Victor Methos

The White Angel Murder

I hate mankind, for I think myself one

of the best of them, and I know how bad I am

— Joseph Baretti

I also gave them over to statutes

that were not good and laws

they could not live by;

I let them become defiled through their gifts ….

that I might fill them with horror

— Ezekiel, 20: 25

San Diego, California. Two years ago

The coppery stink of blood hung in the air like a strong perfume.

Jonathan Stanton felt the coolness of the linoleum in the kitchen against his back as his nostrils filled with the scent. His vision was blurry and only faint echoes rang in his ears but he knew there was no one near. He felt the calmness of the house now; the quiet. The gun was heavy against his hand but he didn’t feel he had the strength to lift it.

He glanced down and saw the dark black blood pouring out of him and onto the floor, spreading into a wide circle around him. He felt the dampness of his shirt as it clung to his ribs and the trickle of urine down his thighs as he lost control of his bladder. His vision was clouded past a couple of feet and he didn’t know what, or who, was there, but there was no movement. His head collapsed back and his eyes began to close.

Stay alive. Stay alive. Sleep is death.

But all he wanted to do was sleep. It would be a simple thing to do; like falling onto silken sheets and wrapping them around himself. The softness would kiss his skin and then, there would nothing. It would be so easy to do.

His eyelids grew too heavy to keep open, and darkness enveloped him.

A crash and then cold over his chest. His lids opened but his eyes had rolled back into his head and they began to twitch and flutter.

“He’s conscious!”

He felt lightness, a floating sensation, as if he began to hover and he thought of his mother. His sweet mother with the soft hands that smelled like lavender. She had passed too soon from breast cancer and he had watched her soft smile as it withered away in the hospital bed with the clean white sheets. She held his hand as much as possible those last few days and they would watch reruns of shows on television. He would tell her about his day and the mundane things that happened.

It’s trivial stuff, Ma.

No, she would reply. Nothing’s trivial, Sweetheart. You have to love all of it.

The next day, she couldn’t speak. And the day after that, her soul was lifted from her body like fog over a still river at sunrise.

“Wake up, Jon. Jon! Stay with me. Jon!”

A rushing gasp of warm air. He saw the sparkle of stars as the stretcher rattled to the ambulance out of the old house. The twirling blues and reds of the police cruisers caught his eye as he vomited blood and it spewed out of his nose.

“He’s bleeding out! I need an IV now. What’s his blood type?”

“No time. Grab a Type O bag and get it going. We’re losing him.”

1

It had been four days since anyone had seen Tami Jacobs.

She worked the night shift as a server in a small barbeque restaurant just outside La Jolla. Tim Piggeneli, the owner, had been calling her cell phone and leaving messages and after two days it went straight to voicemail.

The apartment complex she lived in was known to house young men and women who had come to Southern California in search of the type of life they had read about in books or seen in movies. The type of life that had died out with the older generation being supplanted with a new generation, marked more by apathy than a love for the ocean. Tim assumed she had enough money to live for awhile and would surf and get stoned and have sex with the beach-bums that were ever-present. In a few months, she would come begging for her job when nearly broke. It occurred often and he usually accepted the kids back. He had been in the same position when he moved here almost thirty years ago and wished desperately that someone had given him a helping hand when he needed it.

Tim sat in his office at the back of the restaurant. It was a small space and cluttered with papers and empty boxes; the room was too small for the bookshelf against the wall filled with culinary books and the guitar and amp stacked in the corner. He picked up the phone and called Tami’s boyfriend who also worked at the restaurant and asked if he could make sure she was okay.

Two hours later Jimmy Arnold pulled into a parking space at her apartment complex. He had been dating Tami off and on for over a year and wondered what it was that he had done to make her not answer his calls. They had a domestic violence incident three months ago, but that was old news. The District Attorney’s Office had dropped the case when Tami refused to cooperate. It was a minor scuffle, Jimmy decided. And one that had no business getting the law involved.

He tried her cell phone again.

This is Tami, you know what to do.

He went up to her apartment and knocked. He pounded on the door with his fist and shouted into the peephole. He waited patiently another ten minutes and then made his way downstairs.

The leasing office was in the first apartment and he smoked a cigarette next to his car before walking there. There was a pool in front of the building but it was empty, garbage and old toys strewn in the deep end. Weeds had overtaken the small gardens and an old tricycle sat on the grass, the red and white paint fading and chipped.

He knocked and a man with a massive belly hanging over his belt answered the door. He was in shorts and a t-shirt and his feet were sandaled.

“Hi, I’m Tami’s boyfriend, in 2-F. She’s not answering her door. You mind openin’ it for me?”

“Can’t do it.”

The man went to shut his door and Jimmy put his foot between the door and the frame. “Hey man, I just wanna make sure my girl’s all right. She might’a passed out or somethin’.”

“Sorry. Now take yer foot out.”

“She smokes, man. If somethin’s lit up there could burn this place down. Come up with me. If she ain’t in we’ll leave. Or can you at least call an ambulance or somethin’ so they can check up on her?”

The man thought and then said, “Wait here.”

A moment later he came back out wearing sweats and they headed to the second floor. He opened Tami’s door with a master key and called out her name. There was no answer and they stepped inside.

The apartment was warm and all the windows were closed. It smelled stale, like dust, and Jimmy saw half a sandwich on the coffee table.

The manager attempted to say something but Jimmy walked down the hallway and looked into the bathroom. Her hairdryer was out and a photo of him and his black lab were taped to the mirror.

He stepped into the hallway and saw that her bedroom door was shut.

“Hey, she ain’t here,” the manager said. “Let’s go.”

Jimmy ignored him and walked to the bedroom, opening the door. The manager walked over and looked in. He stood frozen awhile, and then ran to the bathroom and vomited.

2

Police Chief Michael R. Harlow sat in the patio chair and lifted the glass of orange juice to his lips. The balcony of the small apartment overlooked Ocean Beach Park and he listened quietly to the waves lap the shore.

It was early in the morning and the only people out were joggers and dog-walkers. The sun was a golden orb coming over the ocean and he slipped on his sunglasses so he could watch its rays reflect off the water.

“It’s small,” he said, “but the view makes up for it.” Stanton sat down in the chair next to him, but didn’t respond. “Can I ask you something, Jonathan? You left Homicide for your family and now your family’s gone. Why didn’t you ever call me?”

“I don’t know,” Stanton said. “Just never seemed right.”

“You could’ve pushed papers behind a desk. You didn’t have to quit.”

“Melissa wouldn’t have gone for that. She knew what it was like, the not having me around.”

Harlow nodded. “How is she anyway?”

“The divorce gets finalized next month. There’s a waiting period. She’s going to get married as soon as it goes through.”

“I know. I got an invitation to the wedding.” He shook his head and chuckled. “The balls on her.”

Stanton leaned back and stretched out his legs. The sunlight warmed his bare calves. “What is it you want, Mike? I know you’re not here to hang out.”

It was too quick, Harlow thought. He wanted to save the meat of the conversation for when Stanton was relaxed and comfortable. He wished like hell Melissa was still around.

“We’re starting a new division. Cold Case Homicide.”

“I read about it in the Union-Trib. They had photos. I didn’t think I’d ever see you shaking hands with a Fed.”

“You gotta cut deals in this day and age if you want to get things done. It’s not like it was when you and I were coming up. Everybody’s into this collaborative bullshit. Drug Enforcement, the DA’s Office, hell even the Navy’s got a piece of this thing. But believe it or not it’s actually looking good. We got a nationwide database that searches prints, DNA, facial recognition … the Fed’s let us use their labs in Virginia … it’s not all bad.”

“Sounds like you got everything you need.”

“No, not everything.” He finished the rest of his juice and set the glass down. “I’d like you there, Jonathan. I need you there. The senior guys don’t want it and the greens can’t do it. I need someone with experience. That’s you.”

Stanton looked down to the scar on his chest, just under the collarbone. His former partner, Noah Sherman, had put slugs into him two years prior.

“Yeah, I’ve got experience.”

“What happened with Noah,” Harlow said as calmly as possible, “was unavoidable. It was like lightening or a shark attack. No one could see it coming.”

“He ate Sunday dinners at my house every week. Did I ever tell you that?”

“No,” Harlow said, looking out over the water.

“The newspapers were right. If anybody should’ve seen it, it was me.”

“Fuck the papers. They’re bottom feeders. Your worst days are their good days. They live off misery. Nobody cares about them.”

Harlow felt the blood hot in his face. He could still see the headline of the Trib:

KILLER EMPLOYED WITH SAN DIEGO PD FOR TWELVE YEARS.

“I heard you’re teaching at a community college. Is that really where you want to be?”

“I like teaching,” Stanton said.

“You can make a difference here. The division’s brand new. No ground rules yet. You could help set those. Bring closure to families.”

“What’s the criteria to screen a case?”

“Has to have no active leads and be older than one year. A lot of it will be drug killings, deals gone bad, bank robberies, things like that. But some of it will be different. Some of it will be the real sick ones. Jon, you and I both know that if the case is open, he’s still out there. He’s still looking and he’s still watching and he may not even know he’s killing them himself, much less anyone around him. Not until he screws up. I need someone like you for those.”

Stanton stared out in the distance. He’s much darker, Harlow thought. Darker and with sun bleached hair. He’s taken up surfing again.

“I wouldn’t ask this from you if I had any other options. Lord knows you have every reason to say no and to tell me to shove it. But this isn’t about me.”

“You’ve got everyone you need. I don’t think I could bring anything to the table.”

“That’s not true.” Harlow saw a young lady in skimpy shorts run by and he watched her a moment. “You got something, Jon. Whatever it is it helps.”

“Didn’t help me with Noah.”

Harlow leaned forward, taking a long while before speaking again. “Do you remember the Tapia case? The pedophile?”

“Yeah.”

“You got him quick; what was it like three days? After you left the force he was interviewed for an unrelated case. Insurance fraud or something. He said he had planned another victim that day. Had him picked out and everything. He was going to pick him up at his school early with a fake badge and uniform. The same day, Jon. You stopped that. You can make a difference in people’s lives. I know that’s why you became a cop. That’s all I’m saying.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Harlow rose, pushing his sunglasses to his forehead. “Call me. The unit gets up and running Monday morning.”

Harlow pulled his Mercedes out of the parking stall and turned onto Grand Avenue. There was a billboard near the stoplight of a young girl in cutoffs and a see-through shirt. Her thumb was tucked into her waistband and she was pulling her shorts down, revealing her hips and lower stomach. The ad was for vodka.

He dialed a number on his phone.

“Hey, Chief.”

“He’s going to be joining, Tommy. Make sure everybody’s on their best behavior. Any jokes or comments about Sherman or what happened and it’s your ass.”

“I understand. How’d you get him to come back?”

“Don’t worry about that.”

“Does he know what we’re doing?”

“I don’t think he would come if he did.”

3

Harlow sat at the large circular desk he’d had custom designed by a young sculptor making a name for himself in the San Diego art scene. Calls had been placed to the papers and a few blogs the day he bought it, every story emphasizing the fact that he had paid for the desk himself. The photo in the Trib had the sculptor sitting at the desk with Harlow sitting on the edge, in the foreground.

The desk was clear except for a computer, a legal pad, and a box of files. The box had been pushed to the edge of the desk, as far away from him as possible. A large white label was across the top with the name TAMI CRYSTAL JACOBS written in red permanent marker.

His phone buzzed.

“Yes?”

“Chief, Melissa Stanton here to see you.”

There was a pause before he said, “Send her in.”

His office door opened and a woman came and sat across from him. She wore tight spandex capris and a Gold’s Gym tank-top. He rose and shut the door before sitting back down.

“I’d heard you were a personal trainer now. How’s that going?” he said.

“Make more money than I ever did in a uniform.”

“I bet. How you been, Melissa?”

“I’m good. Not great, but good.”

“I got your wedding invitation.”

“Are you going to come?”

“No,” Harlow said, leaning back in his chair.

“The mayor’s going to be there. So is the Lieutenant Governor. My fiancé is in the legislature.”

Melissa saw the struggle in Harlow’s face as he realized why he had recognized the name on the invitation.

“Don’t worry, Mike. If you decide to show up I won’t think less of you.”

“Well, maybe. You know, for appearances sake.”

“Sure.”

“So,” he said, crossing his legs, “what can I do for you?”

“Jonathan called me. He said you offered him a job yesterday.”

“And?”

“And he intends to take it. Why can’t you stay the hell away from him, Mike? You don’t need him.”

“I do need him. We’re starting a new unit. I’ve got good cops here, don’t get me wrong, but they don’t have that one thing. That ability to get into the heads of these sonsabitches.”

“You nearly got him killed last time.”

A vein flared in Harlow’s neck but his face remained passive.

“I did everything I could to protect him,” he said. “Before and after.”

“Oh please. You had a fucking psychopath as one of your detectives and in all those years you never saw it? How many brutality complaints did he have? Thirty? Forty? Jonathan only rode with him for a year, it was your responsibility.”

She calmed herself and looked out the window. She could see a tree swaying slightly in the breeze.

“He talked to me about him once,” she said. “He thought something was really off about Noah and he didn’t trust him anymore. That’s why Noah shot him. He knew something wasn’t right. Jonathan put it together.”

Harlow put his elbows on the desk and made a dismissive motion with his hands. “The past is the past. What do you want from me?”

“I want you to be honest with him. You don’t give a shit about giving closure to those families. This unit is for you to erase some black marks in your career for when you throw your hat in the ring for commissioner. You’re using him.”

“Nobody put a gun to his head,” he said louder than he would’ve liked. “And what do you care? You left him when he was dying in the hospital.”

“That’s not true and you know it.”

“So it didn’t get finalized until two years later. So what? You as good as left him in that hospital bed. You think he doesn’t talk to me?”

There was a knock at the door and Tommy poked his head in.

“Chief, got somebody here from Channel 4 wants to talk to you about the Cold Case Unit.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Melissa rose and began to walk toward the door. “If you hurt him again, I’ll make sure you’re held for it this time. I swear it.”

As she walked out Harlow stood and straightened his tie. He checked his underarms for pit stains and made sure his hair looked good in the mirror he kept in a drawer in his desk. He then walked out to the front of the station to meet the television crew.

4

It was 6:30 pm on a Saturday when Jonathan Stanton walked in to the San Diego PD Headquarters on Broadway. The building had recently been through a renovation and the exterior looked clean and white, the darkened windows freshly washed. The surrounding area was grass and trees and clean sidewalks. Jonathan didn’t remember it this clean a few years ago.

Night security checked him in and gave him a temporary employee pass to use on the elevators. He went to the fifth floor and turned down the hall.

The Cold Case Unit had been set up in five empty offices and a large conference room. The space recently housed two other units that had been moved a floor below. A uniform nodded to him and looked down to the small box he was holding. He noticed the PhD in psychology in the brown frame.

