Night Passenger

by David Stanley

  He recalled the short distance Nicky Kaplan had put between them when Coop had asked her question and he understood what it meant. Jocelyn Cooper had arranged his lawyer, it was never Lauren. His heart sank. He wondered where he would go now. The thought that Lauren had been behind it had sustained him, because it meant she believed in him. That they were OK. Now this feeling had been ripped away. Assuming she wasn’t in an Ambien-powered sleep, she might be hating him right now. Believing Cabot’s bullshit. For sure, he couldn’t go back to the mansion now, not while there was any doubt over what had happened in the roadhouse parking lot.

  He followed Coop and the cameraman back to their van because he had nowhere else to go, and because the constant rain blocked his ability to think of much else. He was wearing a jumpsuit provided by the Sheriff’s Office and was carrying no money or identification. They reached the van and Coop turned to look at him.

  “I’m sorry we ambushed you, Chris. The footage has to look real on TV. If Nicky told you who called her it wouldn’t have looked right. I didn’t know he died, I’m sorry. I only heard you’d been arrested. I thought it was connected to the shoot-out at the mall.”

  He remained silent, but his face hid nothing from her.

  “You thought someone else was out here, didn’t you?”

  Someone else.

  She was being discreet in front of the cameraman and he appreciated it.

  “I suppose I was.”

  They climbed into the van. It had a long bench seat across the front and he sat in the middle position with Coop next to the passenger door. The cameraman opened the side door and climbed in with his equipment. There was no divider, he could look right into the back. It was almost identical to Blake’s van.

  “How’d you hear about my arrest anyway?”

  “I have a source inside the Sheriff’s Office, keeps me up-to-date with Cabot’s blundering investigation.” Coop lowered her voice so the cameraman wouldn’t hear. “Kinda surprised you didn’t call me yourself, actually.”

  Thorne stared at the windshield, at the rain covered glass.

  “I had other things on my mind.”

  They said nothing for a moment. It wasn’t hard, the cameraman was crashing about behind them, setting up the uplink to the television station. The senator’s death was a major scoop, as was his arrest and subsequent release. The story had to go out before other networks got wind of it. Thorne guessed that if any editing took place it took place at the other end. The cameraman was seated in back now and talking quietly into a pair of headphones with a microphone bar. They had a moment of privacy. He turned to Jocelyn and saw her big eyes looking back like a pair of headlights.

  “This isn't what I wanted,” he said. “You know that, right?”

  “I know.”

  “What do I do? Do I go to her? She’ll be all alone.”

  Coop shook her head. “Nicky told me there’s a deputy looking after her.”

  “I guess that makes sense. They won’t want me there, that’s for sure.”

  “You’re coming back with us, Chris. The Inn’s sold-out, but I have a super comfy sofa in my suite. Or there’s one in Brad’s if you prefer, though I can’t promise he’ll be a gentleman.”

  There was warmth and humor in her voice, but it was impossible for him to feel it, or to smile. Instead, he felt like a snake that has swallowed its prey whole and has to lie for days slowly digesting it. Only, he’d swallowed a large, cold stone. He could feel it inside him, weighing him down. James Ashcroft was dead, and it was entirely his fault. He may not have fired the shot, but he may as well have. Without a word, Thorne tilted his head over until it rested on her shoulder and closed his eyes.

  Within seconds, he fell asleep.

  FORTY-SIX

  Soft pop music played nearby. Thorne turned over in bed, his eyes tightening against the bright light of a window. All that kind of music sounded the same to him. Meaningless lyrics, sung in the same way, produced in the same way. It wouldn’t be long before it was all computer generated. A moment passed before he stirred again. He could smell coffee and some kind of pastry. It almost obscured Kate’s perfume. His eyes snapped open and a familiar room appeared around him. Jocelyn Cooper’s bedroom at the Dream Inn. He swung his head around, taking in the room. There was no sign of her. A large cup of black coffee sat on the night stand, along with a cruller. As if on cue, his stomach growled.

