Night Passenger

by David Stanley

  Cabot sat back and let his head rest against the chair.

  It was like Barnes had originally said; Thorne was bulletproof. Overturning the immunity would require nothing short of a miracle. Some fact would have to materially alter the terms that had framed the deal. His original plan had been to link the actor to those he’d killed. But he saw now that personal involvement would not be the knockout blow he’d assumed. Thorne lying would open him up to arrest and trial, but everything else would stay the same. A jury would swallow up his charm, his heroics, and his pretty boy looks. Prosecuting Thorne for the shoot-out was pointless and a judge at pre-trial would know it.

  That left Ashcroft’s death, Thorne had no immunity for that. His failed arrest and the false assault charge would make things difficult, but not impossible. Unless he was careful, he’d be open to harassment charges that would only reinforce the legitimacy of the assault claim. Cabot remembered the 9mm shell casing, standing up on its end. The pistol had still not been located, despite a full search of the area.

  Where had Thorne hidden the gun?

  He stood sharply. He needed another coffee, get his old brain to find the piece he was missing. He opened his office door and found Summersby walking toward him, picking chocolate out of his front teeth with his finger.

  “Hey, Lieutenant. Thompson said we got company, that we should go outside.”

  “Could that kid be any more vague?”

  “You coming, sir?”

  Word had got around and half the department was out front looking down the street. Six black Suburbans in convoy. He watched as they lined up in front of his building and a line of doors opened at almost the same time. Close to thirty suited figures emerged. It was exactly what Thorne predicted in the back of his cruiser.

  Cabot shook his head.

  “Your tax dollars at work. The federal government is here.”

  FORTY-EIGHT

  The limo stopped and the driver opened the door. Thorne got out and felt the gaze of hundreds of people immediately fall upon him. It was like stepping onto a vast set, cameras rolling. He turned and reached into the back of the vehicle. Lauren Ashcroft’s hand gripped his tight and he helped her out. He’d instinctively offered his right hand and was now supporting her weight on his wounded shoulder. He kept his face flat and pushed the pain into the back of his mind. He put his arm around Lauren’s waist and moved her to one side so the driver could close the door.

  The cemetery lay on a strip of land between the San Lorenzo River, the Cabrillo Highway, and the top of Ocean Street. Surprisingly little traffic noise filtered down from the highway, no more than tape hiss from an old audio cassette. Thorne guessed it was normally a calm and restful place to visit, but today it was crawling with people.

  His eyes moved along the vehicles parked up on Ocean.

  The TV networks were back in force. He counted five large trucks and two vans, satellite dishes already deployed. Lauren’s arrival had probably triggered a live broadcast. Another serving of death for the American people. He looked for any sign of Jocelyn Cooper, but soon abandoned his search. Her size made her too hard to see. He continued his scan of the vehicles. There were a lot of cops, both back up on the road and dotted throughout the cemetery. Their SUVs and cruisers bore the branding of the Police Department, the Sheriff’s Office, and the CHP. At the edge of his vision, almost out of sight, were two unmarked black Suburbans fitted with tinted glass.

  Thorne felt his chest tighten.

  The sheriff had finally pulled the pin and brought in the FBI.

  He couldn’t say he was surprised. Cabot had made no progress with the investigation and by passing it to the feds the sheriff had effectively washed his hands of the whole business. Thorne’s eyes moved through the crowd with a new interest. The one place FBI agents truly blended in, was at a funeral. He picked out four likely targets, three men and a woman, all with the same blank face and dark sunglasses. Their heads moved slowly around like surveillance cameras, back and forth. All except for the woman, who stared directly at him.

  Lauren pressed her body against him like a cat, her face right up against the thin felt of his jacket. He could feel her breath pushing through the material and the cotton shirt underneath. It wasn’t until the limousine pulled away, that he realized she was weeping.

  He took a deep breath and let it slowly out.

