Two days had passed since the events in the warehouse, time enough for the story to have both saturated, then disappeared from the 24 hour cycle of the national news networks. In a couple more days, he'd be able to walk down any street without fear of being recognized.
He turned his attention to his backpack.
Once he put in his laptop, charger cables, and the remaining packs of Fentanyl, there wasn’t a lot of space left. He added two pairs of socks, boxer shorts, and T-shirts then fastened the compartment shut. There was a small pocket at the front with room for his battered Chandler paperback. That book went wherever he did. It had been with him to some pretty unpleasant areas of the world and, one way or another, he’d survived.
Thorne stared at the burner phone sitting next to the bag and felt his heart plunge. It tied him to Blake, to everything. He had to get rid of it. If he tossed it too near to the mansion it would be obvious who had used it. He slid it into the front pocket, next to the paperback. Best thing to do was take it with him. Find a suitable resting place for it, far from here.
He shouldered the bag and walked out the room.
Lauren’s father had returned the night before, sober, clean-cut, and apologetic about his previous visit. Thorne knew a fellow actor when he saw one but said nothing. The fact was, he didn’t want to leave Lauren on her own and he didn’t want to stay, so Mathews’ timing was perfect. Her father’s absence at Ashcroft’s funeral seemed to be a real sticking point with her, but to his credit the old man stuck in there and won her back. No doubt his daughter’s updated financial status kept him focused on the big picture.
Thorne moved through the house to the large entrance hall. At the front door he paused to look down the passage toward the swimming pool. He expected to hear the sound of Lauren swimming laps, or the voices of her and her father talking, but there was nothing. He opened the door and crossed the driveway to where he’d parked the car. He opened the trunk and threw in his backpack. It was the first time he’d opened the trunk since Ashcroft had given him the car, and he was surprised to see that there was something in there already.
A large Nylon gym bag.
He reached his hand out to touch it.
“This isn’t how I imagined this.”
His hand jerked back and he closed the lid.
Lauren stood in front of him.
“I know,” he said. “Me neither.”
Her eyes dipped down, toward the stones that made up the driveway.
“Didn’t figure you for the sneaking-away type.”
He tried to put a bit of light into his eyes.
“I was just stowing my gear before I came looking for you.”
“Right.”
Thorne walked around the back of the car. He noticed that he’d reversed into the space, ready for a fast getaway. Shit, she had his number all right. He stood in front of her, an extra space between them now that hadn’t been there for a while.
“What will you do now?” He said.
“Sell up, move back to L.A. and pick up my life where I left off,” Lauren shrugged. “This was never my home, I need to be where people are. Not out here in the woods with mountain lions or coyotes or whatever. Jimmy never understood that.”
“Maybe we’ll bump into each other one day.”
She half-smiled, the smile of sadness.
Neither of them believed it.
“What about you? Back to your TV show?”
“No, I don’t care about that anymore. They’re talking about shooting another season with a bigger budget, prime time slot, even bumping me to executive producer - all the things I wanted for the last five years. But I’m not doing it. Where the show ended, I realize now it was perfect. It mirrors what happened in the first episode and I like that.”
“Movies then?”
“I hope so. There’s been some interest. I’ll just have to see where that goes. In this business, you learn not to hold your breath.”
They stood for a moment in silence, looking at each other. Lauren Ashcroft was as beautiful now as she’d always been, but his feelings for her were so far gone that he couldn’t find the thread to pull on to bring anything back. From her facial expression, he guessed she was on the same page he was. Despite this, there was something between them that remained, just as there had been between him and Blake after all those years apart.
Her eyes looked up, into his.
“I’d like...I'd like if this wasn't goodbye.”
Thorne nodded. “I’d like that too.”
They embraced, awkwardly, like two strangers.
For a moment their bodies were tense, then they both seemed to relax and let go. The hard part was almost over. Thorne saw Mathews standing in the passageway beyond, watching them through the window. His mouth was pushed up into a snarl on one side. Lauren’s father hadn’t changed. The old man couldn’t turn off who he was for five minutes while they said goodbye. Thorne looked away and allowed himself to get lost in the moment. Their chests expanding and contracting together, the light puff of her breath into his neck. He’d miss this. He smiled and was still smiling when they broke apart.
He noticed there was color in both her cheeks.
“I forgot how good you were at that.”
“In another life Lauren, you and me…”
“Just kiss me and go, don't get all mushy on me.”
Half an hour later, Thorne parked next to the Dream Inn and cut the engine. He’d given Jocelyn Cooper one last exclusive at the warehouse, rewarding both her loyalty to him, and to the story. But with no new material forthcoming he had to handle her right or risk having her expose him to the world. He had to leave her sweet and nice. Thorne reached into his jacket pocket and took out the bottle of OxyContin. Two left. He shook them out into the palm of his hand and stared at them like the result would be different. With a bit of effort, he could make two pills last for six hours a pop. He swallowed both, washing them down with half a bottle of water. He could always go back to the Fentanyl if things got bad. He got out the car and held the edge of the door and the roof as he straightened to full height. The crunches and pops had returned. He went through the front of the hotel to the elevator.