“You’re Detective Stanton?”

“Yeah.”

“Got your own office next to the chief. But he wasn’t expectin’ you till Monday.”

“Just came to set up early. Didn’t want to bother anyone.”

The man mumbled something and then said, “Follow me.”

He was led down the hall and past an enormous number of cubicles. They stopped at a large door with a keypad on the side wall.

“Combo’s 521. Got it?”

“Yeah.”

The door clicked open and they went in. The offices were furnished with glass desks and leather furniture. Each one had a well manicured plant in the corner and a piece of abstract art hung behind every desk. They walked through the conference room. Jonathan counted at least twenty high-backed black leather chairs with a large flat screen at the front of the room, hooked up to a laptop. On the other side of the room was a floor-to-ceiling size map of San Diego.

“Your office is that one there.”

“Thanks.”

The man left without saying anything and Stanton walked into his new office. He placed the box on the desk and sat down. One wall was a thick window looking down onto Broadway. He could see the cars passing on the street below and he watched them a long time.

There was a computer on the side of his desk against the wall and he turned it on. The screen flashed and prompted him to enter his password. He entered it and an error message came up: Password Expired. Please See the Administrator For a New Password.

He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. It was strange being here. Like he had come into someone’s home uninvited. Stanton tried unpacking his box and hanging up his degrees. There were two photos he put on his desk: one of his nine year old son Matthew and his four year old son Jon, and one of his father, Dr. George Stanton.

His father had been a psychiatrist and was displeased when Stanton chose the police academy after his doctoral degree rather than going to medical school. A PhD and M.D., he had told him, would make him invaluable as a researcher to any number of universities lucky enough to have him.

The day he told his father he was joining the police academy, all his father said was, “Son, power, no matter how nobly it’s applied, eventually corrupts.”

After he had unpacked he sat down. He began looking out the window again when a man with a vacuum stepped into the room. He looked in the garbage can and glanced passively at Stanton before leaving.

Stanton took a deep breath, and decided to leave.

*****

It was dark by the time Stanton pulled to a stop in front of the large house. It was two stories with a wide lawn. A Mercedes was parked in the driveway. Through the kitchen window he saw a man, woman and two young boys eating dinner. They were talking and laughing and the mother would get up and get another dish or fill someone’s glass.

He walked to the door and knocked, a large manila envelope under his arm. Melissa answered, a smile on her face that quickly faded away when she saw him.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

He pulled out the envelope and handed it to her. “A few things. Some jewelry I found when I moved.”

She looked through the envelope. “Jonathan, you can keep most of this stuff. I gave it to you.”

“No, some of its family heirlooms. It should be in your family.”

Just then a small head popped around the corner and Mathew ran out and threw his arms around his father. Four year old Jon stood at the corner and didn’t move.

“Hey dad,” Mathew said.

“Hey squirt. How was the game?”

“We lost by two goals.”

“You’ll get ‘em next time.”

Melissa’s fiancé Lance came to the door and stood behind her, softly letting his hand rest on her shoulder.

“How are you, Jonathan?”

“Fine. Thanks.”

Lance cleared his throat. “So what’s up?”

“He was just dropping off some of my stuff,” Melissa said. “Why don’t you join us for dinner?”

“Yeah!” Mathew shouted.

Lance said, “I’m sure your dad’s got more important things to do than have dinner with us. Don’t you, Jonathan?”

There was a long silence as the men stared at each other.

“Sure,” Stanton said.

“Come on, Matty, let’s finish up supper. Good to see you, Jonathan.”

“Yeah. I’ll see you later, squirt.”

“Bye dad.”

Melissa stood at the door until they were out of view in the kitchen. She stepped outside, folding her arms though it wasn’t cold.

“He misses you,” she said.

“I know. I wish I could see him more.”

“Jon Junior misses you too. He just doesn’t know how to show it.”

“He’s angry with me. He thinks this is my fault.”

“That’s not true.”

There was a silence and then Stanton said, “I’d like to take them more, Mel. I don’t see them enough.”

“They’re going to have a new life. Lance is going to be a big part of that life and they need to spend a lot of time with him. I think every other weekend is appropriate.”

Stanton looked down to his shoes. They were worn and hadn’t been polished in a long time. He noticed that Melissa was barefoot and had her toenails painted black.

“I should go. Kiss the boys for me.”

“Jonathan,” she said hurriedly as he turned to leave. “I know I can’t talk you out of that job. But be careful.”

“I will. Thanks.”

As Stanton got into his car he looked through the window at the family having dinner; they were laughing and joking around again. He started his car, and pulled away.

5

When Stanton walked in to police headquarters on Monday morning he stopped at the vending machine and got a Diet Coke. He wore old khakis and a blazer he had dug out of his closet. After work he would have to head to the Fashion Depot and pick up a couple of suits.

He went to the fifth floor and it was buzzing with activity. Detectives with their suit coats off and their sleeves rolled up ran around making demands of assistants and secretaries. A few uniforms were wandering around, rubbing elbows with the detectives and swapping war stories.

He walked to the large door and entered the code. It clicked open and he stepped inside.

The space was quiet as opposed to the rest of the floor. He could hear someone speaking in hushed tones on a telephone in one of the offices.

“Jonathan!” Harlow shouted from across the hall. The chief came over and shook his hand. “I’m so glad you said yes. We’re going to do some real work here, Jon. God’s work. Come on, let me introduce you to everyone.”

The conference table had an ample supply of bagels and coffee spread over it. Three men and a woman sat at the table speaking quietly with each other. They stopped and looked at Stanton when he walked in.

Harlow motioned to a seat near the head of the table and Stanton sat down. The chief took his position at the head and glanced over everyone quietly.

“I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to see these faces around this table. You five are the best at what you do. I’ve never served with better cops in my career. There’ll be more coming, but you were the ones I wanted, the ones I needed, right away.

“I know this is fucking grade school, but I want to go around the table and have you introduce yourselves. Where you’re from, family, all that bullshit that you would have to get out in small talk. Let’s start with you, Chin.”

An Asian man with glasses and a finely cut suit straightened up in his seat and said, “I’m Chin Ho. I’m from San Francisco PD. Got transferred down for this unit. Originally from Korea. I have a partner and he’s moved down with me too. He’s a lawyer.”

Harlow looked to the next man, tall and black with an ipad on his lap.

“Nathan Sell. San Diego PD. Divorced, no kids.”

The next man was white and overweight with a black suit and white shirt.

“Philip Russell, FBI. On loan to the unit. Single, no kids.”

“Jessica Turner, LAPD. Single, one child.”

Stanton cleared his throat. “Jonathan Stanton. I’m … I guess I’m with San Diego now. Going through a divorce. Two sons.”

“Good,” Harlow said, “now we’re all friends.” He reached for a bagel and placed it on a napkin in front of him. “I’ve talked to each of you individually about what we’re doing and what’s expected of you. If you have any questions, now’s the time to ask.”

Nathan raised a finger in the air and Harlow nodded to him.

“Who’s the unit commander, Chief?”

“I am. That’s why you’re set up next to my office. I want everything reported and ran through me.”

Jessica asked, “What’s the budget for this unit?”

“As much as we need to get the job done. We got grants from the city, state and federal government. But like I said, everything goes through me. No one buys so much as a paperclip without me knowing it. But I’m not going to micromanage. Submit a report of what you need directly to Tommy and as long as you think it’s reasonable I’ll have the money to you within one day. I’m putting a lot of trust into each and every one of you and I expect you to take that trust seriously.” He looked around the table. “Anything else?”

“How are cases assigned?” Stanton asked.

Harlow shifted in his seat. “I’ll pair the appropriate case with the right investigator. You don’t start another case until the one assigned is solved or it’s dead, and then it shifts from this unit to archives.”

Clever, Stanton thought. Every year the unit’s cases would shrink and people would assume it’s because they were being solved.

“Anything else?” Harlow looked to each person. “Good. Let’s start with assignments.” He pressed a button on a sleek gray phone set up on the conference table.

“Yeah, Chief?”

“Tommy, get me the assignments.”

“You got it.”

While they waited for Tommy, the group quietly read emails or checked phone messages. Jessica took a cup of coffee and asked if Stanton wanted one and he declined.

“He’s Mormon,” Harlow interjected.

“Oh,” Jessica said. “That’s interesting. Why the Diet Coke?”

“It’s a gray area in the Church,” Stanton said.

The door opened and Thomas Sanchez walked in with several uniforms carrying boxes and thick three-ring binders. They spread everything on the table, shoving the food out of the way, and left the room with a nod to Harlow.

“Chin,” Harlow said, passing two binders over, “Todd Grover. He was a liquor store owner that was robbed in 0 4. They got off three rounds during the robbery and one hit him in the neck. He died in the hospital. Only thing he gave us was that they were African-American, young, and one had a tattoo of some sort on his hand.”

Harlow pointed to one of the boxes. “Nathan, that’s you. Alberto Domingez Jovan. He was leaving a strip club and flirting with one of the dancers in the parking lot when some other patrons began talking shit to him. He asked them what their problem was and they showed him with two slugs in the head. Got at least twenty witnesses and two suspects that went nowhere.”

“Got it, Chief,” Nathan said.

“Jessica, this is yours.” He handed her a binder and a small box with a DVD and a folder in it. “James Damien Neary. Stabbed in the heart while walking home from a Wal-Mart. He got back to his apartment and, for whatever reason, didn’t call an ambulance. Died there. No leads.”

Harlow pointed to a box at the end of the table. “Philip, you got Rodrigo Carrillo. Gang member. Shot to death sitting on his porch in a drive by.”

There was one final box and Harlow hesitated before putting his hands on it. He grabbed it by the sides and pulled it near to him, staring at the name.

“Jonathan, you got Tami Jacobs. Twenty-three year old waitress. It’s … it’s pretty bad.”

He pushed the box to Stanton and then looked to everyone again before standing. “All right, we got a lot of work to do. Tommy’s your point man on everything. Once a week we have meetings on Monday morning to go over our cases. You may be working them alone, but you’re not alone. We got a brain trust on these cases.” Harlow glanced at his watch. “I’m not expecting miracles, but I am expecting results. Even if it’s nothing more than declaring the case dead and moving it to the basement. Now do what I know each of you is capable of doing and let’s have some of these bastards stay in our concrete hotels courtesy of the California taxpayer. Our system’s burdened by too many obstacles and loopholes as it is, but we can make it better and give our kids the future they deserve.”

Stanton glanced around the table and saw that no one had noticed the prepared stump speech; one intended to be given at a lectern in front of an audience.

When the chief had gone everyone gathered their materials and headed to their respective offices. Stanton stayed and got a bagel, spreading warm cream cheese over it with a plastic knife.

“Sorry about the coffee,” Jessica said, walking back out and throwing away her paper plate and napkin.

“It’s okay.” He noticed for the first time she was wearing one pearl earring in her right ear and nothing in her left. Before he could ask her about it, she walked back to her office and shut the door.

Stanton finished eating and took the box into his office. He placed it down on the desk, and pulled out the first three-ring binder inside.

6

Tami Jacobs was originally from Iowa. Her parents were both custodians; one in high school and the other grammar school. Her mother committed suicide when she was nine years old and her father died eight years later, on Tami’s graduation night from high school. He was driving drunk and had careened into oncoming traffic. He survived for six days in the hospital with massive brain swelling before the family decided they needed to cut life support.

She had two siblings somewhere, brothers. Stanton wondered if they felt the tug of guilt in their bellies from not being able to save her. Brothers are often the de facto protectors of the only female in the family.

There was a photo of her with her family when she was in her teens. She wore a University of Iowa sweatshirt and was hugging someone Stanton guessed was her grandfather. Short blond hair and deep blue eyes set in a thin face. Her legs were long and she had slim hips. Stanton knew instantly why she had come to California.

He didn’t need to look at her bio to know she was an aspiring actress, waiting tables until her big break. At some point, the cold detachment of reality fell on her and she realized that even if she made it, it was still failure. Hollywood was a zero sum game.

She was an “A” student in high school but moved to West Hollywood after her father’s death. There were no college transcripts.

Tami volunteered on the weekends at a senior center. There were printouts of emails in the box she had written to her grandfather in Iowa and from some of the patients she had befriended at the center. Stanton pulled one of the emails out. He hesitated before looking at it, like he needed to ask permission first.

i hope you are doing good Poppy! i am great here. The beach is next to my house and i surf all the time! I miss you guys. i wish i could come home and visit but its pretty crazy with auditions and everything:(

But i’ll come as soon as i can. i have a audition tomorrow for a commercial for lotion. its not much money but it would be my first commercial!!!

wish me luck Poppy! Tell everyone hi for me!

Loves and Kisses

After a year in West Hollywood, she moved to a cheap apartment in La Jolla. That’s where the monster found her.

He checked her criminal record. There were twelve arrests in a three year period. Three for Driving While Intoxicated, six for public intoxication, and three for disorderly conduct in a public place. Stanton knew from his uniform days and a stint on the DWI squad that for every DWI there were at least seventy drunken nights driving a vehicle that she wasn’t caught. With three on her record, she was likely a bonafide alcoholic.

She had a boyfriend: James Christopher Arnold. Stanton called the two phone numbers they had for him and got an error message letting him know the numbers were disconnected. There was a brief official statement taken on the day she was discovered, but it was less than three paragraphs and didn’t give any specific details about her life.

He flipped through some of her bills: credit card statements, bank statements, utility bills; he came to a copy of her work schedule printed from an online calendar. He looked to the day of her death: she was scheduled to work that morning, but the rest of the week were all evening shifts. Alcoholics were notoriously bad at morning shifts and waitress’ schedules were usually flexible; if she was working that morning it meant she had to be somewhere that evening.

The homicide report was twelve pages with a fifteen page supplemental report. The case had been worked by two detectives, both under thirty years old. The necessary information in the report made up about two pages. The other ten were filler. An attempt to cover up the fact that they had nothing to go on. There was no mention that Tami was to work the morning shift the day she was killed.

Stanton pulled out the first photo from forensics and it sent a shock through his body. He dropped it and looked away. It had been too long and he hadn’t prepared properly. There was a taxi waiting on the curb outside and he watched it a few moments before turning back to the photo. He stared at it and then took out the coroner’s report and placed them side-by-side.

The brutality of it made him think of an animal attack and one line in the coroner’s report stuck out to him: Feces found in the subject’s esophagus matched the feces found over the bed sheets.

He pushed the coroner’s report away and stared at the photograph a long while before putting it back in the box.

*****

Stanton went outside and decided on walking around the block. The sun was hot and sweat began to form on his forehead. There was a little café nearby and he walked there and sat down in a booth by himself and ordered a turkey sandwich with soup.