  This was not part of his skill set. Strong silent type, that's what he was. He had that shit locked down. Calm exterior, glacial eyes, the whole bit. But to sell that, people knew you were bearing some burden inside, otherwise it could be mistaken for heartless bastard. Thorne wondered if it was appropriate for him to be here at all, since everyone knew about Cabot’s failed arrest and were probably wondering if he’d done it.

  He gave Lauren a squeeze to let her know he was right there with her. The crying slowed, the jags of sobbing becoming further and further apart.

  In front of them a wizened old piece of jerky waved them through the crowd of people into the chapel where James Ashcroft’s service was to take place. Thorne nodded and with his arm still around Lauren's waist, guided her toward the building. The other mourners parted to make way for them, their gaze shifting between Lauren and up to him and back. As they walked through the entrance, Lauren’s head flopped over and came to rest on his shoulder. The strong independent woman he'd come to know so well was sitting this one out.

  He got Lauren seated and sat next to her. She immediately twisted around, like she was turning over in bed, and put both of her arms around his right arm. Hugging it tight against her body. The angle of her upper torso forced her legs apart, the hem of her black dress rising up over the smooth curves of her thighs. He saw Jerky staring at her honey-gold legs, like a deer frozen in headlights. Thorne reached his hand across into his line of vision and snapped his fingers. The man blinked and shook his head as he walked off.

  “Lauren,” he said softly. “Your dress is a little high.”

  She mumbled a reply, but he didn’t catch it.

  “What was that?”

  Lauren lifted her head out of his neck, which was already hot from her breath. Her face was crumpled like she’d slept on it in a funny position and her eyes were bloodshot.

  “I said, since when were my legs a problem for you?”

  He winced. Her voice this time was loud enough for those filing into the row behind to hear. Thorne glanced up and saw a woman in her 70s with her mouth open in a big O. He kept his voice low, hoping to draw down the energy of her response.

  “Never, Lauren. But this is hardly the time or the place. Agreed?”

  Her face twisted.

  “Leave me alone. I don’t care anymore.”

  Her head went back into the crook of his neck and he heard her crying. Thorne stared stoically forward at the front of the chapel. The place was filling up fast. As with the senator’s birthday party, there were a lot of old people present. Late eighties, early nineties. Hardly worth their time going home, he thought. After a moment, Lauren’s hand drifted to the hem of her dress, tugging it down.

  The arrival of the FBI was bad news and he couldn’t help thinking it was time for him to leave Santa Cruz before Blake pulled him into a hole he couldn’t get out of. And yet. His mind clicked back into the rut he’d found himself in since he got here. Blake held all the cards. He had Kate, he could just as easily take Lauren, and if Blake was arrested, he’d give him up to the cops in a plea-bargain. The painting was gone and the chances were pretty good that Blake wouldn’t believe him if he said it was out of reach. No, he thought. It was essential that Blake didn’t find out about the loss of the painting, it was his only leverage.

  As he waited for the service to begin, he continued to be preoccupied by the painting, which he realized had ended up costing Ashcroft his life. Owning anything above a certain value put a target on your back, that was the truth. You could protect valuable items with sensors and bullet-proof glass, but could you protect yourself? At some point, every
one had to leave their homes and venture out in public. The rich were the physical representation of everything they owned back home and everything they had in the bank. Kidnapping was routine in Latin America and Southeast Asia, and it was coming to the USA. These days, you could get jacked for the watch on your wrist, the cell phone in your pocket, or the sneakers on your feet. Nobody was safe, not even the rich.

  Somewhere, bagpipes played and they all stood.

  He recalled a conversation with the senator, made over drinks, about some distant relative being Scottish. Thorne suspected that if Ashcroft had liked Sake instead of Scotch, he would’ve told everyone he was Japanese. Nevertheless, he stared down at a spot on the floor ten feet in front of him. Bagpipes made him think only of death or defeat and reminded him of other funerals he’d attended by people who also considered themselves of either Scots or Irish descent.

