“Cabot doesn't think they'll be back, does he?”
“Ah, Victor!” Ashcroft said, as if talking about a circus dog that could walk on its hind legs. “To be honest, I got the impression he was more interested in you.”
He felt his pulse quicken. “Oh? In what way?”
“I assumed he was a fan of your show.”
Thorne smiled. Nothing seemed less likely to him than the lieutenant being a member of the Jake Vasco Fan Club. It was so unlikely, that he wondered if he was being tested. Had Cabot shared his suspicions with Ashcroft? Thorne wanted to talk more on the subject, but now was not the time. He had to be careful, appear unconcerned.
“Last time around was just business for those men. A job, nothing more. Next time, it's going to be personal. Three of their friends are dead and another is in hospital connected to a wall socket. I don't see this having a happy ending.”
“Me neither.”
“Any idea what it was they were after?”
The senator looked surprised, as if he'd never thought about it.
“Money, I assume. A kidnapping.”
“Why now? It's months since you announced your candidacy. Could it be anything else?”
Ashcroft picked up his glass, his hand shaking slightly. He drained it from half full then poured out another.
“No,” he said. “Just money.”
TWENTY-ONE
Thorne stood in the hallway staring at the Picasso. He’d decided to stop worrying about the security cameras. The painting was famous, not to mention insanely valuable, and it was reasonable to assume that any visitor to the house would stop and look at it from time to time. Hadn’t Ashcroft brought it back from the gallery for precisely this purpose? No, he thought, it wouldn’t seem either odd or suspicious for him to be seen looking at it. At least, not until it went missing. If Blake’s plan had a hole, that was certainly it.
Given enough time, he knew he could defeat the security system. It might not be easy, but it would be possible. The challenge would lie in deflecting attention away from himself as the obvious thief. For one thing, he’d have to hang around after he’d taken it. Store the painting somewhere safe nearby, then come back and face the music. If both he and the painting went missing at the same time, there would be no mystery as to what had happened.
Thorne saw two scenarios.
The theft could take place at night, while the others slept; or during the day, while the Ashcrofts were out. The latter option gave him the best access, but the poorest alibi. He would need to frame it as a conventional robbery and that would take extra time, faking a break-in. Afterward, Cabot would have him under a microscope as never before, and moving the painting at that point would be somewhere between difficult and impossible. Lauren’s running path offered investigators a convincing route in for thieves, as well as an easy way out for him to hide the painting. To sell the story in any credible way, he’d have to injure himself. A knock-out blow to the head, something like that. It was all very well to say you slept through a robbery when the owner did too, but who’d believe him if he did so alone? He was reluctant to sustain any further injuries and from that point of view the day-time robbery was a bust.
The painting depicted the head of a horse, rearing back as if in terror. Its teeth were fanned out like a hand of cards and its eyes were bulging. Thorne had always had a soft spot for horses but this one did not appear to be having a good day and it was beyond him why anyone would want to have such an image on their wall. Blake said it looked like a child had painted it, and he wasn’t wrong. He wondered what made it worth so much money. A hundred million dollars. Thorne couldn’t get his head around it. He’d have to work for nearly two thousand years to make that amount of money, and here it was on the wall in front of him. He was no socialist, but he knew this was wrong.
The case was roughly three inches deep and wrapped around the outside of the painting before bonding seamlessly into the wall. There was no hinged panel providing access; there appeared to be no access at all. However the painting was added or removed, it didn’t appear to be through the case. He frowned. This made no sense at all. There had to be a trick to opening it, the painting had to come in and out somehow.
He moved closer and closer to the painting until his face was right up against the armored glass then turned as if to look down the hall. The left side of his vision was now filled by a grayish-green blur, that ended in a sharp black line where the case folded in on itself. His right eye, however, could see past the reflections to the interior edge. He saw light blue dots spaced out down the edge of the frame. Lasers. He sighed. Dealing with lasers wasn’t a part of explosive ordinance disposal. He pulled his head back a fraction and they disappeared. If he hadn’t looked for them, he wouldn’t have known they were there. It was the signature of a good security system that it didn’t advertise itself. Hidden lasers on the front end told him that the back end was going to be top-notch. The best money could buy. He caught a glimpse of himself reflected in the glass and noticed he was smiling again.
He liked a challenge, it was who he was.
Outside, two car doors slammed shut. He jerked away from the painting. The Ashcrofts had returned from San Jose. He heard their voices before the front door opened. It sounded like they'd been fighting the entire way back. He made his way down the hall, past the pool and into the kitchen. Ashcroft was holding a bottle of Scotch in one hand.
“Jesus, Lauren. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”
“A cigar! It's a goddamn gun.”
Ashcroft turned to Thorne. “This is what I get for trying to protect myself. What do you say Chris? Do you think we should sit around and wait for those men to attack us again, or do you think we should be prepared?”
Next to the senator, on top of some dirty rags, was a pistol.
“I hate to say this, Lauren, but it’s unlikely this is over. Last time we were lucky, we need to be more proactive. James is right.”