There was a couple sitting near him. They were older and weren’t speaking to each other. The man was missing a finger on his right hand and his nails had grit underneath them. His dentures were placed on a napkin and he gummed some soup as his wife ate a thick hamburger. She looked at Stanton and then away.

“I forgot to ask if you want anything to drink?” the waitress said as she placed the sandwich and soup on the table.

“No, water’s fine.”

He stared absently out to the street, watching people walk by, enveloped in their own lives and oblivious to those around them. Tami had been that way.

Stanton paid for his food without eating and left the café.

7

Stanton drove to Interstate 8 and headed northwest to La Jolla. It was evening but the sun was still out and the freeways were not as packed as they would have been an hour ago.

He had read everything in the box and looked at most of the photographs forensics had taken. There was a video too, but he couldn’t watch it yet. The coroner’s report was detailed, even to a fault. Stanton knew the pathologist that had performed the autopsy; he had a daughter Tami’s age.

There was still daylight left when Stanton pulled to a stop in front of the Ocean Vista Apartments. The coroner placed her death at around one in the morning, at least four days before she was discovered by her boyfriend. Maggots had been found at the scene and they were excellent for determining time of death for a corpse as the incubation period in the egg and the hatching process were the same length of time from one specimen to the next.

It would have been better if he had come here at one in the morning and seen the apartment as he had seen it that night. But it was currently rented and he didn’t want to impose that on the tenants.

There was mention of a manager finding the body with the boyfriend, but when he knocked at the leasing office, which was just one of the apartments, a woman answered and said the previous manager had moved out. Stanton walked upstairs to 2-F and knocked on the door. A slim male in cut off shorts with a cigarette dangling from his mouth answered.

“Yeah?”

“I’m Detective Stanton with the San Diego Police Department. I think we spoke on the phone.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, lighting the cigarette. Stanton guessed it was an attempt to cover the strong odor of marijuana pouring out of the apartment. “So you just like wanna look around, right?”

“Yeah.”

He opened the door. “All right, cool.”

Stanton had called ahead and made sure the tenants understood that the police were coming. They would be more at ease when they had the opportunity to hide anything they might not have wanted him to see.

There was a young girl on the couch, maybe eighteen. Her eyes were rimmed red and she had a piercing through her nose. She stared absently at Stanton but didn’t say anything.

“So, why you wanna look around again?”

Stanton ignored him and began to his left, behind the door. He ran his eyes along the baseboards and then up the wall. The kitchen table was glass with only two chairs. The Anarchist’s Cookbook was open on a page showing how to tie a grenade to a fence with a piece of rope so that the pin would pull when the fence opened. Stanton saw out of the corner of his eye the male glance to the girl; they had forgotten to hide the book.

The kitchen was small and the microwave was bolted above the oven. The night the police arrived, half a sandwich had been found on the coffee table with large bite marks that didn’t match the victim. He had made himself a meal before leaving.

Stanton ran his eyes past the kitchen into the living room. The carpet was tattered and cigarette burns adorned it like spots on a leopard. He noticed the sliding glass door. The frame looked worn, an off shade of gray. But the lock was new chrome.

“Did you guys replace the lock on the sliding door?”

“No,” the male said. “Why?”

“Is that the same lock as when you moved in?”

“Yup.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Bout seven months.”

Stanton began walking down the hallway and the male followed him. They walked into the bathroom and Stanton glanced quickly at the bathtub. He then went to the bedroom. The door was open and he walked in and stood in the entryway.

There was a single bed and a nightstand, clothes strewn on the floor. One window overlooking the parking lot. He sat on the bed. The closet was full of sneakers and tank tops. A few posters of women in bikinis and Bob Marley were nailed up. There were no stains on the carpets other than cigarettes, nothing on the walls or ceiling. It now held only ghosts of what had happened.

Stanton rose. “Thanks for letting me look around.”

“No worries. Hey, why were you wanting to look around anyway?”

“Someone came through here once that I wanted to see. But they’re gone.”

8

Stanton walked into the little barbeque shack as soon as they opened. He had been waiting in the car until nine and watching the surfers pack up their things and head to their day jobs.

The shack was much bigger than the exterior let on. There were at least twenty tables and a few booths. A large bar sat at one end and the kitchen was to the right of the entrance. It was dark and there were few windows, most of the illumination provided by neon beer signs throughout the space.

“Can I help you?” a young girl said.

“I’m looking for the owner.”

“Tim? He’s in the kitchen. I’ll get him.”

Stanton went and sat at the bar. He ran his fingers along the top and felt the notches from drunks placing bottles down too hard. A small bowl of peanuts was next to him and he noticed a bottle cap inside.

“How’s it going?”

Tim was tall with a belly and thick arms. He towered above Stanton and threw a rag he used to wipe his hands over his shoulder.

“Good.”

“I’m the owner. What can I do for you?”

“Jonathan Stanton. I’m with the San Diego Police Department. I’m doing some follow up on Tami Jacobs.”

“I smoke a joint in the back and you roll up in minutes. Beautiful young girl’s raped and killed and you can’t find who did it.”

Stanton saw the anger in his face and said, “The Department’s got its head up its ass most of a the time. That’s why I’m here. I’m gonna find who did this.”

The cadence and volume of his voice matched Tim’s.

“Yeah. Well, I ain’t got that much to tell you. Police already talked to me when it happened.”

“I know. But there was something I wanted to ask you about.”

“What?”

“You had her on the schedule to work a shift the morning she was killed. I don’t see her as a morning person. Did she always work them?”

“No, her shift was nights I think. If she was working morning means she traded shifts with somebody.”

“Do you know who?”

“Been too long, man. Couldn’t say.”

“Any way you could find out?”

“I don’t keep schedules for longer than a few months. Probably deleted it.”

“Could you check anyway?”

“Yeah, I guess I could.”

Stanton placed his card on the table. “Thanks. Please call me if you find that name.”

9

The body had stiffened to the consistency of a 2 x 4.

It lay in the sand, one arm up, reaching for help that never came. The surf rolled in on the beach and the sun was rising above the horizon, painting the ocean a soft hue of orange.

A group of sand crabs were crawling over the corpse and Maverick “Hunter” Royal kicked them off with his wingtips. One fell near him and he crushed it, a green gelatin splashing up over his pant leg.

“Shit.”

“Hunter, what the fuck you doin’ here?”

Detective Daniel Childs walked next to Royal and folded his arms, seemingly not noticing the body two feet away.

“Danny boy,” Royal said, “Oh Danny Boy, Oh Boy,” he sang.

“Cut the shit, Hunter. What’s going on?”

“Just doing some reporting for the fine people of San Diego.”

“You’re not a reporter, you’re a damn parasite. And how’d you find out about this so fast?”

“I got my sources. And five thousand daily readers disagree: I am a reporter.”

“Fuck off. And if you fucked with my crime scene I’m taking you to the cage for the night.”

“I didn’t touch anything,” he said, holding his hands up in surrender.

Royal began walking away, just far enough for Childs to turn toward the body. He then pulled out a small camera and began taking photos. There was a particularly good one of Childs slapping on latex gloves as he examined the head of the victim from up close. Even if he was an asshole, Royal thought, I’m still gonna make him look good.

He took about twenty photographs and turned to leave. Two uniforms leaned against a cruiser next to his Viper. One of them ran his hand over the hood and looked inside the sports car, checking the door to see if it was open. Royal would have to payback that little disrespect. Maybe make something up about the officer getting sex from hookers instead of taking them in. They all did it anyway, he figured.

When he got closer to his car he saw that one of the uniforms was Henry Oleander. He nodded to him and Oleander said something to the other officer, causing him to walk away and go farther down the beach.

“What’s up, Hunter?”

“Henry. How’s the Mrs?”

“Good. We’re having our second kid soon.”

“Congrats.”

“Yeah,” he said, looking over to Childs. “So you want a line?”

“What’ve you got?”

“How much?”

“Something I can sell to the Times or Examiner, thousand bucks. Something I gotta put on my blog, hundred bucks.”

“There was a murder couple years back. Young girl named Tami Jacobs. You remember it?”

“Yeah,” Royal said. He had paid five hundred dollars to be let into the apartment to snap a few photographs before the coroner’s body movers took the corpse. It’d been a shit-storm when the San Diego PD saw photos of their crime scene all over the web the next day.

“Been assigned to the Cold Case Unit. Guess who’s the detective? Jonathan Stanton.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

Royal pulled out a wad of cash from his pocket. He gave five hundred dollar bills to Henry and said, “Five now. Twenty more if you can get me the files of everyone in Cold Case.”

“How would I do that?”

“Figure it out, you’re a smart boy. They gotta eat sometime, right? They don’t live in their offices and I bet they don’t take their personnel files with them.”

“Yeah, I guess so. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good,” he said, slapping the officer’s arm on the stripe.

Royal climbed into his Viper and turned the key, the ignition roaring to life. He peeled out of the parking lot and blew a kiss to Childs as he yelled something to him about impounding his car.

10

Stanton finished reading all the emails they had gathered from Tami’s account. She had had a MySpace page, never bothering to update to Facebook. There were photos of her with different groups of people, mostly at bars and on the beach. One of her at Mardi Gras in New Orleans. A slow country song that Stanton didn’t recognize was playing on her page and he listened to it once and then muted his computer.

It was already afternoon and Stanton had been in the office for seven hours. He called Melissa to speak to the boys but there was no answer. The voicemail said to leave a message for Melissa and Lance Jarvis. He hung up.

Jessica walked by the office and glanced in. She stopped and took a step back, poking her head through the doorway.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.”

She came in to his office and collapsed on a chair with a loud sigh, looking out the windows. “Nice view.”

“It’s not bad. How’s Neary going?”

“Not good. Totally random from what I can tell. Talked to a girlfriend he had that said he wouldn’t’ve hurt anybody. No criminal history, no major debts, nothing.” She saw his PhD on the wall. “I heard you had a doctorate. What are you doing here?”

Stanton shrugged and lifted the Jacobs box and placed it on the floor. “Don’t let it shock you,” he said.

“What?”

“Neary. The randomness of it. Some people only want to add chaos without getting anything in return.”

“I’ve worked Robbery/Homicide in LA for two years. Randomness doesn’t shock me. It’s meaninglessness that does. Whoever did this did something horrific and against his interests that probably didn’t even bring him any pleasure. I don’t understand it. And you didn’t answer my question. Most cops daydream about an exit strategy and you’ve got one hanging on your wall.”

“It’s not as simple as-”

His phone rang. He answered it and heard the front desk receptionist’s voice tell him he had a call from a Tim at the Barbeque Pit.

“Send it through … Hello?”

“Hi, is this Jon?”

“Yeah.”

“Jon, Tim, from the Barbeque Pit.”

“What can I do for you, Tim?”

“I did have a schedule from back then. Must’ve hung on to it cause I thought you guys would want it and no one asked me for it.”

“I’ll send someone down to pick it up.”

“It’s an Excel spreadsheet. I just emailed it to you.”

“Thanks.”

“All right, man. You find that cocksucker you pop him once for me.”

He hung up and turned to his computer and then remembered he didn’t have a new password yet to log in to his email from his office. The administrator was on vacation.

“Do you mind if I check my email on your computer?”

“Sure,” Jessica said.

Her office was easily half the size of his with no windows. But the walls were covered in photos. There was one of a young boy in a soccer uniform, standing with his foot on a ball.

“Your boy?”

“Yup,” she said, closing a few windows on her screen. “All yours.”

Stanton logged into the San Diego PD server and went to his account. He had two hundred and thirty-seven unread messages. Most of them were updates, questions about holiday and over-time pay, announcements for birthdays and retirements … Tim’s was at the top of the list and he clicked on it.

In the body of the email was a name: Kelly Ann Madison. Next to that was a phone number. Stanton opened the attachment and saw the schedule. It covered a period of three months and Tami had only worked evenings. The day she had been killed was the only time she was scheduled for a morning shift. Kelly was scheduled to take her evening shift.

“My sister watches him during the day.”

“I’m sorry?” Stanton said, turning to her. She was sitting on the edge of her desk, staring at the boy’s photo.

“I was just thinking out loud.”

“Must be hard not to see him as much as you’d like.”

“It is. I think you said you had some.”

“Two boys.”

Stanton put Kelly’s phone number into his phone’s contact list and rose to leave. “Thanks for letting me use your computer.”

“No problem … hey, I’m starving. Do you want to grab something to eat? Maybe we can swap notes on our cases or something.”

“I can’t right now. How about a rain check?”

“Yeah,” she said, looking down to the floor. “I was just thinking we might both be hungry. No big deal.”

“Are you free tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

“Tomorrow then.”

“Sure, tomorrow.”

Stanton walked to his office and shut the door. He pulled up Kelly on his phone, and dialed the number.

11

Stanton sat in his car in the parking lot of the Westfield UTC mall. Night had fallen and it had quieted the city. The high-pitched squeal of a siren would break the silence and it would trail off and disappear, and the silence would return only to be broken again a little later.

His window was down and the air was warm and smelled slightly of exhaust, but a breeze was blowing and he leaned back and let it blow over his neck and down his collar.

A few people left the Nordstrom and walked to an Escalade parked near him. They were females, teenagers, white and rich with empty looks on their faces. Their boredom would drive them to do things that their parents thought their station in life had bought them out of.

The driver reminded him of a case from long ago. Another rich, young white girl that had began dating a Hispanic ex-con. She had met him through correspondence while he was incarcerated at the Los Angeles County California State Prison. When she was at a party at his house, he allowed all the party goers to gang rape her on the futon in the basement.

“Detective?”

Stanton turned to see a young girl standing by his car; far enough away that her face was only shadow and her hair glowed under the parking lot lamps.

“Yes.”

“Can I see your badge?”

“Sure.”

He reached into his pocket and brought out the shield, offering it to her through the window. She approached close enough to look at it.

“Okay. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

He stepped outside of his car and shut the door. Leaning back against the driver’s side, he took out a small notepad and a pen. His ipad was far superior at organizing his notes, but there was something about the paper and pen that he needed. When he saw a full pad and had to go to another one, it told him that progress was being made. That the notes would, somehow, lead him to what he was looking for. Sometimes when he went through them again it felt like he had a map rather than just wandering aimlessly.

“So,” she said, “you wanted to talk about Tami?”

“Yes. Do you remember much about her?”

“Yeah, she was cool. She was real sweet, ya know? Like if I needed a ride or to borrow some money she would always do it. Even if I called her at like three in the morning she would gimme a ride.”

She pulled out a package of cigarettes and lit one, letting the tobacco burn and crinkle and moved a strand of hair away from her face with her pinkie.

“What would you guys talk about?”

“I dunno. Stuff. She really liked surfing so she was always talking about that. She really wanted to go to Australia and surf. She said she was saving money for it.”

“She had a boyfriend named James Arnold. The numbers we had for him are disconnected. You have any idea where he is?”