Coop wasn’t expecting him and that was probably for the best.
He’d figured he would work out what he was going to say to Coop on the drive over, but he was outside her door now and nothing had come to him. That’s the way it was sometimes. He decided to take his lead from her. With the story over, she’d be moving on and her head would be in a different place. She’d used him, and now that it was over, he was fine with that. He knocked lightly on the door. After about twenty seconds the door opened. Coop stood there in a business suit with a cell phone clamped against her ear. Her face had a flash of anger frozen on it but it melted into a huge smile when she saw him.
“Listen,” she said, “I got to call you back, something’s come up.”
She ended the call and pushed the cell into her pants pocket.
“Christopher fucking Thorne, as I live and breathe!”
He felt his cheeks become hot.
“You don’t need to use my full name, we are friends after all.”
“Friends, huh? We’re something, all right. I’m not sure it’s friends. Are you going to stand there staring at my mouth all day, or are you going to come in and kiss it?”
He laughed. He was really bad at tying things off. Maybe he should've done this by phone, but he had to see her eyes. He had to know what she was thinking, what was coming next. She reached out and took his hand and pulled him into her room. This was going wrong already. He looked down. Her hand was tiny against his, her skin hot.
Inside the room, two large suitcases sat side-by-side next to the coffee table, extendable handles pulled up. Ready to roll. He turned to her and she kissed him on the mouth.
It wasn’t a goodbye kiss.
Before he knew what he was doing, his hands were around her, pulling her tight against him. He couldn’t help hi
mself. It felt good, right. His body wanted this, needed it even. It took a moment for his brain to remind him why he was really here.
Reluctantly, he pulled out of the embrace.
“Coop, stop. Stop. I’m not here for that.”
Her face fell.
“You seem to like it.”
“I do like it. Jesus. I really do.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“I just wanted to see you. Say goodbye properly.”
She flinched.
“Ugh. Really?”
“I’m going to try and patch things up with Kate.”
“Does she want that?”
He sighed. Coop really cut to the chase.
“Probably not, but I'm going to try just the same.”
“I can't decide if that's romantic or creepy.”
He shrugged, wordlessly. She made a sad face. After a beat, she walked to the desk with the yellow chair and wrote something on a pad of paper. She looked him in the eye as she passed it to him.
“In case it doesn't work out.”
Thorne flipped open the paper. It was a street address in L.A. Her home. Underneath the address, she’d written the location where she kept a spare key. She trusted him completely. This was something he hadn’t expected. He looked up to thank her, to say something, but saw only the bedroom door close in front of him. His cue to leave he supposed.
His heart felt heavy.
He should give her something in return, but he had nothing to give. Certainly not a home address, that was gone now. It seemed like women would always surprise him, and nearly always for the better. He took his Jake Vasco sunglasses out and balanced them on top of one of her suitcase handles. It was the most personal item he owned, and it was stolen studio property. Hopefully, they would make her smile.
He rode the elevator back down, certain he’d made a mistake. All he had to go on to make himself think any different, was a faded Top Gun T-shirt and the look of love Kate had made into Blake’s camera. There was a second chance there, he was sure of it. The fact that she'd been distant and cold with him in their brief time together at the warehouse and the time since was a source of concern, but hardly surprising after everything she'd been through.
The elevator doors slid open and he got off.
He was still holding the piece of paper with Coop’s address on it.
Thorne walked over to a trash can. As long as he held a parachute, he would never learn to fly. He dropped the paper into the can and walked out into the winter sunshine.
When he returned to the Maserati, he found a man in a dark suit bent over next to the car, stroking it like it was a cat. Mancuso. The agent had his back to him and Thorne considered turning and walking away, but he knew he’d been made by the way the old man stiffened. His reflection in the glass had given him away, just as it had for Lynch at the mall.
The agent spoke without taking his eyes off the car.
“She’s a fine car, but not worth the price you paid.”
Thorne said nothing. In his experience, he always put more into life than he got back out. Thinking any different was a recipe for resentment and depression.
Mancuso turned toward him.
“Leaving town, Mr Thorne?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s not our arrangement. You have to tell me first.”
“I don’t have to tell you shit, Mancuso. This isn’t a western.”
The old man’s eyes wrinkled in amusement.
“Walk with me, we have things to discuss. I’m glad I caught you.”
The way the agent presented it, he could be mistaken for assuming that their meeting here was some kind of happy accident. A more likely scenario, was that Mancuso had been hanging around his car waiting for him since he’d parked it. That he was tracking him somehow. Thorne sighed and followed the other man as he made his way around the front of the hotel. Instead of going inside as Thorne expected, he continued on, toward the waterfront.
Mancuso glanced over his shoulder as he walked.
“Is that lipstick on your face?”
Thorne wiped his mouth with his hand and said nothing. What he did with his face was none of the FBI’s business. Above them, the sun blazed on a pale blue sky, but the air had turned cold and only a few people dotted the area. Tourist season was over. The sunlight hurt his eyes after the gloom of the hotel and his sense of humor was running out fast. His hand was going for his sunglasses before he remembered where they were. They had become so much a part of him, they were like a form of armor.
