Night Passenger

by David Stanley

  At the back of the room a staircase rose up on one side, and a corridor lead off on the other. He took the corridor. He was alone now, everyone was there to see the golden couple, not roam the building. It’d been a long time since he had last been this way, but he knew where he was going. The mansion had half a dozen bedrooms, but only two were on the first floor. One of those rooms would give him what he wanted, he was certain of it. The corridor made a sharp right and Cabot saw the first of the two doors. It wasn't fully closed, a thin wedge of light shone around the edge. He raised his hand so his fingertips touched the surface of the wood, took a deep breath and pushed. The door swung open.

  In front of him was Thorne's wheelchair.

  Bingo.

  He glanced up and down the corridor, then stepped inside.

  The room was small compared to other parts of the building, but that hadn’t stopped the Ashcrofts from installing a huge bed. It had to be at least a king-size and it fitted the room like a tongue fits a mouth. To the right of the bed, a pale wooden dresser was pressed against the wall, while on the left was a nightstand. Cabot took the left side as it offered his ample frame the most space. He sat on the edge of the bed near the pillows, facing the wall. He breathed slowly with his hands on his knees, imagining he was Thorne. Did the actor lose sleep over the men he’d killed, or was it all just a half-remembered dream? Sitting on the bed made him realize how tired he was and how easily he could fall asleep if he lay down. He looked at the carpet between his feet. It was so thick he could feel it pushing against the thin leather soles of his formal shoes. He leaned forward and ran his fingers through it like a child, fascinated by the thickness of the pile.

  He noticed two parallel marks in the carpet, the silvery kind of fibers brushed the wrong way. Drag marks. They extended down the side of the bed and stopped within three feet of the wheelchair. Cabot turned his head away as soon as he realized what they meant, but he started to feel doubt creep into his thoughts anyway. Plans went wrong for everyone, he told himself. Even bad people. Just because Thorne had been injured didn’t mean he wasn’t involved, or that he deserved special treatment. Cabot reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of blue nitrile gloves. The color made it easier to see particulate evidence against the material than the traditional white latex gloves, and they were also a damn sight more comfortable to wear.

  He directed his attention to the nightstand.

  It was a simple shaker-style unit, the kind that looked like the top drawer was missing. A metal lamp sat on top, its angular shade aimed at a glass of water and a two inch high plastic bottle with a child-proof lid. He picked up the bottle and read the label. OxyContin. Cabot shook the container; not too many left. He considered stealing the painkillers to mess with Thorne, but couldn't do it. There were some lines he wouldn’t cross, no matter how much he was provoked. He put the pills back and picked up a thin novel that lay on the shelf underneath. Its spine was heavily creased and, judging by the cover, it looked like it had been folded in half lengthwise to fit in a pocket. The High Window by Raymond Chandler. He had no time for fiction, why spend hours of your life reading a bunch of lies? Did people really have nothing better to do? He flipped through the pages, hoping some piece of evidence might fall out, but there was nothing inside; not even a fold of paper to mark a page. For all he knew, it wasn’t even Thorne’s book. He put it back and pulled open the drawer underneath. Four white cartons lay inside, next to a wad of scrunched-up foil packets. Fentanyl patches. Cabot sighed as he flashed back to his wife’s final days. The drug was 100 times stronger than morphine, and she’d needed it all. She’d lurched from one patch to the next like a junkie, her eyes coming alive only when a fresh patch was opened.

  Since the shoot-out at the mall, he’d allowed himself to think of Thorne’s injuries as superficial, and the initial use of the wheelchair as no more than a legal requirement by a hospital keen to prevent litigation. But the evidence within the room did not support this. Instead, it pointed to the actor being far more seriously wounded than he let on. There were many reasons why a person might do this, and perhaps what he’d taken for guilt was in fact something more honest. Pride.