“Oh, yeah. You don’t know? Jimmy died.”

“When?”

“Like … maybe three months after those other detectives talked to me.”

Stanton’s pen stopped moving and he lowered the pad. “What other detectives?”

“The two that came and talked to me after she was … after she passed.”

“Do you remember their names?”

“No, and they didn’t gimme their cards. I thought that was weird cause cops always leave their card, right?”

“Can you describe them?”

“Um, one was Mexican and the other was a white dude. Kinda cute. I think he was flirting with me.”

Stanton flipped to an earlier page in his notepad where he had written some names. “Francisco Hernandez and Taylor Stewart?”

“I guess. I really don’t remember.”

Stanton put the pad in his pocket and said, “Is there anything you can tell me that can help me find who did this, Kelly?”

“I don’t think so. I just knew her from work, ya know?”

“Did she have any other friends that you know about?”

“Not really. She said she didn’t like other girls. But there was this guy she was kinda hanging out with. She didn’t want Jimmy to know about it cause he was real jealous. I think the detectives already talked to him.”

“Do you remember his name?”

“No, but I know he was a cop if that helps.”

12

Stanton woke and felt his shirt clinging to him with sweat. He sat up in bed and pushed himself against the headboard, feeling the firmness of the wood against his back. There was a glass of water on the nightstand next to him and he took a long drink, the water warm and beginning to taste like dust. The clock said 11:13 pm.

He rose and put on sweatpants and a zip-up Nike jacket. His sneakers were under the bed and he pulled them out and slowly slipped them on his feet. There was something in the purposefulness of it that he wanted to feel right now and he wasn’t sure why.

There would be no more sleeping tonight. At least not for another four or five hours. He took a diet cola out of the fridge and headed to his car.

The city was lit neon blue in the darkness and the streets were still crowded from restaurants and bars and clubs that catered to nighthawks and the young. Palm trees were on both sides of the road he traveled on, appearing like giant dandelions against the backdrop of the moonlit sky.

He remembered this city from when he was young. They traveled a lot as a youth, his father working his residency for two years in Montana and two years in Buffalo before moving to Seattle. He remembered that he liked Seattle for the first month he was there. After that, the gray skies and constant dampness discouraged him and he grew depressed. His fifth grade teacher recommended medication but his father, a psychiatrist, refused. “Only as a last resort,” he would tell his mother when she pleaded with him to put their only child on anti-depressants.

The depression eventually grew so pronounced he could no longer get out of bed. They used medication but it only numbed him further.

His parents coddled him, threatened him, bribed him and finally physically attempted to move him out of bed in the mornings. Occasionally he was in bed for seventy hours or more at a time. He had lost so much weight his mother was concerned he would starve to death and she would bring cake and chips and steaks to his room and feed him while she spoke about mundane things that had happened during the day.

His father would try and hold therapy sessions but could never get his son to open up enough to help him. Eventually, he left him alone.

The only comfort Jonathan had was his friend Stacey. She was Mormon and saw the pain in him when she came to visit him once to bring his homework. She invited him out to family home evening and for whatever reason, he went. The family was sweet and welcoming and did not judge or care where he had come from or what he had done. It was the only glimmer of happiness he had in those times.

It was a long road to acceptance for his parents that their son had mental health issues and Jonathan remembered that night clearly. He was woken by something and saw his mother sitting on the edge of the bed, softly crying into her hands. His father sat next to her, his arm around her shoulders.

The next day, his father began applying to jobs in California. He found one in the ER at the University of San Diego Hospital.

His father was the staff psychiatrist for the emergency room from nine at night until seven in the morning. He was to evaluate and decide the proper course of treatment for anyone coming through the ER that was determined to need a psych eval. Primarily, it was the homeless. They would be let out on the streets and told to come back at certain times for their medications and none of them were able to keep track of when to return. The next week or month they would be back in the ER because they walked into traffic or jumped off a building or were beaten up or stabbed or shot. Dr. Stanton had once told his son that you knew the world was truly going to hell when the mental institutions were closed and the jails were full.

Stanton was enrolled in surfing lessons by his mother the week they moved to San Diego. The sand and sunshine and crisp blue water revived him and his mother told people he was like a different child. But the scar of that severe depression never left him and he carried sadness in his eyes for the rest of his life.

Stanton arrived at his office shortly before midnight. The security guard was dozing and didn’t bother to feign attention when he saw him. Stanton took the elevator and then regretted not taking the stairs. The movement would’ve helped him right now and he needed to try and exhaust himself so he could get some sleep later in the morning.

Nathan Sell was in his office and Stanton nodded to him as he made his way down the hall to his office. Jessica was still there as well, watching DVD’s of recorded interviews.

“Hey,” she said as she paused the DVD, “what are you doing here so late?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Stanton said. He stepped into her office and sat down across from her. The chair was thickly cushioned and warm and he realized how much he would’ve liked to have been able to sleep. “I didn’t know there were any witnesses.”

“Just over twenty people were in the area. No one saw or heard anything. Couple of ‘em look like they know more than they’re telling us. I’m going to hit them up tomorrow.” She took out two Ibuprofen from her drawer and washed them down with a Crystal Light. “How’s it going for you?”

“I need to talk to the original detectives that worked the case. Few things aren’t adding up.”

“Like what?”

“They talked to a co-worker that they never put in their reports for one.”

“Hm, well, everybody’s got their own style.”

“I guess.” Stanton hesitated about telling her the victim may have been seeing a cop. Police were ravenously protective of their own and he didn’t want to seem like he was smearing a cop’s reputation if he didn’t have to.

“Can I ask you something, Jonathan? Something personal?”

“Sure.”

She played with her pencil, tapping it lightly against a stapler on her desk. “I knew Noah. We’d worked a case together. A kidnapping where the perp came down here from Watts. In that time that he was your partner, did you ever-”

“No.”

“Me neither. I know they say psychopaths can be charming, but I always thought if one was in my life I would know. I would just know.”

“How long did you know him?”

“It wasn’t for very long. We both worked too much to see each other more than once or twice.” She bit her lip and said, “He asked me out.”

“What did you say?”

“I said no. But not because I wasn’t attracted to him. I was literally just too busy at the time. If I had fewer cases, I would’ve taken him up on it. When I found out what he did to those girls … I can’t tell you how sick I felt. I thought about quitting the force.”

“You have nothing to feel sick over. There was a part of him that was human. That was the part that was likeable and friendly. But there was the other part too. It was a fight for him, but it had nothing to do with you.” He stood up. “I better get going.”

As he left he heard the DVD turn back on, a male voice adamantly denying having seen anything. He turned to look at her but she was already focused on the screen.

13

Stanton left the office at three in the morning and was back at nine. He began placing calls. Taylor Stewart was in Iraq on active duty. Frontline infantry in the army’s third infantry division. Stanton called the local recruiting office and got the numbers to Army Investigative Command and to the local JAG office. Both offices said they couldn’t help him unless he had an official subpoena or writ. He knew the army ignored writs and subpoenas from state judges. It would have to be a federal judge and he would need a good reason. So far, he had none; other than leaving a name off of a report.

Francisco Hernandez was different. Stanton was told by Human Resources that he was still with the police department but had been transferred to Vice a year ago. Stanton contacted the section chief at Vice and was told a meeting could be set up but it would take some time and would have to be outside of the city.

He put his feet up on the desk and noticed the scuff marks along the edges of his shoes. It reminded him that he still needed to buy a couple of suits and he suddenly felt awkward in his sports coat. Like someone that had been placed in a group only to contrast everyone else’s conformity.

There was something that had not escaped his thoughts: what if Noah was responsible for this girl as well?

Noah Sherman’s victims had been blonds and brunettes and young but the killing pattern didn’t match. Noah didn’t like blood, and Stanton knew this first hand. He once nearly fainted at the scene of a suicide where the victim had shot themselves with a 20 gauge shotgun. The two victims that they knew about were strangled and the bodies were covered up; a last vestige of shame and guilt that Noah felt.

Stanton had not thought about Noah Sherman in a long time and all the events and feelings that he had buried came rushing back into his head, like a damn had been broken and a flood enveloped everything in its path. He remembered Saturday morning racquetball at the gym. Noah was so competitive that Stanton had to let him win occasionally so it wouldn’t ruin his day. After their workouts they would shower and talk about women and kids and where they wanted their lives to take them.

Stanton also remembered the night Noah nearly killed him.

They had finished a long day working a drive-by shooting. Stanton had been in a fight with Melissa. Like most fights, it was over something so minor he couldn’t remember now what it was.

Noah’s home was a large two-story house in the suburbs that he had gotten a deal on because the elderly woman that owned it had no children to leave it to. She wanted a quick infusion of cash to spend traveling to the places she always wanted to see.

Stanton was going to spend the night to give Melissa a chance to cool off. They drank water and ate steaks and potatoes. Noah, always respectful about Stanton’s beliefs, never drank alcohol or swore in front of him. He even refused to drink coffee and Stanton always admired him for that small act of courtesy.

When they had finished their meal they watched a boxing match on television and then went to bed. Stanton was to sleep in the guest bedroom but there were no pillows on the bed. He went upstairs to Noah’s bedroom and found him in the shower and asked where the pillows were. Noah told him to check the hall closet.

Stanton pulled out two pillows and was about to shut the door when he noticed something tucked behind a neatly folded quilt. He pulled it out: they were red silk panties. Stanton grinned as he was about to tease his partner that a woman had forgotten her underwear when he noticed another pair behind them, and another pair behind that one. He pulled them all out. There were twelve total. They had been covering something and Stanton picked it up. It was a little tin box, black with a design of a flower on top. Inside were photographs, a necklace, and a ring. The photos were of women with pale, detached faces, crying into the camera. Police could only identify two of the victims. They were the ones Noah would later be prosecuted and sent to prison for, narrowly avoiding the death penalty through a plea bargain.

When Stanton turned around Noah was behind him. Wet and naked from the shower, his.40 caliber Smith amp; Wesson in his hand. He lifted the gun and shot twice without hesitation. The impact threw Stanton backward and over the railing onto the main floor. It had knocked the breath out of him and blood cascaded over his chest and onto the carpet. He tasted the warm thickness of it in his mouth and began to choke.

Noah rushed down the stairs.

Stanton, unable to breathe, saw his holster hanging from the chair in the kitchen with his suit coat; blood pouring down his legs as he sprinted for it. He felt the weight of steel in his hand and turned and fired three shots, missing twice and hitting his target once as Noah fired and missed.

He remembered the clink of the cartridges against the linoleum before the world went black, and he woke up in an intensive care unit, hooked to an IV and a ventilator.

Tami Jacobs was likely not a product of Noah’s pathology. But the possibility couldn’t be excluded. Stanton would have to see him to find out for sure.

14

Pelican Bay State Prison is what’s termed a “supermax” facility. This is to designate that it is a prison within a prison; units segregated and separated to such a degree as to be considered the highest level of security within the Department of Corrections. The designation is only given to those facilities housing prisoners considered a threat to national or international security. Those too dangerous to attempt rehabilitation.

The flight to Del Norte County had been brief and Stanton read an ebook on the history of the middle ages. The man next to him slept and began to snore. At one point his head collapsed backward, revealing four gold teeth and a thick white film on his tongue.

Stanton exited the plane and found a taxi out on the curb. The Del Norte County Airport was small but well kept and Stanton was impressed that no garbage littered the sidewalks outside as you saw with larger airports.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

“Pelican Bay prison.”

Stanton had been surprised how easy it was to secure funding for his flight here. He simply phoned Tommy and told him why he needed to go. Two hours later, a ticket was dropped onto his desk by a receptionist. Normally he would have to pay for it and then fight for months to get reimbursed by the department, if he ever got reimbursed at all.

“Why you headed out to the prison, man?”

“Just need to talk to somebody.”

The driver nodded as he turned right at an intersection without looking if anybody was coming from the opposite direction. “Had some homies up there myself. Back in the day. Some near twenty, maybe twenty-five years ago.”

“Oh, yeah? What were they in for?”

“Psst, all sorts a buuullshit, you know. Robbery, dealin’ drugs, attempted murder. You run wit them gangs and go out and rob somebody they add damn near ten years to your sentence.” The driver pulled out a lighter and held it in his hand. “So who you talkin’ to out here?” He pulled out a small pipe with his other hand from the ashtray and Stanton got a waft of the unmistakable smell of marijuana. “You mind?” the driver said.

“I’d prefer you didn’t.”

The driver shrugged and put the pipe back. He took out a flask from his pocket.

“My old partner.”

“Partner? Like business partner or somethin’?”

“No, I’m a cop. He was my partner.”

The driver slowly lowered the flask and placed it on the passenger seat. He unwrapped a piece of gum and put it in his mouth. He didn’t speak the rest of the time they drove, mumbling the fare when his car stopped next to the prison.

“Wait for me here,” Stanton said.

The facility was massive. Buildings spread out over a large clearing in what was essentially a forest. He stood near the entrance almost ten minutes, quietly pacing back and forth, before going in.

He walked to the X-shaped cluster of white buildings. They were surrounded by electrified barbed wire fencing and a small box was by the entrance. He pressed a button.

“Yeah?” a voice bellowed.

“Detective Stanton, San Diego PD. I have a visit scheduled with Noah Sherman.”

“Yeah, I got you.”

The fence slid open and Stanton stood a few moments, staring at the white steel door a guard had opened. He had a rifle slung over his shoulder and looked to Stanton, motioning with his head for him to come over.

He walked to him and the guard nodded and held the door.

Prison, any prison, has a smell to it. Sweat and flatulence and rotting food and rotting flesh. The corridors and reception area held only the slightest trace of the zoo contained a few hundred feet away and Stanton was given a visitor’s pass by the front entrance guard and led to a small room. He was sat on one side of a glass partition on a cold stool that was bolted to the floor. There were phones on both sides of the thick glass and he pulled out a small digital recorder and began recording.

He ran his hand along the glass and then over the concrete border. The ceiling had exposed water pipes and he followed them with his eyes to each wall. There were three other stools and glass partitions, but no one was using them.

A bolt on a door on the opposite side of the glass slid open and the metal creaked at the hinges. A muscled guard with tattoos running up his forearms walked behind a handcuffed Noah Sherman, the handcuffs wrapped in chains that ran around his ankles. The guard sat him down and then held up his hands, indicating ten minutes, and Stanton nodded. The guard went back out through the door and left them alone.

Sherman was in a yellow jumpsuit with white shoes, the laces removed. His hand went to the phone and he put it to his ear. Stanton picked up his end and could hear his breathing through the receiver.

“How are you, Noah?”

“You never ask a prisoner how they are. Then you put them in the position to either lie or talk about how miserable they are and they don’t want to do either. You’re supposed to say, ‘How you holding up?’ or ‘How are they treating you?’”

