After ten minutes, they were back to running single file and Lauren used it as an opportunity to increase their speed. He saw the road once again. This time there was no swish of cars going past, just the low, steady rumble of an engine turning over. He frowned, it didn’t seem normal. It sounded hollow, empty. Lauren kept her head facing forward, her ponytail flicking left and right in a steady rhythm. As they reached the closest point to the road, Thorne turned and looked back through the trees to the source of the sound. A black van. He couldn’t tell for sure that it was Blake’s, but he knew it would be. What was he doing? Is this how he’d followed them before? Just parked up at the side of the road and waited for them to drive past? Wouldn’t he have noticed that?
Thorne continued without stopping.
He couldn’t confront Blake with Lauren present, and he was in no condition to fight him if things turned sour. He thought the deal they’d made in the coffee store would’ve bought him more time, but Blake was not a patient man. He couldn’t afford to be. Between the news reports and the police, a small army of people were trying to track him down. He’d want to get as far from the area, as soon as possible. It would only take one person to recognize him from pictures on the news and things would start going wrong for Blake very quickly. Suddenly he understood. The van wasn’t surveillance, it was a power play. Blake wanted him to see it, he was applying pressure. Blake was assuming he would drive past at some point in the day on the way to Santa Cruz and would see the van at the side of the road.
It was his way of reminding him what was at stake.
Thorne took a deep breath and held it for a beat before letting it out again. He’d known men like Blake all his life. Not too smart, but brutally efficient. They were like sharks. One way or another, they got what they wanted.
He and Lauren had re-entered the stretch covered by the blanket of pine needles and silence crowded in on them. He could no longer hear the van, but the sound of the engine stayed with him. It went around and around in his head like a bad pop song. Something was bothering him, and it took him a minute to work out what it was. There’d been twenty feet of trees, branches, and vines between him and the van, but there’d been no fence. Ashcroft’s security gate and camera system were worthless. If Blake wanted to, he could push his way through to this path, then follow it around to the back of the mansion unseen. No cameras covered the narrow angle between the path and the front of the house, only at the front door itself, and he was certain there would be a way past that.
He’d given no thought to stealing the painting since his meeting with Blake. It had been in the back of his mind, like a squeaky brake you know needs fixed. He was putting it off, but he couldn’t do that for much longer. Setting aside the two million dollars he’d been promised, it was clear to him that the root cause of everything was the painting. With it gone, Blake and his demented sidekick had no reason to stay. If they left happy and rich, it seemed unlikely they’d put it all at risk with further conflict. Staying alive was a good deal for everyone. He had to do it, there was no alternative. At the end of the day, as Blake had said, it was just a painting. This path, and the security blindspot it represented, would be an essential element in the robbery. The investigation of the theft would quickly find this hidden access and focus would move away from him as prime suspect.
He’d contact Blake on the burner phone, tell him he was working on his end of the deal. Make all the right noises. Assure him that he was working on a plan and that he had nothing to worry about. He’d betrayed Blake once already, it was understandable that he needed reassurance. Thorne smiled. He’d ask Blake for some piece of equipment he needed for the robbery, keep him busy getting hold of it. Anything that kept Blake looking the other way was going to be better for both him and the Ashcrofts.
Lauren looked over her shoulder at him.
“Hey,” she said. “You’re smiling.”
“It won’t last.”
“Nothing does.”
EIGHTEEN
Cabot had a legal pad in front of him on his desk. He’d made a timeline of Thorne’s activities starting with his departure from Los Angeles and ending with him lying in a pool of his own blood in Lauren Ashcroft’s lap. He’d broken it down as much as possible, trying to get it down to the bare bones. For the most part, they were key phrases, some a little more detailed than others. He’d used information that Thorne himself had provided, but he’d put those parts in parenthesis. He assumed the actor knew the key to lying was to make up as little as possible. Therefore, a lot of what he’d been told would turn out to be the truth. Inevitably, there would be a lot that was unverifiable or irrelevant, but he needed as much as possible in front of him to see where to go next with the investigation.