  Thorne picked up the coffee and drank from it. It was strong and at the perfect temperature. He drained half the cup and felt his brain come alive. The coffee flowed like electricity through it, turning everything on. A bunch of cut scenes came back to him. Sharing a bottle of Scotch with Coop. Talking for what seemed like hours. Finally, when it was time to call it a day, things had taken a predictable turn.

  Thorne sighed. He didn’t know who he was anymore.

  A business card was stuck to the base of the coffee cup. He peeled it off and saw there was a handwritten message on it.

  Gone to get you some new clothes, back in half an hour.

  Eve x

  Coop was using her North by Northwest name again. She thought it was clever. Maybe it was, he wasn’t sure. He stared for a beat at the kiss she’d added to the end of the message. He’d noticed that some women added kisses to the end of messages all the time and that it meant nothing. It might indicate that they were friends. Is that what this kiss was, or was it something else? He flipped the card over. Nikolai Kaplan, attorney at law. No wonder she went by Nicky, he thought. He picked up the cruller and bit it in half. Another bite later it was gone, followed shortly after by the coffee.

  Thorne sat all the way up and put his feet on the floor.

  He’d betrayed Kate. There was no other way of putting it. When he’d believed her to be dead it was different, but he couldn’t say that this time around. He put his head in his hands and ran his fingers back and forth through his hair. He stood and walked toward the shower. Showers helped him think. As he passed the living area, he was surprised to see Jocelyn Cooper sitting there with a newspaper spread out before her on the low table. She was smartly dressed, had her hair pinned up in a bun and wore a pair of dark framed glasses on her face. She looked up and smiled, quickly removing the glasses.

  “There’s something strangely familiar about this.”

  Thorne felt his face redden.

  “Your note said you were out.”

  “I was, two hours ago. It’s nearly one in the afternoon. I let you sleep, looked like you needed it. Go shower, we’ll talk after.”

  He nodded then went into the bathroom and removed his dressings. They served no real purpose anyway, the wounds were all closed. It was getting to the point where he could look at himself again without hating what he saw. He had it easy, a lot of vets couldn’t hide their injuries with a shirt and a pair of pants.

  After the shower, he set out the clothes she’d bought him on the end of the bed while she stood in the doorway watching. Apparently, they were the kind of friends that saw each other naked. Thorne found he didn’t care, at least not with her. He could feel her gaze move over his battered body. She showed no disgust at the scars and wounds. The clothes were from Gap and not his style, but they sure beat wearing a police jumpsuit. He dressed quickly and without comment. Everything fitted perfectly, except for some running shoes which were a size too small. When he was done, he noticed another bag, under the first. He looked inside and saw she’d also bought a baseball cap and sunglasses.

  He held them up.

  “What are these for?”

  “This doesn’t work if we’re seen together.”

  “Great. Another woman embarrassed to be seen with me.”

  She flashed the goofy smile and he felt it inside him, like the tug of a fish hook. It was the kind of smile you could make room for in your life. He put on the cap and sunglasses and walked over so that he stood directly in front of her. She looked at him, her eyes narrowed. He was certain that he looked ridiculous. A label still hung
from the leg of the sunglasses, it fluttered in a breeze from the open balcony door.

  “I don’t know if I thanked you for arranging that lawyer.”

  “I didn’t do it for you, Chris.”

  She was a bad liar. He lent forward and kissed her forehead.

  “Thank you anyway.”

  She smiled then tilted her head up, her mouth slightly open. He kissed her on the mouth. Coop was a hot little thing, and a fire seemed to burn below the surface. It was a trait that reminded him of Kate, but not at all of Lauren Ashcroft. Lauren had ice water in her veins. She didn’t feel things in the same way. The kiss ended and her goofy smile was back.

  “Your face,” she said.

  “What about it?”

  “I like it.”

  Thorne nodded somberly. “A lot of people do.”

  Her face twisted, but the smile came back.

  “That must be awful for you.”