  The last drawer held a light pink sheer material that had been folded up. He could see thin straps on top, he ran his finger underneath them, they felt weightless. A nightdress. Lauren had slept here. He lifted the nightdress, still folded, up to his face and breathed it in. Laundry detergent. Lauren had slept in this room at some time, but not recently. She’d given it up for Thorne, and had forgotten to move the dress. He was about to put it back when he noticed there was something else in the drawer, it lay diagonally across the bottom and filled it from corner to corner. A hunting knife. Cabot smiled, this was more like it. He lay the nightdress on his knees and picked up the knife and pulled it out of its nylon sheath. It was heavy and felt good in his hands, even with the gloves on. Perhaps because of it. The knife handle looked new, but already there were scuff marks along the blade as if it had been scrubbed with steel wool.

  Reluctantly, he put it all back.

  The knife meant nothing. Thorne had obviously picked it up for protection. It wasn’t illegal, and he couldn’t say that he’d do otherwise in the same position. Thorne would want a gun too, but given their beliefs, the Ashcrofts might have prevented him bringing a gun into their house. Would that change now, with Jimmy dead? He drummed his gloved fingertips on his legs. Thorne was arming himself. What implications did this have for the case? Perhaps the gunshot that hit Ashcroft was meant for the actor, just like he claimed. He stood and walked back toward the door.

  Opposite the bed was a small dressing table with a tilting oval mirror. At least, there’d been a mirror there at some point, now there were only broken shards left hanging in the frame. Some of the broken glass still lay on top of the table, the silvered backing made it sparkle like diamonds. In the center of the frame was a large dent. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what had happened; Thorne had punched the mirror and destroyed it. Something had upset him, but what?

  There were two drawers on the right hand side of the desk. He pulled out the top drawer. Medical tape, fresh dressings, scissors, iodine, and a styptic pencil. He tried the bottom drawer. A slim leather wallet, car keys, a basic cell phone, and a laptop computer. He flipped open the wallet, knowing what he'd find inside. It was the fake FBI ID from his TV show. Special Agent Jake Vasco. A younger Christopher Thorne stared impassively up at him. He was a little more chiseled, a little more hopeful. Cabot tossed the wallet back in the drawer. There wasn't going to be anything here, he could see that now. It'd been a long shot at best that Thorne might hang on to something incriminating but people did it all the time, they couldn't help themselves. They kept things to help them remember what they'd done, even if what they'd done was monstrous. Everything here was new, or else he'd seen it before at the hospital. What he needed was something that predated the attack at the shopping mall, something that would shake Thorne's shaggy dog story apart. Then he smiled. He knew where to look.

  He knew exactly where to look.

  FIFTY

  When Cabot and Barnes emerged from the mansion, it was to enter a bewildering scene. Cars had continued to park long after they arrived and every possible space had been filled. It explained the crush of people inside, which seemed to have almost doubled since they arrived. He set off for the cruiser at a fast clip, weaving between bumpers of other vehicles. After the first batch of cars had parked, a more random and panicked approach had set in as mourners kept on coming. He realized they might be blocked in and unable to leave, a process that could take hours to resolve. Two helicopters hovered overhead. The news channels couldn’t get enough of Thorne. At this rate, they’d be giving the actor Ashcroft’s spot on the presidential nomination.

  Barnes trailed behind, clearly angry.

  “You want to tell me what the fuck happened back there?”

  Cabot sighed. He’d sensed this coming for the last forty minut
es, the question had burned within the detective as they stood in line to pay their respects to Lauren. Cabot reached the cruiser and stood next to the driver’s door waiting for Barnes to catch up. He didn’t much like the younger man’s tone, or where the conversation seemed to be headed, and he hoped to get it out the way before they got inside the vehicle.

  “If you have something to say, just say it.”

  “I’m not your partner, but you need to keep me in the loop with what you’re doing so we can back each other up. This isn’t a Laurel and Hardy sketch, we have to be professional.”

  Cabot put both hands on the roof of the car.