He preferred to work things out using pen and paper, to feel the friction of the ink being dragged across the page, to scribble out mistakes and replace. Put in arrows, circle some words, underline others. He couldn’t get close to that experience on a computer.
He tapped the point of his pen next to the first item on the timeline; Thorne leaves L.A., and wondered if he was starting the timeline too late. He didn’t buy the story about why he left Los Angeles in the first place, so it stood to reason he should try and track down Thorne’s activities before he left, see if anything unusual was going on. Perhaps he should dig into the man’s financials, see if he had any money problems, or if he suddenly received a large sum. He wrote Financials to one side of his list and circled it. Hollywood actors were the same as everyone else, they could find themselves in a tight spot over money. He didn’t know how much Thorne made, but it mattered little. Those with more money than others usually found new ways to spend it.
His thoughts were interrupted by a one-knuckle knock on his office door. Summersby stood there, his mouth open and part of his tongue sticking out. Just what he needed, he thought, another conversation about missing overtime payments with this idiot. He noticed that the detective had a notebook in his free hand, one of his fingers inserted into the pages like a bookmark. Things were looking up.
He motioned for him to enter.
“You got something for me, Summersby?”
“A buddy of mine in patrol passed this to me, Lieutenant, I thought you’d be interested. Yesterday morning, a 911 call reported a man having a heart attack down by the wharf. When the paramedics got there, they were jacked. Guns pointed in their faces, the whole routine. The thieves took off with their vehicle and left them standing at the curb like a couple of fools. Fast forward a couple of hours, another 911 call. This time, a car crash down in Twin Lakes. Again paramedics turn up, get jacked. No shots were fired in either case, and patrol has already recovered both vehicles.”
“What did they take?” Cabot said, trying to cut the story short.
“Defibrillators.”
He sat back in his chair and studied Summersby. The man was grinning, like there was some punch line coming. There had to be, why else was he hearing this?
“Okay,” Cabot said. “Tell me the good part.”
“The thieves wore clown masks.”
“The same clown masks?”
Summersby nodded. “I think so. One of them had blood spatter on it.”
“Goddammit!”
His voice was louder than he intended and heads turned to look at him through his office windows. They could all eat a big bag of dicks as far as he was concerned, this wasn’t the bloody Rotary Club. He sighed and looked up at the ceiling.
“This is good news though, isn’t it?”
“How do you figure that, Detective?”
“Well, it means they’re still around. We can still catch them.” Summersby paused, his face lighting up. “Do you think they’re locals?”
Cabot grunted. He felt it was bad luck to verbalize the hope that dangerous people would stick around so they could be caught, knowing that this increased the risk to his community. Nevertheless, it was a reality all cops faced, and he wanted these people badly.
�
��They’re not locals, I know that much. They’re from L.A.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Thorne is.”
“He’s one of them, isn’t he? Has to be.”
Cabot stared at the younger man for several seconds to see if he was jerking him around, but he could see he wasn’t. Of all the people that could be open to his theory on Thorne, why did it have to be this asshat? He’d rather fight Barnes’ skepticism, than suffer this man’s support. He grabbed his coffee mug and, finding it empty, stood and walked out his office to the break room for a refill. Summersby tagged along silently behind him. There was a jug of coffee on the hotplate that had probably been sitting there cooking for over an hour. He filled his mug without rinsing out the half inch of cold grounds and took a mouthful.
“I don’t get it,” Cabot said. “Defibrillators? Why?”
“You got me, Lieutenant. Maybe to sell.”
“How many are we talking about?”
“Four. Each crew caries a backup in case their primary fails. I’m told that the cost to replace them is close to ten grand. These were top of the line.”
Cabot shook his head. Ten grand. It was a decent haul for a couple of minutes’ work. You find somewhere quiet, call 911, and the victims come to you like you’ve ordered pizza. He took another swig of coffee, already forgetting how bad it was. To his way of thinking, it didn’t seem likely that a gang who’d tried to kidnap a US Senator and his wife were now pulling low-level robberies. It wasn’t that he doubted that the same people were involved, he just couldn’t see the angle. His gut told him it wasn’t for the money, but then what?