  He took off the baseball cap and sunglasses then walked over to the end of the bed and dumped them on it. He stood like that for a beat with his back to her.

  “How’d you feel about giving me a ride back to Ashcroft’s mansion?”

  “Conflicted,” she said.

  He turned to her.

  “We can’t do this again, you know that. I’m the story.”

  “You won’t be the story forever.”

  He nodded.

  “I can’t give you an answer to that. Lauren needs my support and Kate is still being held by the gang. I can’t make long term plans. I could be dead tomorrow.”

  “Fine. But just so you know, it’s not going to be easy to get in. I’ve been up there already today. There’s a police guard on the gate and all the main network news stations are back.”

  “There’s another way in.”

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Cabot sat at his desk with his chair tilted way back, his feet crossed on top of the blond wood. His legs were short and it had taken a couple of minutes to find a position that worked for him. The angle flattened out his whole body so that his head almost disappeared behind the tips of his shoes. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but his hope was that the sheriff would walk in and decide to make good on his threat of full suspension rather than this desk-bound version. After years of sitting at his desk, he needed to be out there asking questions and leading from the front. He also had no interest in solving a hit-and-run case, their only active investigation now that the mall shooting and Ashcroft’s murder had been taken from them. On full suspension, he’d be free to conduct his own enquiry and take it where it needed to go without interference.

  He reached down and picked an orange out of a sack that sat next to his chair and methodically began to peel it. There were no papers on his desk, just piles and piles of discarded orange skin. He liked to get not just the peel off, but every trace of pith underneath until he had a slice of clean fruit. He took his time, he had nothing else to do all day and it helped take his mind off Thorne.

  This is what the sheriff wants, he thought, for him to look weak in front of everyone in the department. That’s the real reason he was being kept around. If he’d been sent home until the farce with his sidearm was straightened out, it would be seen as mere procedure. This was political, this was personal. It was a year before the election, but Carson was an opportunist and he’d seen the perfect time to strike.

  There was a knock on the door and Barnes stuck his head in.

  “Got a minute, boss?”

  “My whole week has opened right up, Detective.”

  Cabot saw him take in the mass of orange peel, the feet on the desk, and the half dozen coffee cups scattered about. It appeared to be almost too much for him. Barnes liked things neat and tidy with everything in its right place. He smiled uncomfortably and sat on the seat opposite. The detective looked around the room as if it was his first time inside it. His face was tight, his lips pressed shut. Cabot continued to eat, slurping noisily to annoy the younger man. Finally, Barnes cleared his throat and made eye contact with him.

  “I need to know if it’s true, boss. One way or the other.”

  “You want to know if what’s true, Barnes? I’m not a goddam mind-reader.”

  The detective stared at the floor.

  “If you beat Thorne with your gun.”

  “Jesus, Mason. No.”

  Barnes continued to stare at the floor.

  “I guess I’d understand it, the way you found him over Ashcroft’s body. I wouldn’t say anything if you told me. I owe you, you’ve been good to me since I’ve been here.”

  Cabot sighed.

  “Did that dick Carson put you up to this?”

  Barnes shook his head as if to brush this comment off.

  “I need to hear you say it.”

  “I have said it. I didn’t fucking do it. I punched him, OK? I admitted that. But I didn’t pistol whip him. You can’t see it on the dash cam video, but I swapped my firearm to my left hand. Which is why I’m sitting here with busted up knuckles. Thorne framed me. He’s destroyed my life, my career, my whole reputation. This is what I’ll be remembered for, and I didn’t do it. If you don’t believe me you can piss off, I got nothin’ else to say to you.”

  Barnes smiled, his features relaxing. “I believe you.”

  He supposed he’d given Barnes no reason to trust him. His position on Thorne had been static since day one and it wasn’t such a stretch. Hadn’t he thought about killing the actor before the medics appeared? Hadn’t he thought of killing him every minute since he was released? Cabot swung his feet onto the floor and pulled his chair forward so he could rest his elbows on the desk.

  “What about everyone out there?”