  “Am I Hardy in this scenario? I’m a fat clown, is that what you’re saying?”

  “What? No! I meant-”

  “Listen, Barnes. I don’t have to explain myself to you. I go where the evidence takes me, wherever that is, whatever it takes. If you’re bored with this case I can put Summersby on it, maybe he’ll have some fresh ideas.”

  Barnes rocked back on his heels like he’d been punched.

  “I know you have a personal stake in this, but this is my ass too. You do some cowboy stunt it’s going to look like I’m in on it even if I know nothing. It could destroy my career. The best chance of closing this case is by working together, not with me on the outside.”

  Cabot withdrew his hands from the car’s roof and stepped back, his eyes still fixed on the detective. Barnes was a pushy little shit, but he was a better cop than he’d ever be and he found it useful to bounce ideas off him.

  “All right. But you better not screw me over.”

  “I want the same as you.”

  “Nothing comes from nothing, Barnes. Remember that.”

  The inside of the car was a furnace and heat from the seats immediately soaked through his cheap polyester suit pants and began to cook his legs. Cabot squirmed uncomfortably and punched up the AC, only to have the cabin fill with a smell like old sneakers. He’d have to get something done about that, but he never seemed to remember. He eased the car out, the steering wheel over at hard lock, and drove as close as possible to a Lexus in front of him. It took three cuts to get out the space and a minute more to navigate the maze of automobiles parked on Ashcroft’s lawn and drive. A Highway Patrol Interceptor blocked the entrance and he was forced to stop and wait for it to be moved.

  Barnes turned to him, a smile already on his face.

  “There’s a rumor going around that Summersby was rejected by L.A. County Sanitation for a Dead Animal Collection job before he joined the department. That true?”

  Cabot laughed. It was perfect, he could totally picture it.

  “I hadn’t heard that, but it’s believable. He’s such a lazy asshole. As near as I can tell, he’s trying to solve that hit-and-run case without leaving his desk.”

  “I know it.”

  In front of them, the state SUV rolled forward and Cabot lifted his hand off the wheel in thanks before pulling out onto the blacktop, and back toward town. His mood had improved dramatically. He’d noticed in the past that Mason Barnes had a way of calming him, effortlessly winning him around whenever they’d disagreed. A joke, an observation; the kid sure had his moments and he seemed to be able to call them up at will. It made him easier to tolerate than other detectives, but it also hinted at emerging political skills that could cause him problems in the future. He glanced over and saw Barnes, still smiling, take his cell phone out his pants pocket and start typing onto the screen. The clock on the dash told him it was after six. He thought about what he planned to do, then about the conversation they’d just had and decided this might be a good test.

  “I gotta make a quick stop on the way back, you mind?”

  “Go for it,” Barnes said without lifting his head.

  “Only take a couple of minutes.”

  The road had few other vehicles on it, but he drove well down on the speed limit anyway. It relaxed him, knowing the safe speeds all the different corners could take, preferring to slow naturally where he could and only braking where he had to. It was how his father had driven, and he was starting to get the same way. It took him about half an hour to reach the edge of town and another ten before he got to the mall and he didn’t think Barnes had looked up more than twice from his cell phone in all that time. He pulled into the parking lot and stopped within ten feet of the blood-red Toyota Camry that filled his dreams. The sudden stop made Barnes’ head snap up, a frown instantly forming on his face.

  “What are we doing here? Whose car is this?”

  “It's Thorne's rental.”

  Barnes sighed. “Of course it is.”

  “My gut tells me he's jerking us around.”

  “That much, I already knew.”

  Cabot pulled the blue nitrile gloves out of his pants pocket and removed them from the bag he used to carry them. The bag prevented the gloves from picking up dust and fiber contamination from inside his pocket, and from becoming damaged and worn. He felt Barnes watching him, judging him. Taking evidence gloves to the a funeral of a friend. It was wrong, no question, but you couldn’t pick and choose when you were a cop. He pulled the gloves on and opened the door. As he approached the vehicle, he noticed the rear windows were partially misted on the inside. Leaning forward, he cupped his hands on either side of his head to mask out reflections. It looked like garbage had been tipped onto the back seat. Cabot took the keys he’d borrowed from Thorne’s drawer, blipped the remote and opened the rear door. He immediately took a step back, as if to let someone out.