“How are they treating you?”

“I was raped my first night here. Do you know what it’s like to be raped, Jon? I bet you don’t. Two inmates paid a guard off with some weed and they were given a half hour with me. They took turns.”

“I’m sorry,” Stanton said.

“You’re sorry?”

“I didn’t put you in here.”

There was silence between them a long time.

“What the fuck do you want, Detective?”

“I wanted to talk.”

“You haven’t been here for two and half years and now you want to see me? Bullshit. Did they find another one of my bodies? There are more you know.”

“I know.”

“Are they still looking?”

“I don’t think so. Not in San Diego County. I heard they had a task force in Los Angeles.”

“I heard that too.” Sherman spread his legs in a wide stance and leaned forward. “So, you got a few minutes. What do you want to talk about?”

Deception or circumlocution, he knew, wouldn’t work. He would have to take a bold stance and stick to it. “Did you kill a girl named Tami Jacobs? Blond, twenty-three. A small apartment in La Jolla. It would’a been about a month before you went in.”

“You really think I’d be honest with you if I had?”

“Yes, I do.”

He grinned, exposing yellowed teeth. “Why?”

“I don’t know. Pride maybe.”

“Maybe.”

“Do you remember it?”

“I would need to look at a photo.”

Stanton pulled a small picture from his pocket. It was of Tami with her family in her University of Iowa sweatshirt.

“Pretty girl,” Sherman said. “Do you have any of her after the deed was done?”

“No.”

“You didn’t bring any?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because you would masturbate to them later.” Stanton noticed that Noah began gently rocking back and forth. He had seen him do this before, and had never paid attention to it until now. “Was it you?”

“Do you ever ask yourself why I would send you to that closet knowing what was there?”

“Yes.”

“And why do you think I did that? I wanted to be caught?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“Your first murder was probably immaculate. Little evidence, never told anyone … but by your fifth and sixth you started forgetting things. Little things at first and then it just became more and more chaos. Eventually you couldn’t remember anything. You probably had forgotten what was in the closet until you told me.”

Sherman made a sucking sound through the gap in his front teeth.

“Was it you, Noah?”

“No. It wasn’t me.”

He put the photo back in his pocket and rose to leave. He hung up the phone and Sherman said something through the glass but he couldn’t make it out.

Stanton stepped into the hallway, the door slamming shut behind him. He leaned against it and saw the sweat rings under his arms and wished he’d brought a shirt to change into. He could hear the madness contained just a few feet away. Men that had become ghosts to their families and friends, and animals to each other. He wanted to put his hands to his ears but instead he began walking toward the exit.

On his way out the guard at the front entrance said, “Them two boys that cornholed him, they ended up dyin’ some months later.”

“How?”

“One was burned in his cell. The other had his junk bitten off or somethin’ and bled out in the showers. We know the muthafucker did it but there ain’t no good proof.”

Stanton nodded to the guard and stepped outside. He had specifically asked for a room that wasn’t being monitored. If Noah knew their conversation was being listened to, he would’ve lied. Stanton would have to speak to him again. But he decided it could wait.

He looked around and realized the cab had left.

15

It was dark by the time Stanton landed back in Southern California. The air was different here, salty and warm like it had been exhaled from someone’s body. He found his car in short-term parking and drove to his apartment.

A neighbor was out on their patio when Stanton got home. It was an older gal, smoking a cigarette in the dark. He saw her silhouette and the bright pinpoint of red that would get brighter at her mouth and then darken when she lowered it.

“How are you, Suzie?”

“Doin’ fine, handsome. How are you?” she said. Her voice was grainy from the tobacco and alcohol she coated it in day-after-day.

“Not bad,” he said, taking a seat on the first step leading up to his apartment.

“Heard you workin’ with the cops again.”

“Who’d you hear that from?”

“Melissa stopped by tonight to see you. She told me.”

“Oh.”

“You miss her?”

“Yeah, I guess I do.”

“I like her. She went outta her way to say hello to me.” She finished one cigarette and put it out in an ashtray sitting on a table next to her before lighting another one. “When you gonna have your boys over again?”

“Next weekend. We’re going to Disneyland. They say they’re sick of it but I know they always have a good time.”

She blew out a puff of smoke and took a sip out of a can of beer. “I ever tell you I got kids?”

“No.”

“I got three. One of ‘em, Cindy, my youngest, still lives round here. My two boys moved though. I think to Vegas but I don’t know. I ain’t talked to ‘em since Clinton was president. I remember that cause Clinton was on the tv last time I talked to ‘em lyin’ through his teeth about blow jobs or somethin’.”

“You know what the president of France said when he heard Clinton got a blow job in the White House?”

“What?”

“Why else would anyone want to be president?”

She laughed and then sat quietly, staring out into the parking lot as someone rode past, slowed, and then sped away.

“What happened with you two anyway?”

“I don’t know. It was so gradual I don’t think either of us noticed until it was too late. I know she didn’t like living on a community college professor’s salary. But there was more to it. At some point we stopped talking to each other. After that, we didn’t care if we talked or not. ” He rose and began walking up to his apartment. “I better hit the sack. Have a good one.”

“You too, hon.”

The apartment seemed cold though he checked the thermostat and it read 71 degrees. He placed his badge and wallet and keys on the kitchen table and saw his gun hanging from the holster on the chair. He lifted the holster without touching the gun and placed it in one of the cupboards.

He went to his bathroom and undressed. The bathroom was the place he least liked to be. While married he would spend a lot of time there; reading ebooks or newspapers or surfing the internet on his phone. He would hear Melissa outside, trying to gather the kids together long enough to serve breakfast and get them ready for the day. When Jon Junior was young he would pound on the door and yell, “Dada, dada!”

It made Stanton uncomfortable to think of these things here. There was one moment at the end where he closed his eyes and let the hot water run over his head and down his back. The splashing in his ears drown out the rest of the world and he could imagine he was in the ocean, being carried away on a current to some unknown place.

He put on fresh undergarments-the garments bought from the LDS Church for members that had been endowed-and took out a protein shake from the fridge before sitting on the couch in the living room.

He flipped on the tv and began going through the channels. There was nothing on except crime shows and reality television. One show was about the wives of criminals exploiting their husband’s notoriety for profit and he watched it a moment before changing the channel. There were over two hundred channels and he couldn’t remember why he had gotten that many since he was almost never home.

His cell phone buzzed and he answer it. The ID said San Diego Police.

“Hello?”

“Jon? It’s Jessica … Turner.”

“Oh, hey.”

“I just heard from Tommy that you went to visit our mutual friend. I just wanted to know how it went I guess. Or, just to call and check on you. I don’t know … I guess I don’t really know why I called.”

“It’s okay. I’m glad you called. I wanted to apologize for not getting together for dinner with you yet.”

“That’s okay. I was married to a cop once.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

“No, I don’t really like to talk about it. He wasn’t much of a guy. But I was eighteen and really wanted to get out of my house. At least he did that for me before I left.”

“How’s your case panning out?”

“Talked to at least ten people today. No one saw or heard anything and they refuse to cooperate with me. What the hell is wrong with these people?”

“There was a woman in New York once that was stabbed nearly forty times in daylight. There were over thirty witnesses watching from their windows, but not a single one called the police. A couple of psychologists interviewed all of them and it turned out they weren’t evil, they just all assumed someone else was calling the police. If there had only been one witness, he likely would have called.”

“You think that’s it? They think someone else will help me?”

“I don’t know, maybe. Mostly people just don’t want to get involved.”

“It’s funny though cause I don’t remember that when I was a kid. All the neighbors looked after all the kids so we could play at night. I went back through my old neighborhood once and I didn’t see any kids playing at night anymore.”

“No, I think parents would have to not care to let them out at night.”

She hesitated and then said, “Um, so do you want to get dinner tomorrow? I’m free.”

“Sure.”

“Sorry,” she said, chuckling to herself.

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s just, I just moved down here and I know it’s only like two hours from where I used to live but it feels like I moved to a new state.”

“I know. It’s okay. I would love to have dinner with you tomorrow.”

“Okay. You pick the place.”

“No problem.”

“Okay, good night.”

“Night.”

Stanton hung up. He turned the tv off and went and lay down in bed. He stayed up another hour before dozing off, an image of a young blond girl in a University of Iowa sweatshirt burned into his mind.

16

Stanton went into the office on Friday morning and found Chief Harlow sitting at his desk, quietly staring out the window. He was dressed in a polo shirt and blue jeans with Italian leather shoes that gleamed from a recent shine. The photos of Jon Junior and Mathew were turned slightly off center and Stanton knew that Harlow had been looking at them. A copy of the Herald was spread on the desk.

Harlow saw him and pushed the paper across the desk and said, “Read this.” Stanton picked it up. On page five was a caption that read:

NEW COLD CASE UNIT FILLED WITH TROUBLED PASTS

Next to the caption was a photo of Stanton. It had been taken after he was released from the hospital when Noah had shot him. Reporters were hounding him as he was being pushed to an awaiting taxi in a wheelchair. His face was contorted with anger and bits of spittle were visible on the edges of his mouth. His eyes had fury in them. Anger was not an emotion he felt often and he hadn’t realized until now how awful it suited him. He sat down in the chair and began to read:

The San Diego Police Department has made an effort in recent years to begin solving the county’s enormous backlog of unsolved homicides. Chief Harlow’s latest attempt is the formation of the Cold Case Unit. In conjunction with the FBI, NCIS, LAPD and the San Diego County District Attorney’s Office, the unit is assigned cases older than one year that have no active leads. The theory is that with nothing else on their plates, the detectives can focus their absolute attention to a single unsolved homicide and the likelihood of an arrest should increase. A noble goal, but with one problem: some of the detectives assigned to the unit should not be writing parking tickets, much less solving homicides ….

Stanton read the article in its entirety as Harlow waited. There was mention of Chin Ho having legal trouble with the IRS. Nathan Sell had had an affair with a superior officer at the San Diego PD and was demoted and transferred three years ago as a result. Philip Russell was responsible for a botched home entry by the FBI where two unarmed civilians were shot and killed, one of them sixteen years old. He was sent to San Diego afterward, the article claimed, as punishment. Jessica Turner had taken a leave of absence from the LAPD due to “familial stress” and issues with domestic violence. The article listed Zoloft and Prozac as medications she was currently taking. But Stanton got the lion’s share of the article.

It discussed the time he had spent in 5 North, the county’s psychiatric unit, after the shooting with Noah. It discussed his inability to see Noah for what he was and it leading to more deaths. It talked about the fact that he had left the police force to teach and was brought in on a whim by the Chief because none of the established detectives wanted the job. It talked about the fact that he didn’t carry his gun with him.

The article was written by Hunter Royal.

“What do you think?” Harlow asked.

“I think it’s an op/ed, but it’s not in the opinion section. Hunter must know some of the higher-ups at the paper.”

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

“What would you like me to say, Mike? It’s all true. He didn’t make any of it up.”

“So the fuck what? I’m talking to the County Attorney about suing his ass. He can’t tell the world what medications my detectives are on. And how the fuck does he know you don’t carry your sidearm?”

Stanton shrugged and placed the paper down on the desk. Harlow stood up and began walking out of the office. His neck was splotchy red. Stanton had only seen his neck get that way after a good shouting match and he wondered who had been chewed out.

“If I were you, Jon, I’d start carrying your sidearm. Never know who reads this shit.”

Stanton crumpled the paper into a ball as Harlow left. He threw it in the trash bin by his desk. He took out Tami Jacobs’ file again and rummaged through everything. There was a day planner he had seen but didn’t look through in detail.

He found it near the bottom of the box; a pink planner with white ring binding. There were little hearts on the front and on the inside cover it said, “Property of Tami.”

The date of her death was empty. He flipped through the previous month and then the subsequent month. Then he started from the beginning and read the whole thing. There were birthdays of a few people and Stanton wrote their names down, though most of them were only first names. One particular entry that caught his attention was for Halloween of the year she was killed. It said, “Meet hottie at The Trapp.”

He Googled The Trapp and found that it was a bar in La Jolla. He wrote down the address and then flipped through the day planner one more time to see if there was anything he missed.

His phone rang.

“This is Jon.”

“Jon, this is Marcy, in Vice downstairs.”

Stanton remembered Marcy from her days as front desk receptionist. She was legendary for how protective she was of her beloved SDPD. It was rumored she once spent three hours talking a citizen out of making a complaint to IAD.

“What can I do for you, Marcy?”

“I have a message from Captain Young. He says he’s not going to be able to set up a meeting between you and Detective Hernandez at this time.”

“Well when can he do it?”

“That’s all the information I have, Detective. We’ll keep you posted.”

Stanton hung up and left his hand on the receiver. He tapped it three times and then got up and ran to the elevators.

The San Diego Police Department had nine divisions splitting the city into districts. La Jolla was in the Northern Division. Young, though captain over Vice Operations for the entire city, was from the Midwest Division and that was his baby. He wouldn’t care that much about one murder in Northern.

Vice Administration was on the third floor and Stanton walked through reception, holding up his badge to the secretary. She was a newbie and wasn’t sure if that was proper procedure or not but Stanton seemed so confident she let him pass without a word.

He got to Young’s office and saw Marcy sitting at a small desk out front. He ran to the office door and she began yelling as he opened it. No one was inside.

“What the hell are you doing!” she yelled. “You can’t barge in on a captain! I’m calling-”

“Where is he?”

“None of your business, Jon. Now you-”

Stanton noticed photos on her desk. They were of two teenage daughters. Her husband had his arms wrapped around their shoulders and they were in softball uniforms.

“Marcy,” he interrupted. He pulled out the photo of Tami he kept in the breast pocket of his shirt. He placed it in front of her and her eyes went to it. “She was twenty-three years old. He raped her for ten hours, and then tortured her to death. George has information that can help me catch him. Please, where is he?”

Marcy swallowed and he could see the slightest trace of tears welling up in her eyes. He left the photo out a little longer than necessary and then slowly put it back in his pocket.

“You can’t say-”

“It stays between us.”

“He’s having breakfast at Bencotto. It’s on Fir Street near the PCH.”

“Thank you.”

Stanton sped out of the parking lot and rolled down his windows. He didn’t even know why he was rushing. Young would be back in the administrative offices later today. Maybe, instinctually, he wanted to catch him off guard. Stop him somewhere he wasn’t used to having authority and at a time he didn’t want to have the conversation.

Stanton raced along the freeway, weaving in and out of traffic though it wasn’t necessary. A small part of him said that he missed this.

Bencotto was chic and urban, the lower level opting for glass instead of walls. The servers were all attractive and well groomed, the bar hosting a few people getting drunk before heading in to work.

Stanton stepped inside and scanned the restaurant. He saw Captain George Young sitting at a table with a blond. She was stunning, even from this far; her artificial breasts bulging from underneath a sleek summer dress. Stanton went and stood next to the table.