  “Some think you did it, some don’t. Probably an even split.”

  He decided to change the conversation.

  “I had a call this morning from a detective investigating the fire at Thorne’s condo that killed Elizabeth Warner.” Cabot paused for a beat, his gaze steady on Barnes’ face looking for a reaction. “He wanted to know if I thought Thorne could be behind it.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Turns out, Kate Bloom has a two million dollar life insurance policy. He’s the only listed beneficiary. Her own mother wouldn’t see a penny.”

  Barnes was silent for a moment.

  “Even still, there’s no way.”

  Cabot nodded. “I know it. If I know one thing about Thorne, it’s that he didn’t burn that poor woman alive. I had to give the son of a bitch a glowing character reference.”

  “Where do you suppose Kate Bloom is now?”

  “That’s the big question, isn’t it? There’s been no activity on her credit cards, cell phone, or social media. None of her family or friends have seen her. It’s like she vanished into thin air.”

  “I don’t like the timing of it.”

  “Me neither,” Cabot said.

  He glanced down and saw his hands resting on the desk in front of him. The first three fingers on each hand were heavily stained from peeling oranges. His eyes flipped back up to Barnes and then at the closed blinds behind his head. He’d shut himself away in his office, hiding from the world and the squad room. Carson had benched him like a junior league baseball player and he was playing his role of sulking teen perfectly. He wondered what he’d do differently if he really had beaten Thorne. Not much. For sure, the sheriff had zero motivation to clear his name. Carson would use this as leverage to make him retire with the understanding he didn’t run for sheriff. As long as he played ball, there’d be no consequences. He could almost hear him say it. Carson would leave him in this office for a few more days to soften him up, then make the pitch. Retire with his pension intact, or face investigation, loss of pension, and possibly time in prison.

  Cabot let out a sigh.

  “You ever play Sudoku, Barnes?”

  “Nah, that's an old man's game.”

  “Oh no, you want to check it out. For example, this situation right now it reminds me of the
way a Sudoku game can go if you make a simple mistake. You don't notice it at first, but that first error multiplies as you keep playing. In order to make that wrong number work, other wrong numbers go in and sometimes it looks like there's no mistake at all. The grid is almost complete, only there's a couple of numbers that don't fit..."

  Cabot's voice trailed off.

  “Yes, boss?”

  “Well, it's like an investigation. You think you’re on to something and it turns out to be nothing. You were walking in a dark wood, but by the time you realize you made a mistake you can no longer see the path to get back.”

  Barnes was nodding. “I see that, but how does this apply to Thorne? I never thought he was involved.”

  “That is your wrong number.”

  After Barnes left, Cabot decided to go over the text of Thorne’s immunity deal with the DA and look for space to maneuver. The document was written in the form of tortured English favored by the law profession. He’d skimmed it once before, but had largely relied on Barnes to provide the CliffsNotes version. The document could’ve been summed up in a single paragraph but had instead been spread across 78 densely populated pages. The extra padding seemed to remove clarity, rather than add it.

  He read the document twice and although he didn’t consider himself a slow reader, it took him nearly two hours. He found little in it to cheer him up. Thorne’s immunity was total. As it stood, he could not be pursued for the deaths of Lucas Foster, Ricky Martinez, Taylor Lynch, or the wounding of Samuel Porter. A clause had even been added to cover Porter dying from his injury, and Thorne was protected for that too.

  The immunity deal was based on a variation of self-defense known as defense of others, a law that was less than black and white in its implementation. Thorne made the first move, usually a barrier to this form of defense but his military training had been cited in foreseeing danger, a privilege normally only extended to law enforcement officers. The fact that he hadn’t been armed at the time and had put his own life in danger wrapped things up nicely for the DA. There was no mention in the document of who Ashcroft was, but Cabot knew it had been a critical component. Had Thorne killed four people to save the life of someone selling hot dogs, he would currently be in a cell awaiting trial. Ashcroft had pulled strings to get this pushed through and the DA had been a willing participant.