  Ashcroft was carried past by four men, his coffin wrapped in the stars and stripes. The men lowered the coffin onto a stand at the front, paused for a second, then retreated off to the side. The mourners all sat back down and Jerky began to speak. His voice was old and dusty like the inside of a drawer in some museum, and about as interesting. Thorne tuned it out.

  Nobody ever said that the strong silent type had to listen.

  Thorne pondered the fate of the missing picture.

  He’d hid it inside Blake’s van, which had then been taken away by the Sheriff’s Office. Thorne was certain they hadn’t found it, however, as Cabot would certainly have used it as evidence against him. The painting spoke to motive and tied him to the gang and their activities. He’d put the painting, together with the Glock Blake used to fire the fatal shot, behind the panel of the van’s sliding door. They had probably stripped the van bare by now, but they’d probably done so with the side door open, hiding the space from view.

  Around him, people began to sing.

  His day was getting worse by the second.

  FORTY-NINE

  Cabot was in a foul mood as he followed the other cars back to the Ashcroft mansion. Lauren's behavior at the graveside made his blood boil. At times he felt like he'd been watching two teenagers on a first date. Holding hands. Hugging. Her cheek, wet with tears, pressed against his. Her chicken wing arms fluttering against his back as they lowered her husband into the soil. Cabot gripped the cruiser's steering wheel tight. Thorne. The man was the Devil. He had everybody fooled. But not him. He was immune to the charm. As far as he was concerned, charm was just another form of bullshit. Facts, that's what he believed in, and the facts in this case didn't add up. Somehow, the man was involved in both the kidnapping and the fatal shooting of Ashcroft. It was the only thing that made sense and he was more determined than ever to prove it.

  Next to him, Barnes stirred.

  “You think he's banging her, boss?”

  Cabot sighed. “Certainly looks that way.”

  “Wouldn't mind hitting that myself. She has an ass like a peach.”

  “Jesus, Barnes! She was my friend's wife.”

  The deputy nodded, a smile still on his face.

  “You suppose the relationship started before or after he was dead?”

  It was a good question, and one Cabot hadn't thought to consider. He couldn't believe it. His anger and petty jealousy had prevented him from seeing what was, potentially, right in front of him. Could it really be so simple? He glanced at Barnes.

  “Say they were having an affair before, what changes?”

  Barnes shrugged. “Not much. It gives Thorne motive but we already cleared him.”

  “I’m not sure we did.”

  “Oh man! I can't hear this again. It's not Thorne.”

  Cabot gritted his teeth. Why was he the only one that saw it? They already knew he was a killer, why was the idea that he could kill one more person too much for anyone to believe?

  “So you're saying it gets us nothing?”

  “Not unless she shot the old man,” Barnes said. “A relationship gives her motive too. Lauren Ashcroft was never tested for gunshot residue, never asked for an alibi. If you think about it, her motive is far greater than his. I mean, dollars to doughnuts the senator had a prenup limiting how much money she'd get in the event of a divorce. Perhaps nothing at all if she was unfaithful. Now, with him dead, she inherits everything. Hundreds of millions, that's how much that little cupcake’s worth now.”

  Cabot's head was about to explode.

  “That's ridiculous! Lauren couldn't hold a Big Mac in those arms without it shaking, never mind fire a 9mm automatic.”

  “My point is you never checked her out. It's reasonable doubt. If you ever got Thorne to trial, his defense would be there was a more obvious suspect that was never investigated. His lawyer would use your friendship with the Ashcrofts against you and say you were too close. A conflict of interest. The case would be thrown out.”

  Barnes might be right about that. He could see angles lawyers might use because that's how they trained cops now. Barnes was part of the new breed; aggressive, educated, and career-focused. Cabot was a dinosaur and he knew it. A top lawyer would tear him apart in minutes. Portray him as a pathetic old fool who'd fallen in love with the victim's wife, like a detective in a movie. He’d be discredited, the punchline to a thousand jokes in bars across America. Was it really possible that his single-minded pursuit of Thorne could be the very thing that would get the actor off the hook? Even imagining it was too much for him.

  The law is a goddamned ass, he thought.