She sighed. “Big surprise, soldier boy likes the gun.”
He looked at it again. Even from where he was standing, Thorne could see it wasn't new. It looked like it had fallen into some mud and been driven over by a truck.
“Where'd you get it?”
“I bought it from a guy on Craigslist.”
Thorne laughed. “You're kidding.”
“No.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment.
“Okay, I'm just going to ask. Why didn't you buy one in a store?”
Lauren and Ashcroft exchanged an awkward expression.
“He doesn’t know,” Lauren said.
“Know what?”
“Lauren and I are well-known campaigners against the Second Amendment. If it got out I'd bought a firearm it would set the movement back years and make me a laughing stock. My run for president would be over. You may think this hypocritical, but my anti-gun stance is stronger now than ever before.”
Thorne shook his head in disbelief.
“All you had to do was ask. I could’ve bought it.”
The senator flinched. “I never thought of that.”
“Do you mind if I take a look?”
“Of course. In fact, I’m hoping you’ll train me to use it, there's no one else I can ask.”
“It's not that complicated, but sure.”
Ashcroft passed it to him handle first.
“James, you're pointing the gun at your own chest.”
“It's fine, it's not loaded.”
“You checked?”
“The guy said so. I bought bullets from him too.”
Thorne slipped the sling off his right arm and took the gun carefully out of Ashcroft's hand and, pointing it at the floor, checked the chamber. It was empty.
“Look, forgive me for being a dick, all right, but a firearm is only empty when you've checked it's empty. Take nobody's word for it, least of all some creepy dude you just met off the internet. I know you're new to guns, but that's just reta
rded.”
Ashcroft nodded. “You're right. I need to hear this.”
Thorne examined the gun. It was dirty and badly scratched, but there was little doubt in his mind it could kill people. As it moved, light caught on what appeared to be a clean area. Something mechanical had gouged into the metal and scooped out a half-inch long trench, like a screw you were meant to turn with a coin. He knew what it was, what it signified.
“How does it look?” Ashcroft said, opening the Scotch.
“It's a Smith and Wesson 1911 CT semi automatic pistol, firing .45 ACP rounds. A good, solid firearm, nothing fancy. You won't be shooting a gun out of anyone's hand with it, but if you aim center mass you're going to hit something important.” Thorne paused for a beat. “Did you notice this mark on the side?”
“No, what is it?”
“It's where the serial number used to be.”
Ashcroft shrugged.
“I’m saying,” Thorne continued, “that it's illegal to have this.”
“But it's illegal anyway isn't it?”
“This is different. There's only one reason to do this to a firearm, and that's to hide the identity of the owner. You don't do this if your intention is to protect yourself or to fire it at a gun range. Given how dirty and marked it is, I'd say it was dumped somewhere and that the nimrod you bought it from found it.”
“I’m still not sure I understand.”
Lauren shook her head. “Jimmy, he's saying you bought a murder weapon.”
Ashcroft's face paled.
“No, I can't be sure about that,” Thorne said. “It might've been tossed before it was used, or it dropped out of someone's bag, it's impossible to tell. But if you are caught in possession of a gun that ballistics can tie to a murder then it doesn't look good for you, and the story of how you came to have it is not very believable.”
Several seconds passed before Ashcroft spoke again.
“It changes nothing, we still need to protect ourselves. We can say the gun belonged to one of the attackers, that one of them dropped it during a struggle and we were able to grab it. Just like you did in the parking lot.”
Thorne smiled. “That's crazy enough to work.”
He put the pistol on the counter and took the glass Ashcroft held out to him. He lifted the glass to his nose, swirled the contents and inhaled. To him, Scotch smelled like a mixture of urine and gasoline, but he enjoyed the sensation as it rolled down his throat.
“Out of curiosity, what section of Craigslist did you see it?”
“Sporting goods.”
“My husband is a collector of sporting memorabilia,” Lauren explained.
“Aren't you concerned this guy can identify you?”
“Give me some credit, I wore a baseball cap and sunglasses.”
“For a minute there I was worried.”
TWENTY-TWO
When he got back to his bedroom he saw he’d three missed calls from Blake on the burner phone. It wasn’t a total surprise. A full week had passed since he’d agreed to steal the painting and so far he’d done nothing about it. He sighed and dialed the number.
“Thorne, buddy, good of you to call back.”
“What do you want?”
“Updates. I got that shit you asked for days ago and you’ve not been in touch. Not even a goddamn text message. Maybe you’re having a blast up there with that old man’s wife, but we’re sitting on our asses here doing nothing. We want this done and dusted so we can get the hell out of here. What’s the delay? What am I meant to do with this stuff?”
“Nothing. I have to do it, just like everything else.”
“You should remember what’s at stake before you speak to me like that.”
Thorne smiled. He was all broken up about Blake’s feelings.
“Whatever, man. I still have some details to work out. Probably no more than another couple of days. I have questions for Ashcroft and if I don’t space them out it’s going to get suspicious, especially after it goes down. When I got all I need, we can meet and I’ll fix up the gear. That’s the easy part.”
