasing him down on a Saturday?
His mind returned to Thorne and the missing gun.
The Sheriff’s Office had combed the area around that roadhouse and found no trace of the gun that had killed Ashcroft. The most likely explanation, was that the man he’d seen talking to Thorne had taken it with him as he fled the scene. It then followed that this man was the shooter, just as Thorne claimed. Cabot sighed. He didn’t doubt people occasionally went into that roadhouse carrying a piece, but that one of them should shoot his friend, even by accident, was too much. Not with Thorne nearby. He had a better chance of winning the state lottery than of that coincidence playing out. It hit him after a couple of seconds.
The man Thorne was talking to, was Morrison.
A smile spread across his face.
Cabot recalled how the man in the parking lot had moved so that he was standing in line with Thorne, his body blocked by the actor’s. It had happened so quickly that he’d only had a fleeting glimpse of him before he was hidden. He’d seen the same move so many times over the years that it almost didn’t register. Criminals stepping to one side or turning away from the police. They couldn’t stop themselves, it was like an instinct. He played the scene back in his head but could remember no new details. He cursed himself.
Out of habit, his eye had gone to Thorne first.
It didn’t matter. Thorne had gone there to meet Morrison, he was certain of it. For all he knew, Thorne had brought James Ashcroft to that parking lot against his will and when everyone had left, Morrison had killed him in cold blood. Thorne knew who fired the shot and, for whatever reason, was protecting him. Cabot felt a buzz enter his system. The lack of physical evidence from the roadhouse had served to clear Thorne, but this was the missing piece. The shoot-out and the death of Ashcroft were linked after all.
He picked up the bag of cookies and found it almost empty. Two left. He cursed Barnes and ate them both, one after another. By the time he finished, a coffee appeared in front of him, along with another bag of cookies. The kid wasn’t so bad after all.
“Thanks.”
“You got it,” Barnes said.
They sat and drank coffee in silence, working their way through the second bag of cookies. It came back to him that Thorne was untouchable. He couldn’t prove Thorne knew Morrison, or that he met him in that parking lot. He no longer had access to his dash cam footage due to the investigation into his alleged assault of Thorne. Anything he did to pursue the actor could lead to a harassment charge, a charge the sheriff would use to force him out.
Barnes leaned back in his chair.
“When I worked in Oakland my partner had all these lame stories and jokes. It was the way he passed on advice, I guess. Lately, I’ve been thinking of one of his stories.”
Cabot sighed. Barnes was really setting this one up.
“Yes, Mason, I am listening to you.”
“Okay, so a cop sees a drunk on his hands and knees searching for something under a street light and asks what he’s lost. The man says he lost his keys and they both look under the light. After a few minutes, the cop asks if he’s sure he lost them here and the drunk replies, no, he lost them in the park. When the cop asks why he’s searching here the drunk says, this is where the light is.”
Cabot nodded. He’d heard it before many years ago.
“What advice was your partner passing on with this story?”
“Look in the park.”
“You’re saying pursuing Thorne is like looking under the light?”
“Thorne isn’t the key to this, you know that. He’s protected. We find Morrison and Chelsea then we see if there’s any involvement with Thorne. If there is, I will buy you a bottle of Scotch, I swear to god. But if there isn’t, you still catch those responsible.”
“Barnes, we already mined this for all it was worth. There are so many pla
ces to stay. Hotels, motels, Airbnb and whatever else. You had a list as long as your arm, and that assumed they hadn’t broken into an unoccupied holiday place, or jacked a house and killed the owner. They could’ve been sleeping in their goddam van, there’re plenty of places in the county where they could tuck themselves away. You said it yourself.”
“I no longer believe that. People have neighbors, friends, dogs, alarms. The only place these people could come and go with a van and not be noticed is a motel. So I printed out a list of all motels within an hour’s drive, then removed those within ten miles of Santa Cruz and Capitola. I figure anything too close is a waste of time. After what happened, they’d want a little distance between themselves and the crime scene. Then I thought, they probably don’t want to be on the road too long and run the risk of being picked up by the CHP, so I eliminated motels over 40 minutes away. That leaves ten motels. Four north, six south.”
“We checked motels at the beginning and it was a bust.”
“As will the FBI, I’m sure. But neither have this.” Barnes pulled a sheaf of paper from his folder. There was a head and shoulders charcoal sketch of a woman on the top sheet. “This is Chelsea, the way I remember from the hospital. My kid is quite the artist, we knocked this out last night. Nobody else has seen this. What I’m thinking, is that this Morrison character let his girl pay for the room and pick up the key while he hung back out of sight. It explains why nobody recognized his description or the later pictures of him on the news. I say we hit these motels tonight and show the sketch. What do you think?”
Cabot was disappointed. This was all Barnes had, and it was just a re-tread of a play they’d already made. No smoking gun on Thorne, in fact, no link at all to the actor. He took the sketch from Barnes to be polite and examined it closely. He was right about something, his kid was a damn good artist. When he looked up he saw that the sheet underneath also had a sketch on it, of a man with a circular scar on his face. It was horribly familiar and he had to swallow several times to clear his throat.
“This is Morrison?”
Barnes nodded, but said nothing.
“I met him.”
Night Passenger Page 46