  When he spoke again there was genuine sadness in his voice.

  “Sounds like you don't think we'll ever catch his killer.”

  “I know you don't want to hear this, but James Ashcroft was not universally liked. His views on gun control were well known and a lot of folks take their Second Amendment rights seriously. The potential suspect pool in this case is huge and our chances of catching someone remote. Everyone that hated him had both the means and motive to kill him.”

  Cabot had heard variations of this idea articulated several times by different people in his department during the investigation and it frustrated him to hear it again from Barnes. He'd thought the detective was smarter than this, believing in what he saw as the crime version of Santa Claus, but apparently not.

  “I guess it's possible, but I don't buy it. What you're saying is that the shoot-out at the mall was nothing more than a coincidence. I don't believe in coincidence, never have. The two events are linked and that link is Thorne. He was at both locations and is in this up to his neck. Either he fired the shot, or he knows who did and I aim to find out which it is.”

  The traffic had ground to a halt and was now advancing in slow, regular chunks. It was obvious why; the front of the line had hit the turn into Ashcroft's property and the cars were being stopped at a security cordon. Cabot wondered if there would be room for all the people. Not a problem they'd have when he died, he supposed.

  “Let me ask you something,” Barnes said. “If you'd just killed someone and gotten away with it, would you then go to that person's funeral and hug the victim's widow in front of hundreds of people?”

  “No.”

  “So why would Thorne?”

  “Because this is a game to him. It amuses him.”

  Barnes sighed and shook his head.

  “Well, one thing's for damn sure, the press were eating it up. Every time they touched each other I could hear their cameras going crazy. The two of them dry-humping will be all over the news and it will go viral online. There's probably a hashtag for it already.”

  Cabot swore. He'd managed to forget all about the press. Those cockroaches would dine on this for another week. The senator would be lucky to get mentioned at his own funeral. Thorne had given them exactly what they wanted, whether he knew it or not.

  They were almost at the Ashcroft property now. He saw two CHP officers standing guard at the gates. They were stopping each car and speaking to the drivers. Identification. One held a clipboard, the other a
Remington 870 pump-action shotgun. As he approached them, he rolled down his window but was waved straight through without a word. He drove the cruiser down Ashcroft's driveway toward the mansion. Parked cars lined the road and more still were parked up on an area of grass in front of the building. A trooper waved him into a space there and he killed the engine. Before he could open his door, a long black sedan pulled in next to them and two men with brush cuts and earpieces emerged. One of them stared at him through the glass and showed him the palm of his hand, telling him to remain where he was while a woman in her 70s was helped out the rear of the car.

  “Who's she?” Barnes asked.

  “Gillian Braxton. California's other senator.”

  “I didn't know senators got protection.”

  “Yeah,” Cabot said. “Me neither. Folks in DC must be getting twitchy.”

  “Unless I'm mistaken, we're in for a real treat.”

  Cabot turned to the detective. “We won't be here long.”

  “Why are we here exactly?”

  “To pay our respects.”

  Barnes looked at him knowingly. “Right.”

  Inside the mansion it was standing room only. The great and the good were all there, Ashcroft's friends and enemies alike. Guests had been screened coming in, so the only security inside the building were Braxton’s Secret Service drones. As far as Cabot was concerned, it was as close to perfect as he could've hoped.

  “Hey, kid, stay here will ya? I got to hit the head and cut some cable.”

  “I did not need to know that,” Barnes said, his face screwed up in disgust.

  Cabot moved through the crowd toward the back of the room. Nobody paid him any attention, they knew who he was and didn't care. To them, he was little more than a worm. He'd probably known the senator the longest of anyone there, but he hadn't been part of the inner circle for a long time. If he was honest with himself, he'd kept the friendship going long after it had faded to nothing. His faux pas with Lauren had been the last straw, but their relationship had become increasingly formal before that night. In a perverse way, Ashcroft needed him more now he was dead than he ever did when he was alive. He'd come through for Jimmy one last time, he thought, when his killer was dead or in handcuffs.