“All right,” Cabot said. “Go interview the paramedics. Take Liu, people seem to open up to her. Obviously, I don’t give a flying fuck about the defibrillators, but if those were the same clowns from the mall, then these medics could have vital information. When you’re done there, check the crime scenes to see if patrol missed anything and, finally, see if you can track down any footage of the robberies. Stores, traffic cams, ATMs, whatever. Find out where the thieves came from, where they go. If we’re lucky, we’ll get some clearer stills of these assholes without their masks; perhaps a make, model, and license plate number for their getaway vehicle.”
“Traffic cams are live, sir, you can’t rewind them.”
Cabot sighed. “Just get me something I can use.”
“You got it.”
“This is good stuff, Summersby, keep it up.”
The detective smiled and nodded. It wasn’t a good look for him, Cabot thought. Too much gum showing between his lips, not enough teeth. Probably no one had ever complimented him before, so he didn’t have the practice. They walked through the squad room together and Summersby peeled off toward Liu’s desk, while he returned to his office. It would be ironic if this car-crash of a detective would be the one that tied up the case, but that’s how it was sometimes.
You find the right thread, and you pull on it.
Next to his keyboard someone had stacked some papers on top of his notepad. There was a bright yellow post-it note on top with a smily face drawn on it. He peeled the post-it off and stuck it to the edge of his computer monitor. This would be the database lookups he’d asked Barnes to get him. He found what he wanted on each page, Barnes had circled it for him. Lucas Foster and Taylor Lynch had both served in the Marines. No military service was listed for Ricky Martinez. Including Samuel Porter and Christopher Thorne, he was now dealing with four former Marines at the scene of the shoot-out and they weren’t done yet. He knew there’d be one more: the man they now called Morrison.
Cabot sat back in his chair, rejuvenated.
When he thought about catching the two remaining clowns, what he really thought about was how that would then enable him to nail Thorne. They were little more than stepping stones for him to get to who he wanted. He knew it should be the other way around, but the results would be the same. He drank his coffee, allowing his buzz to build. Experience told him that you had to enjoy moments like this while they lasted, because all too often they went nowhere. When he was finished, he put his mug down and moved his mouse to clear the computer’s screensaver. Thorne appeared on screen. The interview footage again. Playback was frozen with the actor looking off to the side, out the window of Ashcroft’s library. He remembered the moment, he remembered every moment of that interview now. He’d just told Thorne that the wounded man, Porter, would soon be able to give a statement. Thorne had turned away. Turned away to hide his face.
Cabot smiled. Thorne was vulnerable on this Porter thing.
NINETEEN
Best steak in the county. That’s what Ashcroft had promised him, that was all it took to lure him out of the mansion and back onto the streets of Santa Cruz. He was staying at the man’s house, it didn’t hurt to play nice every now and then.
Traffic moved slowly on Chestnut, it looked like there’d been a collision on the opposite side of the street and cars bunched up as they past it. They were starting and stopping. Thorne turned to watch a man and woman walking down the sidewalk next to them. The couple were carrying a large mirror with a dark wood surround. It appeared heavy, yet they matched the speed of the Range Rover with little difficulty. The mirrored side faced toward him and sunlight occasionally flashed at him, depending on their positions.
The SUV ground to a halt and the couple pulled ahead.
Thorne looked away, bored. First, through the windshield, then across to Ashcroft behind the wheel. The senator had a smile on his face, like he was thinking of something that amused him. Thorne thought he’d smile the exact same way if he was James Ashcroft. After a moment, they moved off again, and he turned back to look for the couple. They’d stopped behind a Volvo station wagon. The mirror was on its end, tilted to rest against the vehicle’s open tailgate so the couple could catch their breath.
Thorne saw the street behind reflected on its surface.
Near the top of the mirror, was a black van.