At first Young didn’t recognize him, and then his brow furrowed and he threw his napkin on the table and stood up.

“Outside,” he said.

They went out to the parking lot and Young looked around to make sure no one was near. His muscles rippled underneath his clothes and Stanton guessed he’d gained at least thirty pounds since the last time he saw him. He knew he had been taking steroids since he transferred to Vice almost fifteen years ago. There was something about the Vice cops that leant itself easily to dangerous behaviors. They were the most on edge, the line between them and the people they were after occasionally blurring to the point of being unrecognizable. But, under circumstances that would break most normal people, they kept themselves centered most of the time. It was the select few that willingly chose to take a different path that gave them that reputation.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Why can’t I see Hernandez?”

“Are you shitting me? You came all the way out here for that?”

“He’s got information I need. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is he’s under with the Sureños and if they even fucking think he’s a cop-”

“We weren’t even going to meet in the city. This happens all the time. I know he meets with you for review. Just let me be there and ask a few questions at the next one.”

“No way. I’m not jeopardizing a year of work so you can play tv detective for some case you ain’t gonna solve anyway.”

“Let me talk to him on the phone then. I only need a few minutes.”

Young stepped closer to him, within inches of his face, using his superior size to try and intimidate him. “I said no. When he’s out and the investigation is over, come see me. Till then, stay the fuck away from my detectives.”

17

Stanton drove down to Mission Beach and sat in the sand, watching the waves roll in to shore and crackle and foam before being pulled back into the vast sea again. A heron dipped underneath the water and came out glistening in the noonday sun.

He took off his shoes and pushed his feet into the sand until they were covered.

There was something about the beach that always calmed him. Most locals took the ocean for granted. Eventually they grew so accustomed to it being there they hardly ever came, unless they were there for a specific reason; like picking up women or surfing. That’s why he preferred watching the tourists. They were there just to be in the presence of the ocean.

He took out his cell phone and called Chief Harlow. He picked up on the third ring.

“What’s up, Jon?”

“I have something to ask you: how badly do you want me to solve this case?”

“What? What kinda question is that?”

“I need access to an undercover in Vice.”

There was a long silence and then he said, “Talk to Young, he’ll get you-”

“He already said no.”

“Well then the answer’s no.”

“It’s one of the original detectives on the case. His report isn’t complete. There’s information missing and I need to know why.”

“Look, Jon, I’d love to help you, you know I would. But if I were to come down on one of my captains like this, not even to mention if he found out you went over his head, there’d be a shit-storm. He’d never trust me again and he’d keep me outta the loop on things I need to be in on.”

Stanton grew angry until he admitted to himself that Harlow was right. The chief, no matter how well liked, was seen as an administrator by the rank and file. If he overrode a captain who’s right there in the field making calls, it would hurt morale and less information would be kicked up the chain of command.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to work, Mike.”

“It is what it is. Hey, we’ll talk more about this later. I’m in the middle of something.”

“Sure.”

A homeless man came up and asked for change. Stanton, as a policy, didn’t give to the homeless as he knew from his time in uniform that most of them were scam artists. But there was something desperate about him, something so pitiful that it tugged at him and he pulled out a five and gave it to him. The homeless man had a little pad with him. He sketched a quick drawing of Stanton sitting in the sand. It was actually good. The man ripped the white top off the pad and a yellow carbon copy was underneath. He gave the top copy to Stanton and then walked away.

Stanton stared at the drawing and wondered when in the hell he had gotten so old.

He turned back to the ocean and was about to put his phone away when a thought hit him. It was clear that the police weren’t going to help him. But maybe there was someone else that would. Stanton Googled Maverick “Hunter” Royal and came up with bios and pieces he’d written, but no phone numbers. He called Tommy and asked him to search records and get it for him. He was about to hang up, thinking he would get a call back in ten or fifteen minutes, but Tommy told him to wait. He had it up in thirty seconds.

“Since when can we do that?” Stanton said.

“Since this year. PD’s connected to the DMV, FBI, California DOJ and the DOC records. We can do a search from any computer here.”

“Consider me impressed.”

“Considered. What’d you wanna talk to this guy for anyway? I saw that piece he did.”

“Just want to tear him a new one.”

“Gotcha. Here’s the number, I’ll text it to you.”

Stanton put the number into his contacts and then dialed. Hunter answered himself and there was a hint of confusion in his voice. Stanton knew this was his personal cell number.

He and Hunter had had a good relationship before the shooting and he frequently leaked tidbits to him that didn’t impact an investigation. Perception was everything, and Hunter helped create that perception. Most people in the SDPD saw him as a pariah and refused to cooperate with him. But Stanton knew, pariah or not, he was an important part of the job.

“Hunter. It’s Jon Stanton.”

“Johnny baby. What’dya know, what’dya you say?”

“How you been?”

“Same. How you adjusting to badge life again? Tin’s not too heavy I hope.”

“No, not yet anyway.”

“Hey, Johnny, I uh, I’m sorry about that thing in the paper. You were always one of my favorites, you know that, but it was a hack job on the unit. I had to go for the jugular.”

“We both got a job to do. I don’t hold it against you. But throwing in the stuff about my gun was a little low.”

“Yeah, as soon as I read that I regretted it. It just made for such good print.”

“Well, you owe me one then. And I want to collect.”

“What’dya need?”

“Vice detective is undercover with the Sureños. I need to know where he is.”

“Whew, dangerous stuff, Johnny boy. That’s not gonna be cheap to find out.”

“How much?”

“Four thousand, easy. Maybe even five.”

“I’ll see what I can do. His name’s Francisco Hernandez. He was with Robbery/Homicide until a year ago.”

“Okay, got it. Hey, when you gonna come out drinkin’ with us?”

“When you start coming to church with me.”

“Ha, message received. Talk to you later.”

“Later.”

18

“You want how much!”

Stanton thought Tommy looked like he was either about to pass out or start yelling.

Tommy was technically a police officer rank two, just underneath a detective. But he had never shown any initiative for taking the next step up the ladder. After Harlow picked him as his personal assistant, Tommy never looked to working a regular beat again. He was young and full of bravado; sometimes he was the only one in the entire force that had the guts to stand up to Harlow. But he was overly loyal. Stanton knew if Harlow needed something done that wasn’t on the up and up, Tommy would do it.

“It’s necessary,” Stanton said, sitting across from Tommy in the office next to Harlow’s. It was the second largest office on the floor, larger than the Executive Assistant Chief under Harlow.

“The only thing that could justify that much scratch is a drug buy. No way I can approve that, Jon.”

“Mike said we would get anything we need.”

“Yeah, but within reason. Five grand in cash without you being able to tell me what it’s for is not reasonable.”

“You can take it out of my salary, over time. I just don’t have that much on me.”

“Over your … are you crazy? You want to pay five G’s of your own money on this stupid case?”

Stanton got a look at how everybody viewed the homicide of Tami Jacobs. It was something they didn’t want to speak about. Cases that were deemed unsolvable were often treated that way. They were a mark of failure, of madness that showed itself and disappeared. It was an uncomfortable reminder for even the most hardened detectives that even the really crazy ones sometimes got away.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Tommy said. “It’s just, five G’s is a lot to not have a reason.”

“I’m paying someone to reveal a source. A good source that is absolutely necessary for me to do my job.”

Tommy was quiet; looking Stanton in the face like it could reveal something to him. He turned to his computer and pulled up a disbursement sheet. “Fine, you’ll have it in an hour. But if this doesn’t go anywhere, I can’t authorize anymore spending.”

“Deal.”

*****

The restaurant Stanton had chosen specialized in Nepalese cuisine but still considered itself an Indian establishment for marketing purposes. It was decorated in posters of Mt. Everest, cloth tapestry with small jewels sewn in, bowls from Nepal, and paintings of every day scenes from the Himalayas. Stanton pulled Jessica’s chair out as they were sat near the windows and then ordered two strawberry lassis.

“Do you come here a lot?” she asked.

“I used to. After a shift me and my partner would come here for a late night dinner.”

“You can say his name, Jon. I’m not a child.”

“I didn’t mean to patronize you. I just don’t like talking about him.”

The lassis came and she dipped her straw in it and pulled it out, sucking the fruit bits off the tip. “Did you read the paper? The piece about our unit?”

“Yeah.”

“They made me seem like a nut-job.”

“It wasn’t as bad as everyone’s making it out and people will forget about it in a few weeks. There’s always a new story, a new person to attack.”

They ordered their meal and some naan and mango chutney was brought out for them. They ate in silence and Stanton wished he hadn’t brought up Sherman. He had found himself, over the past two years, speaking about him at times that weren’t appropriate.

“I had a sister that was in 5 North for about three weeks.”

“Really?” Stanton said, unsure what else to say.

She nodded. “She committed suicide a little later. When she got out. They can fix ‘em while they’re there but they can’t do shit when they get out.”

“The facility treats you like you’re not human sometimes. You either do as they say or they’ll restrain you and do it anyway. Luckily for me it was all prescriptions with little talk-therapy.”

“Must’ve been scary.”

“For some. I mostly just stayed in my room and kept to myself.” He took a forkful of chicken and dipped it in the mango chutney. It was soft and moist and went down as easily as warm butter. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to talk about something else.”

“Me too. How about we talk about Harlow?”

“What about him?”

“Everybody’s dying to know how you two are so tight. Everyone else on this team was chosen for the application process and then went through three interviews and a screening before being selected. The rumor is he just recruited you personally.”

“Mike and I were detectives in narcotics for a brief time. We hit it off and have stayed friends. Some people can do that. Make a quick connection that never breaks. I trust him.”

“I wish I had that; someone to trust. So far, I haven’t seen anyone worthy of absolute trust.”

“Maybe you’re searching the wrong places.”

She attempted to answer when Stanton’s phone buzzed. He checked it and a text had been received. It said: money in ur acct good luck-Tom

“Who is it?”

“Tommy. He came through on something for me I wasn’t sure he could come through on.”

She absent-mindedly played with the food on her plate awhile and then said, “So this Mormon thing. I have a few questions and then I won’t ask about it again.”

“No worries. Ask away.”

“I’ve heard you guys think the Garden of Eden is in Missouri?”

“True.”

“Isn’t that kinda, silly?”

“Why? Do you think having it in Africa or Jerusalem is somehow more serious?”

“Well, no, I guess not. But it seems weird that America would play such a big role in the Bible.”

“Generation after generation has been taught that the most important religious events have happened in the Middle East and that is what everyone has accepted. Doesn’t make it true.”

“Guess not. Okay, how about multiple wives?”

“I’m all for it.”

She smiled and said, “No, be serious.”

“Abandoned that practice a long time ago.”

“Everyone?”

“Everyone that’s a true Church member, yeah. So I’d like to ask you something now.”

“Okay.”

“I noticed you only wear one earring. I thought you’d forgotten or lost the other one but then I saw that you did it every day.”

She looked down to her plate. “My sister and I would share earrings when we were kids. When I used to visit her, toward the end of her life, we started doing it again. I put one of all of my earrings in a little box that was buried with her. Now I just wear one.”

This time her phone interrupted them and she checked the ID.

“Sorry, have to take this. It’s the sitter.”

“No problem.”

As she rose and answered her phone, walking out to the front entrance to talk, he texted Hunter: Deal’s on. 5 is the highest I can go.

Ten seconds later, he replied: no need got it for 2.

19

It was nearly eleven o’clock when Stanton dropped Jessica off at her apartment and made his way to Rancho Santa Fe to meet Hunter at his place.

Rancho Santa Fe was easily the most affluent area of the city and in the top three most affluent places in America. The median household income was right under $200,000 and for a small cottage with no yard someone could expect to pay over a million dollars. It was predominantly white and in every driveway was a Mercedes or BMW or Cadillac or Lincoln. The usual marks of life indicating that people lived in a neighborhood were not present here; there were no toys left out on lawns, no neighbors barbequing together. Whenever Stanton came through this area it gave him a heavy gray feeling in his gut. Becoming successful enough to live in Rancho Santa Fe was the goal of most people in the city, but the top was as hollow as the bottom. Meaning came from somewhere else.

He pulled into a quiet street in a cul-de-sac and parked on the curb. The home was square with a well manicured lawn and trimmed hedges. A neon sign hung above the door:

ABANDON ALL HOPE YE WHO ENTER HERE

Stanton walked up the driveway past a 7-Series BMW and knocked on the door. No one came. He knocked again and rang the doorbell. He tried the door; it was open.

The house was immaculately clean and a small note with a mint was on a table by the door, indicating that a maid had come through recently. Art hung on all the walls. It was neither good art nor bad, but the eclectic mix gave it a certain randomness that made it appear tacky.

The living room was a large space with three flat-screens up on a single wall, all turned to the same channel. It was a vampire show and on the leather sofas that took up most of the room were two partially nude women; one black, one white. They were wearing bathing suit bottoms but no tops and the stale air of marijuana smoke was thick.

“I’m looking for Hunter.”

“He’s in the pool,” one of the girls said without taking her eyes off the televisions.

Stanton saw the sliding glass doors and went outside. The pool was large and lit with underwater lights on each end. Hunter was splashing around with a woman, both of them nude. A male was passed out in a lounge chair on the side of the pool, a small line of cocaine laid out on a mirror he had placed on his chest.

“Johnny boy!” Hunter yelled out. He stuck his tongue in the girl’s mouth and said something that made her giggle before climbing out of the pool and wrapping a white robe around himself. The initials “MHR” were stitched in gold lettering over the heart. “Hungry, thirsty, horny?”

“I’m fine, thanks. I brought the cash.”

“Straight to business, huh? Well at least come inside and watch while I get drunk.”

They walked inside and to the kitchen. Hunter opened the fridge and scanned up and down, unfamiliar with what was in there, and noticed a bottle of cognac.

“Who the fuck put my cognac in the fridge?” he yelled to no one. He poured it into a wine glass and drank half before motioning to the living room. He plopped in between the two girls and put his arms around them. “Interesting little cookie this Francisco.”

“Can we talk in private?”

“Oh don’t worry,” he said, pushing the heads of the girls together lightly, “they’re empty as rocks. Ain’t you girls?”

“Asshole,” one of them said.

Hunter took a drink and grinned. “They got him set up on Cleveland Ave in a little shitty apartment. The name of the apartments is the, Boca Del Ray. His name’s Hector Garcia and he’s a footsoldier with the Sureños. They sent him in for the prostitution the gang’s been running. Prostitutes are a much safer business than drugs. Most pimps are low level guys out there by themselves. Sureños think with their rep they can muscle everybody out and have it to themselves. They’re probably right too.”

Stanton wrote everything down in his pad and then took out two thousand in cash in an envelope.

“No no,” Hunter said, “on me. For the gun thing.”

“Thanks. Consider us even.”