Mancuso stopped at the barrier overlooking the beach and Thorne stood next to him. To their left, the long wharf continued on out over the sand and into the sea.
Thorne allowed himself to think about Coop.
He hadn’t tied that situation off at all, he realized. If anything, he’d only made things worse. She was a ticking time bomb. He was a single news report from spending the rest of his life behind bars. Was her attraction to him the only thing that held her at bay? How long could he rely on her silence if there was no movement in their relationship?
He let out a long breath. She’d said no mikes for their first meeting, but the more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed Jocelyn would’ve recorded it. She’d have him admitting he knew those involved and planned to kill them. Since they were now dead, that lined him up pretty nicely for two counts of murder in the first.
“We have a problem we were hoping you could help clear up. In your statement, you claimed to be unarmed when you entered that warehouse, yet there was an additional weapon at the scene that we can’t explain.”
Here it comes.
“How so?”
“We know the gang all had Glocks. They used Glock 17s at the mall, the hospital, and at the warehouse. Additionally, their leader was carrying a Glock 22 taken from a sheriff’s deputy killed at the hospital. Cabot told us he was packing a Colt revolver that night, which leaves us with a Smith and Wesson 1911.”
Thorne frowned. How did they know the gun wasn’t also Blake’s? The agent seemed to read his thoughts, his head nodding slowly.
“We ran the unidentified .45 ACP shell casings through the lab for fingerprints. Standard procedure. Got four solid hits and one partial.”
“You pulled prints from spent shell casings?”
“Didn't have to, four rounds were still in the magazine.”
Thorne said nothing, but instead turned away from Mancuso and looked off across the water at where the sun flickered on its surface. If they’d found anything incriminating he knew they’d be having this conversation across a desk.
“You’re a cool customer, Thorne. But there’s no need to be shy, we’re just having a conversation. All I want to know is how you did it.”
Thorne knew what Mancuso was talking about. It was clear that he’d brought the Smith & Wesson to the warehouse, hell, Cabot had probably mentioned it in his debrief. But there were no fingerprints of his on it. He’d held the pistol several times since Ashcroft had acquired it, but he’d cleaned it carefully before heading to Blake’s motel. He was certain he hadn’t touched it again without gloves or a cloth. The shell casings, however, were a different matter. The pistol had been empty when he’d first seen it. Later, he’d seen fresh brass in the magazine. Only one other person could have put them there.
“The truth would disappoint you.”
“It usually does.”
The agent’s voice was casual, like he was talking to a co-worker.
Still Thorne said nothing.
“Believe it or not, you have a lot of friends at the Bureau. Partly from your TV show and the positive light it always had for us, but mostly from what we saw in that mall parking lot. You risked your life for people you’d never met before, and that carries a lot of weight. There’s no appetite to pursue you for the handful of crimes we could pin on you. To do so would risk opening Pandora’s Box. The world would learn of James Ashcroft’s fingerprints on those shell casings and his lega
cy on gun control would be wiped out. Nobody has any desire for that. Equally, we see no need to release the fact that you and this Aidan Blake seemed to have known each other for a long time. I’m sure the DA might feel differently about your immunity deal if that came out.”
“Thank you,” he said, the words almost choking him.
“I assume Blake is our shooter from the roadhouse?”
Thorne nodded. “It was meant to be an exchange; a painting of Ashcroft’s in return for Kate Bloom. The painting is a Picasso, it’s worth over a hundred million. Exchange was going fine until Cabot showed up. Blake assumed I’d set him up and was going to shoot me until Ashcroft drove his car at him and saved my life.” Thorne paused. “I guess he saved Kate’s life too, his move kept everything in play.”
The mention of the Picasso didn't surprise Mancuso.
“Where’s the painting now?”
“In the van Cabot had towed from the crime scene. The painting was small enough to fit behind the plastic panel of the side door. Murder weapon is in there too, another Glock 17. I handled it carefully, prints will all be Blake’s.”
“We assumed from the beginning that there was a link between the kidnapping attempt and the gallery break-in.”
“I don't know anything about that.”
Mancuso looked at him side on. There was something reptilian about his eyes, like he was holding a laugh inside. He didn't believe him, but this look suggested it didn't matter.
“Who were you seeing in the Dream Inn?”
A subject change. The agent was giving him a pass.
“Jocelyn Cooper.”
The agent nodded in acknowledgment, but again there was no surprise. It occurred to him that every time Mancuso appeared to give him something, he answered the next question honestly. He needed to be more careful, he wasn't out of the woods yet. Thorne glanced at his watch. 11:20. It was taking the old man a long time to get to the point. He decided to ask a question of his own.
“What about Cabot?”
“He’s a hero now, just like you. After what happened in the warehouse, they say he’s a shoe-in to be the next sheriff. Carson is unlikely to run against him now that he’s certain to lose. As far as I can tell, Cabot’s interest in you appears to be over. Maybe being shot made him more sympathetic to your situation?”
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