There was a long silence at the other end.
“I read about your immunity deal with the DA. I hope you don’t think it means you can cut me off, or stall me indefinitely with endless problems.”
Thorne sat on the edge of the bed and let out a long breath. Rather than deny it and risk Blake seeing through it, he decided to push back and see where it went.
“And why’s that, Blake?”
“Because I still want my money, fucknuts, and I’m going nowhere until I get it. The longer you put this off, the more chance Sara and I have of getting caught. Believe me when I say this, but if that happens, we’re taking you down with us. That immunity deal won’t be worth shit.”
Thorne smiled again, then lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He felt Blake’s anger right through the cheap plastic handset and could clearly picture him in his head. Blake would be shaking, his face scarlet. The thought of it alone was like warming himself next to an open fire, he could feel his skin prickling, his hairs standing on end.
“It'd be your word against mine, amigo. How much do you think your word is worth? I’m a hero. In case you haven’t heard, the sun shines out my ass.”
When Blake’s voice came back it was calm and precise.
“Perhaps. But you’re forgetting the gallery and that dead cop. Even without breaking your immunity deal, I figure you’re looking at spending the rest of your life in prison. That cop’s not the only one either, they'll pull you into all the others. Conspiracy murder, they call that. Good luck proving you weren’t involved because that’s not what we’ll be saying.”
Thorne’s smile disappeared. “So you’re saying what?”
“This robbery is happening with or without you. If we do it my way it’s going to get messy. Real messy. I’d prefer to avoid going down that route but if you give me no choice, that’s the way it goes. You feel me? If I get what I want, you get what you want.”
Thorne sighed.
There’d be no leaving this behind, he was in it until the end.
“I’ll be in touch.”
He cut the call and tossed the phone across the room.
It was clear to him now as never before. Another attempt to steal the Picasso would join everything up for investigators. The bungled gallery heist, the shoot-out at the mall, and the final theft of the painting. What appeared to be unrelated events would condense into a single pattern. If he could be placed at the scene of two of the three, it wouldn't take long for someone to wonder where he was the night of the gallery break-in. He had no alibi for that night, nor the days before it. As tempting as Blake's two million might be, there was no way to get it without exposing his involvement in the death of the cop. The deal with Blake was worthless, there was only one option open to him.
Survival.
TWENTY-THREE
Cabot heard raised voices outside his office. Excitement, not anger. As a seasoned cop, he knew what it meant: there’d been a break in the case. He sprung to his feet and raced around his desk for his office door and turned to the source of the feeding frenzy. To his surprise, he saw Summersby standing there with a huge grin on his face. He held a clear plastic evidence bag aloft like the severed head of a conquered enemy. Inside, a clown mask. Cabot smiled. Finally, they had hard physical evidence tied to one of the surviving gang members. With luck they’d pull DNA and fingerprints from it and with that, a positive database match.
He pushed through deputies and administration staff that had poured in to see what was going on. There was a real buzz in the air. This is how cops got high, he thought. Liu stood next to Summersby, her eyes dancing nervously about as people crowded around, while her normally calm face showed a kooky smile and perfect white teeth. It was the first time he’d seen her smile in the eighteen months she’d worked in Investigation.
“Amazing,” Cabot said. “Where’d you find it?”
“In the footwell of the
second ambulance,” Summersby said. “It’d gone under the seat. I guess they lost it or forgot about it.”
Cabot took the bag and carefully turned it over in his hands. It was light as a feather. Since it was Summersby’s find, he walked over to the detective’s desk and sat in his chair. People gathered around him in a circle to watch. There was a lamp on the desk and Cabot pulled it over and turned it on to get a better look. He moved his face in close and inspected the mask through the bag, turning it to catch the light. There was something on the inside, he thought. A powder of some kind. It was whitish-pink in color, it barely showed against the moulded plastic until the light hit it at an angle, when it showed as a dull area with no shine. He turned it over to see the front again. No blood. It was the first thing he’d noticed about the mask and he couldn’t help but feel disappointed. He knew if they did get an ID there’d be no connection to Thorne.
“What do you think, Victor?”
He looked up and saw Carson looking down at him.
“It’s the getaway driver’s mask, Sheriff. The woman.”
The sheriff stroked his mustache while he processed this. Cabot knew the woman-driver angle was unpopular and generally viewed by his coworkers as part of his one man theory implicating Thorne. They all seemed to believe he was focussing on a mistake the actor made in an attempt to make him seem guilty.
“What makes you say that, Lieutenant?”
“The other mask had cast-off blood spatter and misting across the front due to wounds sustained by Samuel Porter, the man in the coma. That blood-covered mask was reportedly seen by the paramedics during these robberies, so we know it wasn’t cleaned off and is still out there somewhere. That leaves this one, which logically must belong to the driver. There appears to be a trace of some kind of compound on the inside where it pressed against the wearer’s face. Specifically, the cheekbones. I believe this compound will turn out to be makeup or sunscreen.”
“What about fingerprints, DNA?”
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