“Even Steven.” He began pushing the girls’ heads into his lap. “You sure you don’t want to stay?”

“Positive.”

*****

Stanton sat in his car outside awhile, staring at the information in his notepad. He had to move forward cautiously; if the crew Francisco was running with even suspected that he was working with the cops, much less was a cop, it would be instant death. No words exchanged, no explanations given. Just a bullet in the back of his head when he wasn’t expecting it.

He pulled away and got onto the Interstate, taking his time to get to the Cleveland/Lincoln Avenue exits. The area was primarily apartment high-rises and low-income tenements. It was segregated into three different districts: white, Mexican, and Russian. He remembered a case he had out here. A wife had shot her husband after she found a receipt from an escort agency in his pants.

The Boca Del Ray was a square, cream colored building with a large front porch and a keypad entry. Two young Mexicans were on the porch smoking. They saw him and Stanton could tell from the looks on their faces they made him for police before his car even came to a stop in front of the building.

He got out and looked around. In heavily populated gang turf there were scouts everywhere. Their job was to alert the street’s enforcer; the person in charge of protection from rival gangs and the police. They had grown sophisticated over the past two decades, choosing to take to sniping from rooftops rather than face-to-face combat. A lot of officers were shot because they weren’t aware of what they were up against. Newbies would act tough, thinking they would win by dog psychology, and set off flags from the scouts that this officer wasn’t going away.

“Smells like bacon, holmes.”

Stanton stepped up onto the porch. It was too late for subtlety so he flashed his badge and crossed his arms; he couldn’t afford to let them see he wasn’t packing a firearm. “Someone called 911.”

“Ain’t no one called 911 from here.”

“Look guys, someone called 911. Female. Said her boyfriend or someone was beating on her. Just let me talk to her and make sure she’s okay and I’ll get outta here.”

The men looked to each other. They mumbled something in Spanish and Stanton made out the words, dumb bitch.

One of the men entered a code on the door. “They in 2-C.”

Stanton walked through without looking at them. It had the feel of a compound and he’d just gotten past the sentinels. Not five miles from here was a police station and a courthouse but there was no law here. He suddenly felt foolish for not carrying his gun with him.

The front lobby was orange carpet and walls with a staircase leading to the second floor. The mailboxes were covered in graffiti and most of them had been pried open. He wondered how the people here got their mail or if they were so disconnected from the rest of society that mail didn’t matter.

He walked up the stairs to apartment 2-C and knocked. A young woman answered.

“Are you okay?” he said.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m the police. Someone called 911 and said there was a domestic disturbance here.”

“Ain’t no domestic disturbance.”

“So you’re saying you don’t need any help?”

“Do I look like I need any fucking help?”

“No, you certainly don’t. Sorry to take your time.”

She slammed the door in his face and he left and went back to the first floor. It was enough. The men out front would think she’d called and when she denied it they would think she was lying. The boyfriend would deny hitting her, but everyone denied that. They wouldn’t think a cop made the whole thing up.

Francisco’s apartment was at the end of the hallway. He made sure the two men on the porch weren’t paying attention before crossing over into that hallway and hurrying across the soiled carpet. Stanton could smell cooking food; pork or beef. A Spanish television station was turned up somewhere and he could hear it through the walls.

Stanton knocked and then stepped to the side of the door. It opened and he saw the tip of a.38 caliber Remington sticking out.

He twisted and grabbed the gun, spinning to his left and tearing it out of the person’s hands. The man was short and bald with a thick goat-t. Stanton stepped back and held the gun firmly pointed at his face.

“Inside,” he said.

Francisco stepped back into the apartment, not raising his arms. They walked down the hall to the living room and stood quietly as Stanton glanced around.

“Is there anyone else here?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Stanton lowered the gun and held it out for him. “I’m Jon Stanton. I’m with SDPD.” He took out his badge again. He could see fury in Francisco’s eyes.

“Do you know what you’ve-”

“I don’t care about your hooker operation. I need your help.”

“Fuck you.”

He was animated now, his arms beginning to move, his brow furrowed in anger. He grabbed the gun from him and held it pointed to the ground. Stanton had met him once a long time ago and remembered that he spoke perfect English. Now, his speech pattern was of someone whose primary language was Spanish. He’s been under too long, he thought.

“Do you remember the Tami Jacobs case? She was killed in her apartment in La Jolla? I have it now. I have some questions about the investigation.”

Francisco stepped within an inch of his face. “Fuck … you.” He shoved him at the shoulders.

“I just need five minutes and then you’ll never see me again.”

Francisco’s right hand was clinched into a fist and there was only the bare minimum memory that he was a police officer holding him back from smashing it into Jon’s face. Stanton could see there wouldn’t be any conversation tonight.

“I’ll leave.”

When he was outside again he heard the two men on the porch laughing at him as he got into his older model Honda. As he drove away he looked up to the sky and saw a crescent moon hanging over the city; and on the rooftop of a building, a young boy with a rifle slung over his shoulder.

20

Saturday spent at Disneyland flew by in a heartbeat and on Sunday morning Stanton had to return his sons to their mother before heading to church. Their mother had once been Mormon but abandoned the faith before their marriage ended. Now, Stanton was informed by his son, they played on Sunday. Going to barbeques and parks and sailing with Lance’s friends. Melissa objected to the boys being exposed to church and a judge had agreed with her. It pained Stanton deeply that he couldn’t share the Gospel of Jesus Christ with his kids, but it was something he had to learn to live with.

The Gospel was important to him. Stanton read either the Bible or the Book of Mormon every night. It was his foundation. In a world he felt was crumbling around him, there was a shining gem that he could hold on to. It was necessary.

Church began with sacrament and the passing of bread and water symbolizing Christ’s body and blood. Then a young woman rose and spoke about faith. There were no professional clergy in the Mormon Church and sermons were given by members of the congregation.

After sacrament there was Sunday school. The topic was the symbolism found in the Book of Isaiah. Afterward was the priesthood session in which the men and women would separate for another lesson.

After church he went home and made a sandwich. He took it and a bottle of juice to the balcony and sat on the bare cement instead of a chair. The sun was particularly bright today and he went back inside the apartment and put on his sunglasses before coming back out.

Sunday was his day of rest. A commandment had been given to keep the Sabbath day holy and he tried his best not to think about Tami Jacobs. But she wouldn’t get out of his head. He would close his eyes and see her broken and torn body lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling as if calling for help. When he dreamt, it was of her now, or people associated with her. His mind always had difficultly putting up partitions between things in his life. They would become associations and everything would meld until all his thoughts were one compost heap of jumbled ideas and associations. From this heap, he would begin to reassemble what he needed.

Before he could eat his phone rang and he saw that it was a number he didn’t recognize. He answered and heard Jessica speaking with somebody.

“Hello?” he said.

“Hey, Jon. We’re out and about and I was wondering what you’re doing today?”

“Nothing. Just relaxing.”

“I made a picnic with my son and I’d like you to meet him.”

“Sure. Why don’t you guys come down here. We could eat at the beach.”

Stanton gave his address and then went to put the sandwich in the fridge. When he opened the fridge door, he was embarrassed of what was inside. There was deli meat, bread, mayonnaise, ketchup, an old container of pesto sauce, and a few bottles of juice. Nothing else. Melissa used to do all their grocery shopping and going to the store made him uncomfortable.

Twenty minutes later a silver Volvo pulled to a stop in front of his apartment. He walked down and met them. The boy was handsome with long eyelashes, and fully involved on his Iphone.

“Hey,” she said as she walked over to him. Instinctively, without a thought, she pecked him on the cheek. “Sorry. Habit.”

“No worries. Who’s this?”

“This is Andrew. Andrew, say hello.”

“Hello,” he said without looking up.

“He’s a real talker as you can see.”

Stanton looked down the beach and saw surfers coming back for a lunch break. “We should eat at the beach. Has he ever surfed?”

“Once or twice.”

“Hey, Andrew, do you like surfing?”

“Yeah,” he said, finally looking up.

“Well I happen to have a board just your size. You wanna head down with me?”

“Sure.”

They went upstairs to the apartment and Stanton changed into a bathing suit. Mathew had a few suits here and he got one that would fit Andrew. They picked up two surfboards from the apartment storage room Stanton rented for a monthly fee and some surfwax and headed onto the beach.

The water appeared blue and clear; a soft breeze blowing over it and causing ripples. Jessica set up a blanket and began preparing sandwiches out of a basket she had brought with her. Stanton and Andrew were closer to the water, going over the basics of paddling and keeping your balance on the board. When Andrew felt ready, they ran into the water.

It was warm today and Stanton was glad he didn’t have to wear a wetsuit. He enjoyed the feel of ocean against his skin and the salty taste as it splashed up onto his lips. Morning was best, when no one was out here and the sun was just beginning to rise. It would sometimes reflect off the water so fiercely the entire ocean looked like it had been dyed orange. Night surfing was second best. It was occasionally so quiet Stanton could hear the cries of whales farther offshore.

They paddled out far from the beach and Stanton yelled a few instructions to Andrew before they caught their wave. Stanton lay flat for awhile, letting the wave dictate where he went before hopping to his feet. He glanced at Andrew and he was still lying on his belly. Stanton motioned with his hand for him to rise but he shook his head.

They surfed only half an hour before Andrew said he had had enough. Toward the end he attempted to stand once and immediately fell over.

As they walked back onto the beach Andrew said he didn’t like surfing.

“You have to get used to letting the ocean be in control,” Stanton said. “We’re used to guiding ourselves everyday but it’s not like that out there. You have to give yourself up completely to the ocean. Once you do that, you’ll become just an extension of it and instead of fighting it you’ll be part of it. Some of the top surfers even say they can predict where the ocean will go, how it will move, just by feeling.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

They ate sandwiches and drank Perrier until the afternoon. Andrew talked about school and his friends, about he and his father’s trip up to Alaska to fish, and about all the other things that were going on in his life. His mother grinned the whole time and Stanton knew he wasn’t normally like this. The ocean had that effect on people.

When they finished and were saying good-bye near Jessica’s car, she loaded Andrew in and gave Stanton a quick kiss on the lips. It was dry, but there was a sweetness and familiarity to it that Stanton had missed.

As they drove away he stood and watched, the image of Tami Jacobs in her bed pushed out of his mind.

21

Stanton went into work early on Monday. Their unit meeting was scheduled for ten o’clock and he wanted to get a few hours of work in before that. The floor was empty except for a few offices that had their lights on and he found the silence relaxing as he went to his office and booted up his computer. While he waited for the monitor to warm up, he looked out to the passing traffic and was grateful he had the window.

He logged into the SDPD intranet using the password the administrator emailed him and went to the human resources tab. He found the file for Francisco Hernandez.

Francisco’s life was a story Stanton had heard before. He had grown up in a gang and had a record as a juvenile that he had gotten expunged. At nineteen he had pulled himself away from his gang life and joined the police department to help clean up the degradation of his neighborhood he must’ve seen. He didn’t graduate high school but finished his GED later in life and then an associate’s degree in criminal justice at a local city college when he was twenty-two.

His third year on the force, he was involved in a shooting. A young Mexican kid tried to shoot him when he had pulled him over for speeding. Francisco managed to fire two rounds before being run over by the car. After any officer involved shooting, it was standard procedure to have a visit with the precinct psychiatrist and have him write a psychological profile and clear the officer for duty. Stanton searched for the profile, but didn’t find it. It was confidential and wouldn’t be in the HR file.

He rose and went to Tommy’s office.

Tommy had his feet up on the desk and was talking softly on the phone. So softly in fact that Stanton had thought he wasn’t in. He sat down across from him and waited. Tommy made a motion of one minute and then continued to speak. He appeared to be placing an order for something but when the conversation was done he said, “Love you.”

“I need a favor, Tommy.”

“So soon?”

Stanton threw an envelope with five thousand in cash on the desk. “That should buy me one favor I think.”

“What happened?”

“I saved the department some scratch. Like I said, I think it buys me one favor.”

“Depends what the favor is.”

“I need the psych profile for a detective.”

Tommy stared at him a moment and then burst out in laughter. “Can’t you ever ask for a credit card to buy gas or a new gun or something like that?”

“I don’t need those things. I need a psych profile.”

“Why? Oh wait, let me guess, you can’t tell me?”

“I could but I prefer not to.”

“Well, indulge me, Detective. Please.”

“I want to find something I can use to convince the detective to give me the information I need.”

“You mean blackmail?”

“No, I don’t. Just something that can give me some insight into him.”

“That’s out there. Even for you. What’s going on?”

Stanton looked out the window. The building across the street had construction crews on the roof and they were standing around in the morning sunlight, two of them hard at work and the others laughing and joking.

“I can’t get this girl out of my head, Tommy. She came here looking for a new start because her life back home was so messed up. What she found instead was the grim reaper waiting for her in her apartment one Wednesday night. She was twenty-three, a kid, and she went through just about as much pain as a human being can go through before she died. She deserves something for that, Tommy. She deserves me to get this guy.”

Tommy thought about what he said and then straightened up in his chair. “You’ve always had a way with words. Who’s the detective?”

“Francisco Hernandez. He’s in Vice.”

“We could both lose our jobs for this. You know that, right?”

“Yes.”

“But, we’re going to do it anyway, aren’t we?”

“Yes.”

*****

Francisco’s profile was there in less than two hours. It came in paper form with instructions from Tommy to shred the document afterward and never mention it to anyone again. It was two pages long and Stanton knew the psychiatrist had not been paying attention. It was a paycheck to him; process as many cops as possible and get them out as quickly as possible.

The profile talked about issues with authority and antisocial tendencies. One section spoke about prior drug use, marijuana, but didn’t go into details. It was in the second to last paragraph of the second page that Stanton found what he was looking for: Subject transferred from the Sex Crimes Unit after two weeks due to his inability to separate current caseload with the sexual assault suffered by his younger sister to which he was privy.

He felt a twinge of guilt in his belly, but he thought about Tami in her bloodied bed and chose the lesser of two evils. He left the building as the rest of the unit was assembling for the mandatory Monday morning meeting.

22

Stanton stopped at the evidence locker at the Central Division precinct. The evidence custodian was an older officer, one that had passed his prime and the prospect of giving a damn a long time ago. He had probably already served his twenty and retired, but come back to the force. Stanton had seen that plenty. Their spouses would pass and they would find themselves sitting at home, surfing the television and then warming up a meal in the microwave before going to bed. A lot of old-timers came back and looked for desk jobs or court duties or work as paper-shufflers. The positions no one on their way up wanted.

The custodian only casually glanced at Stanton’s credentials and got him the file he wanted. Inside was a CD and Stanton signed for it and slipped it into the pocket of his suit coat.