  “Shit, that's ripe,” he said.

  After a ten-count he ducked back in through the door. He took a pen from his jacket pocket and used it to move items around.

  “Let's see,” he said. “Beer cans, coffee cups and fast food.”

  “You don't think…”

  Cabot froze. “What?”

  “You don't think Thorne's a cop do you?”

  “That's not funny, Barnes.”

  “Sure it is. I'm always hilarious when I'm party to illegal searches.”

  “If you're afraid to get your hands dirty to solve a case, you’re more than welcome to go wait in the car like a little pussy. I promise not to plant any evidence in your absence.”

  “You're a disgrace to the uniform, sir, but I'm not going anywhere.”

  Cabot smiled. “Glad to hear it.”

  He returned to his search, his hand moving about on the floor. As Barnes said, it was an illegal search and if he did find something, using it in court would be impossible. He'd have to orchestrate a reason to have Thorne's car searched officially and rediscover the evidence. At present, no such justification existed and finding some might not be easy. The situation was messy at best and relied heavily on Barnes playing ball, something that was not a given. One of the things he disliked most about the detective was his boy scout attitude in relation to following the letter of the law. In time, Barnes would learn how fruitless that attitude was, but for now it stood to get in the way of his investigation.

  “I think we have a winner on the dead body smell,” he said, holding up a bag. “Burritos, half-eaten. What kind of person leaves half-eaten burritos in the back of a hot car?”

  “The kind that leaves in a hurry to save the lives of two strangers?”

  Cabot eyeballed him from inside the car.

  “You've got a real hard on for this guy, don't you Barnes?”

  “The question is, why don't you? He's a hero.”

  “We'll see about that.”

  He picked up a thick woolen blanket that was stuffed under the front passenger seat. They were sold locally in one of the stores, he recognized the pattern. He unfolded it carefully at arm's length to prevent contamination. Nothing fell out and there were no blood stains, it was just a blanket. Cabot dropped it on the floor without re-folding it. There was nothing significant in the car at all. He wasn't sure what he'd expected to find, but it was hard not to be disappointed. Thorne had flown up from Los Angeles, hired a car and then sp
ent three days eating takeout and a mixture of beer and coffee. It didn't sound like a vacation to him, but what was it? He reversed out the door and stood there, staring at the mess.

  “What does all this look like to you, Barnes? First impression.”

  “Like he spent a lot of time in his car. Maybe even slept in it.”

  Cabot nodded. “Right. Which would explain why we found no evidence of him booked into any accommodation, he spent the whole time in the car. Why?”

  “Maybe he was moving about and wasn't too bothered about where he slept. A road trip. He used to be a Marine, could be he got used to sleeping in tight spots. He told us he and his girlfriend had broken up, that he just wanted time to himself.”

  Cabot tilted his head from one side to the other. It cracked. He'd been in the car for two minutes and it had given him a crick in his neck.

  “What height would you say Thorne is?”

  Barnes thought for a moment. “Six three? Six four?”

  “I don't think anyone that tall can sleep in a car and not be bothered about it.”

  “Okay, maybe not. What does that prove?”

  “Not much,” Cabot admitted.

  He slammed the rear door, his mood souring again.

  All he had on Thorne so far was borderline vagrancy and some open container violations, hardly the smoking gun he wanted. If he hoped to nail the actor for anything it would need to be good. The public loved their new hero, and if today's performance was anything to go by, so did Lauren Ashcroft. If it came to it, he knew she'd protect Thorne with the best criminal defense lawyers her money could buy, she'd figure she owed him.