The van looked very familiar.
Ashcroft turned off at a cross street, heading east, toward the centre of Santa Cruz. Trees leaned in from both sides of the road. Thorne watched the passenger door mirror, his eyes fixed on the crossing. He mentally counted down in his head; five, four, three, two, one. Just then, the van made the turn and popped out behind them. Thorne felt calm pour through him like ice water. Stage one of his unusual reaction to adrenaline. He became alert, his eyes unusually sharp. It cut right through the fog of Fentanyl. Thorne wet his lips. It was impossible to tell at this distance if it was Blake, vans had a way of all looking alike. The van was 40 feet behind them and was now partially hidden by a silver Chrysler.
Thorne didn’t like it. Why would Blake follow them now? This only stood to put their deal in danger. Didn’t Blake realize that Cabot could have people watching the senator in unmarked cars, waiting for this exact scenario to play out?
It occurred to him that since he’d made the deal with Blake he’d stopped preparing for another attack. He’d assumed an attack wasn’t coming, that he had it handled. But what if that reaction was precisely what Blake was counting on? If Blake hit them now, today, he was completely unprepared. The kidnapping would unfold as it had before, only this time around, there’d be no interruptions. Without the element of surprise, he’d be killed immediately.
Ashcroft turned south on Center Street. Again, he watched the mirror. He knew that once you became sensitized to something, you saw it everywhere. Thorne told himself it was nothing, a coincidence and no more. It was reasonable to assume that a vehicle might make a couple of the same turns without it meaning anything. Part of their routes might overlap, it must happen all the time. But with every repeated turn the odds of this shortened.
The van turned on Center.
It was still there, not closing up, not falling back. He swore silently to himself. If this really was Blake, and he didn’t see who else it could be, there might still be time to stop him before he started. A single police
cruiser could be enough to spook Blake. Make him re-think any plans he might have and revert to the deal they made.
He leaned close to Ashcroft and spoke quietly.
“Make a left at the next junction.”
Ashcroft glanced at Lauren in the back seat before replying.
“What is it?”
“Hopefully nothing,” Thorne said.
The senator nodded, his body language changing in a heartbeat. He got it. His face hardened and his mouth became a thin, flat line. Thorne looked again at the mirror, waiting for Ashcroft to make the turn. He wanted to be wrong. He wanted to see the van flash through the intersection behind them, and out of their lives. Ashcroft turned sharply onto Lincoln without using his turn signal. He gave it more gas than normal through the turn and continued to power down the near-empty street. They shot through the Cedar Street crossing seconds later at over 60 mph, forcing a white Camry across the corner of the sidewalk and into a fire lane to avoid hitting them. This wasn’t exactly what he had in mind.
The street was clear all the way back to Center Street. They’d opened up a gap, but it wasn’t going to last. Up ahead, a line of cars waited to feed onto Pacific Avenue. This had been the wrong way to come, the traffic here would box them in. In another shoot-out there’d be nowhere to go. At the front of the line, a car got out and they all crept forward. It was painful; they were never going to get through before Blake arrived. The white Camry pulled up behind them. Thorne wondered if the driver would get out and start something with Ashcroft. This wasn’t L.A., people here expected you to be human. When they wished you a nice day, they meant it. The moment passed, and the driver stayed where he was. Another car got out at the junction, leaving only two vehicles. Again they moved forward. His eyes were fixed on the mirror now. The Camry blocked most of his view, but he could see enough.
The van had turned onto Lincoln.
Doubt vanished from his mind; it was Blake, it had to be. The van was accelerating hard to catch up and would be with them in seconds. Their burst of speed had been for nothing. Just then, a gap opened up in the traffic and they got out onto Pacific, which Ashcroft immediately turned off onto Soquel Avenue. It was almost perfect, but they hadn’t had enough distance. Blake would’ve seen the extra turn. Sure enough, he caught a glimpse of the van as they turned down Ocean. The traffic here was lighter and faster and he had to lean forward to see the intersection in the mirror.
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