He drove back to the Boca Del Ray and parked farther down the street this time. There was a van and a large truck and he parallel parked between them. The two men from the other night were replaced by two different men; boys really. They couldn’t have been over twenty. It was early enough in the morning that the scouts weren’t out. They wouldn’t be up until around noon.

It was hot and his car began to cook him. He turned on the air conditioner but the air that spewed out was warm and dusty. He rolled down the windows instead and loosened his tie. The seats only reclined so much and he put his head back on the rest, and waited.

104.9 was playing a collection of Mozart’s The Magic Flute and he listened to the entire opera before they played pieces from Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos. He watched the people entering and leaving the apartment complex. Many were young kids who should have been in school and he knew their parents were strung out somewhere, aching for their next hit. Occasionally he would see a hooker waiting on the street corner but they were run off quickly by the gangs. Though technically part of the Sureños, these lower-level gangs weren’t part of the hierarchy coming out of Los Angeles and operated independently. Unlike the Sureños proper, they had not realized drugs were a losing game. They were not expanding to other areas. They were old school and wanted their corners; and they would live and they would die on those corners.

It was nearly three hours later that Francisco Hernandez stepped out of the building. He was wearing khakis riding low and a thin white t-shirt. He hung out and smoked a cigarette with the two men on the patio and then went out to his car in the back. It was a decked-out Bronco with shining rims and fresh paint; a flame across the sides and gold trim around the bumpers.

Stanton pulled away from the curb and followed him. He was just far enough away that he could see him, but no closer. Francisco would see a tail.

The Bronco eventually stopped at a car wash and Francisco got out and threw the keys to one of the employees. He went inside and Stanton parked around the corner and walked to the entrance. He peeked through the glass double-doors and saw Francisco flipping through a magazine. He waited outside. When the car was done Francisco paid and came outside.

“I like the car,” Stanton said.

Francisco stopped and turned to him. He shook his head and glanced around. “You just ain’t gonna leave me alone, are you? I’m gonna have to-”

“I told you last night if you give me five minutes you’ll never have to see me again.”

“And I told you fuck you.”

“I can’t keep it a secret forever. I’m not going to stop, but at some point the esays are going to notice a cop following you and start asking questions. Or maybe they won’t ask questions?” He stepped closer to him. “Five minutes. That’s all I want. Besides, they’re still drying your car”

“Fine. Five minutes.”

“Come with me to my car. I have something I’d like you to hear.”

They walked around the corner and climbed into Stanton’s Honda. Francisco got into the backseat. He ducked low enough so that no one would see him and waited for Stanton to speak first.

Stanton put in the CD.

It was muffled at first, filled with static, but then voices began to come through. They were speaking quietly and then you could hear tape ripped off of flesh and there was a scream that made the speakers rattle. It was of a young girl and she was begging for her life. Male voices were laughing and swearing and yelling as the young girl begged and cried. The CD continued for over seven minutes and Stanton played the entire thing.

He looked back to Francisco and his face was ashen white. He hadn’t moved the entire time, curled up on the backseat with his head below the window line. Stanton stopped the CD.

“I had this case five years ago,” he said, facing forward. “Three ex-cons. They got out of prison and decided to celebrate. She was fifteen. They picked her up on her way home from school and recorded while they raped and tortured her in the back of a van. When they were done they threw her out onto the middle of the freeway in broad daylight. No one stopped. She died in the hospital from brain trauma and blood loss.” He turned to him, eyes locked. “Tami Jacobs went through the same thing. This type of killer, a sexual sadist, is the most dangerous type of person. They can’t achieve climax without inflicting pain. They have no remorse, no guilt, and they’re usually smart. They fantasize so much about what they’re going to do to their victims that they know ahead of time what evidence they are likely to leave behind. And they don’t stop. Ever. There have been cases of them being imprisoned and the guards finding insects they keep in their cells to torture. They’re Satan.

“I’m probably not going to catch him, Francisco. Not without your help. And he’ll keep killing. If he’s as smart as I think he is, he’ll probably leave the city too and kill somewhere else. Our investigations will be disjointed. He’ll get away.”

It was subtle, but Stanton could see the crack. It began in Francisco’s forehead; just a slight crease. And then his eyes softened.

“What do you want to know?”

23

Stanton hit record on the digital recorder in the front seat. He turned back to Francisco. “Kelly Ann Madison. On the day of Tami’s murder she traded shifts with Kelly. You spoke with her but never put it into your report. Why?”

Francisco grew visibly agitated. He moved around in the seat and stared out the window and then would look down at his hands and then out the window again. Stanton stayed quiet.

“I was told not to,” he said.

“By who?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Francisco, I need your help.”

“I know. But I can’t. But he ain’t the killer you’re looking for anyway. And I ain’t no snitch.”

“Snitch for what?”

Francisco shook his head without looking up.

“I know it’s a cop, can you at least acknowledge that for me?”

“Yeah,” he said, forcing the words out. “But he didn’t do her.”

“But he knows who did, doesn’t he?”

“I don’t know, man,” he scoffed. “This is bullshit, man. All turning to shit. I thought I was doing a favor, you know. Looking out for my brothers in blue, you know what I’m saying?”

“They will never know we spoke. I will deny everything and not testify in court about it.”

“Can’t help you, brother. I said all I can. I ain’t no snitch.” He opened the door and got out of the car. He walked to the driver side and rested his hands on the top of the car. “Keep digging, Detective. You’ll find what you’re looking for. But I can’t help you.”

*****

Stanton returned to the office and collapsed into his chair. He leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling a long time and then pulled out two Excedrin from his pocket. He took them with water out of a day-old plastic bottle. He noticed for the first time that Jessica was standing in the doorway.

“Hey, rough day?” she said.

“Yeah.” He put his feet up on the desk and crossed his hands over his stomach. “How was the meeting?”

“Didn’t happen.”

“Why?”

“You weren’t there. Harlow said everyone or no one. They’ve been waiting for you to come back. Conference room in ten.”

Everyone was seated by the time Stanton walked in and sat down near the front of the room by Harlow. His head was pounding and he was starting to see stars. He leaned back as far as he could but the fluorescent lights penetrated his eyelids. He stood up and turned them off. Sunlight was still coming through the windows and breaking into fragments through the blinds.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Stanton asked.

“That’s fine,” Harlow said without looking up from an ipad. He quickly glanced around and made sure everyone was here. “Jon, I know you’re busy, we all are. But I would really like everyone here Monday mornings if possible.”

“I had to catch a witness when they weren’t expecting me. I’ll make sure I’m on time next week.”

“Great,” he said, a grin coming over him. Stanton knew he thought he had just performed some wonderful managerial sleight of hand. “Let’s get to business. Ho, what’s going on?”

Chin was dressed in a Calvin Klein pin-stripe suit and wore designer sunglasses pushed up onto his forehead. His blue tie had little British flags on it.

“Todd Grover, this was the liquor store owner that was shot in his store. The original arresting officer’s report was sloppy cause he was green. He left the PD to become manager of a nightclub downtown. We tracked him down but he didn’t remember much. Most of the witnesses have moved away or gotten locked up. I think one of them died. In the ghetto nobody sticks around for too long I guess. We’re following up with them though. Shouldn’t be too long before we track a couple of them down.”

“Good as can be done,” Harlow said. “Nathan.”

“Alberto Domingez Jovan. Shot in front of twenty people in the parking lot of a strip club. I don’t know nothing has become I don’t remember nothing. Rough going for now but there’s one witness I spoke with that’s holding something back. When I was at her house I smelled weed. I’m thinking get a bust and use it as leverage.”

“Good thinking. Run anything you need by Tommy. Philip, what’dya got?”

“Rodrigo Carrillo. Killed during a drive-by. I’ve got a suspect.” He waited for a reaction and when he didn’t receive one he cleared his throat. “Gang member that, get this, dated his girl after he was killed. They met at his funeral. I’m putting together an affidavit for a warrant of his house. I think he’s still got the firearm they used in the drive-by.”

“Good work. Keep me informed. Jessica?”

“James Damien Neary. Stabbed while walking home. No leads, no witnesses panning out. So far, it’s just random.”

“Nothing’s random,” Harlow said. “Keep digging. You’ll turn up something.” Jessica nodded but didn’t look at him. “Jon?”

Stanton thought a moment before speaking. “Tami Jacobs. Have a lead I’m following up on.”

“What is it?” Harlow said.

“She may have … she may have been dating a cop that was never identified.”

“Christ,” Harlow said. “You sure?”

“Not yet. But a co-worker said a cop used to pick her up from work. Tami talked about him a couple of times and told people they were sleeping together.”

Harlow thought about mentioning something: Stanton kept using her first name instead of victim or subject. It made him uncomfortable but he decided to skip it. “Why wasn’t that in the initial reports?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Jon,” he said, pointing his finger, “that information doesn’t leave this room. Understood?”

“Yeah.”

Harlow tapped his finger against the desk, staring out the window. He was lost in thought a long time and then said, “Jessica, drop Neary. I’m bringing in a couple of new detectives to the unit soon and I’ll pass it to one of them. Partner up with Jon and follow this Jacobs case through.”

“Sure.”

“Good. All right, I’m pleased so far guys. I’m hearing good things and it seems like resources are being used wisely and sparingly. Keep it up. Meeting next week we’ll probably have some new faces so treat them well. Dismissed.”

Stanton watched as Harlow rose and dialed a number on his phone. He was speaking before he was out the door. He had never before used the phrase dismissed to excuse a meeting.

“Well,” Jessica said standing up, “I guess that’s it for Neary. Where are we on Jacobs?”

Stanton motioned for his office and they walked there together. He shut the door and sat her down. He sat on the edge of the desk and folded his arms.

“One of the assigned detectives on the case told me that someone higher up ordered him not to include good evidence in the initial homicide report.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah.”

“What’re we gonna do?”

“I don’t know. Usually when it happens it turns out someone’s just covering their butts.”

“Did he tell you who it was?”

“No. And I don’t think he will.”

“Any hunches?”

“One. And we should follow up on him now.”

24

Stanton sat in his car outside the two-story house in Del Mar. Jessica sat next to him, reading a paperback novel and sipping a Starbucks coffee.

It was a quiet street and there were no signs of children in the neighborhood. It was primarily youthful couples that had inherited money or retirees that were ready to spend some. More than once Stanton saw women in their forties and fifties wearing tight spandex workout pants and tank tops climbing into massive SUV’s to head presumably to the gym and then the tanning salon.

“That him?” Jessica asked.

Stanton looked over to the home and saw George Young climb out of a new Hummer and check his mailbox. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves hemmed so that they showed off his arms. Stanton could see the tip of a tattoo poking out on the right arm.

Before he got to the door a woman in a dress opened it and kissed him on the cheek as he walked in. It was not the woman Stanton saw him having lunch with.

“Yeah, that’s him. You never met him?”

“No, haven’t had the pleasure. Seems like a douche.”

“He is a douche. He and a few other guys in Vice steal steroids from the evidence lockers. I think they pay off one of the custodians.”

“Have you talked to Harlow about it?”

“Doesn’t work like that. I would be more despised than them. I wouldn’t find any proof anyway.”

“So you just let it go?”

“Of the seven Vice guys I knew doing it three have been fired for unrelated things and one is serving time in County for assault. They screw themselves; they don’t need me to do it.”

“So what’s the game plan for him?”

“I just want to see how he reacts. He’s obvious. He won’t be able to hide his surprise.”

“You sound pretty sure of that. What if you’re wrong and you just tip him off?”

“Then we’re back where we started.”

“All right. Lead the way.”

They walked across the street and to the large wooden door. Stanton knocked and took a step forward, nearly to the door. The woman answered.

“Yes?”

“I’m Detective Jon Stanton. Can we speak to Detective Young please?”

“Sure.” She turned and yelled, “Honey, it’s for you.”

Young stepped out from the kitchen, his face turning red as he saw Stanton there, inches away from being in his home. He mumbled something to the woman and then came out onto the porch, pushing his way past Stanton and nearly shoulder checking Jessica.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Why did you tell Francisco not to include the information about Tami Jacobs dating a police officer in his report?”

Stanton watched the anger flair on his face. His lips curled and his eyes widened. Stanton put his hands behind his back and lifted his chin slightly, as if welcoming a blow.

“Are you fucking kidding me!” he bellowed. “You talked to him after I gave you orders not to?”

“You’re not my supervisor, George. And I’m investigating this case and asked you a question.”

“Fuck you,” he said, jabbing his finger into Stanton’s chest. “I’m going to Harlow.” He got in Stanton’s face. “If anything happens to any of my guys, I’m comin’ after you.”

He walked inside and slammed the door. Stanton looked over the yard. It was immaculate, much like the inside of the house he had seen. The woman that had answered had perfect nails and soft, smooth hands. Not a housewife’s hands. They hired help for the yard and house.

“Well that was productive,” Jessica said.

“It wasn’t him.”

“How do you know?”

“He was more worried about his undercover than the accusation. Plus he wouldn’t go to Harlow and risk being found out. I don’t think it was him.” He looked to the Hummer. “But I think he’s doing more than taking the steroids.”

*****

Stanton finished up at the office and was about to leave when he got a call from Tommy that the chief wanted to see him. He went to Harlow’s office and knocked.

“Come in.”

He walked in and waited by the door without sitting down. Conversations went faster when one of the participants stood.

“What’s going on, Mike?”

“I just got a call from George.”

“Yeah?”

“Tell me you didn’t accuse him of what I think you accused him of?”

“I had to. But I don’t think it was him.”

“Why did you have to?”

“One of the detectives in the case was ordered not to include the information about Tami dating a police officer in the report. I thought it could be George. But I was wrong.”

“He’s a good cop.” Stanton didn’t say anything. “What?”

“How long have you known he’s been dealing steroids?”

Surprise flashed across his face only a brief moment and then went away. “A while.”

“It’s dangerous, Mike. Other people see it and get ideas that the department doesn’t care what they do.”

“I’m working on it. I only found out about it a few months ago and didn’t realize how deep it ran. A lot of careers could be ruined and I don’t want to do that just yet.”

“Sure. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Jon?”

“Yeah?”

“How’d you guess that I knew?”

“He’s too open about it. Someone doing it on the sly wouldn’t buy a fifty thousand dollar car. I figured he had somebody’s permission.”

“I’m going to stop them, Jon. I promise.”

Stanton looked at him a long time. He had the urge to look away, but didn’t. “Yeah.”

25

Stanton got home late and saw that Suzie was asleep, her window open as she lay in bed snoring. He usually never thought about it but right now he could’ve used some company.

His apartment seemed cold somehow and he felt as if he were forced to be there. He looked at the bare walls and thought that tomorrow he would pick up some art. Things that would lighten the place up. He had always admired Tamara de Lempicka and found her works uplifting. He would find prints online and have them framed nicely for the walls.

He wasn’t hungry but went to the fridge anyway and stood there looking at the empty shelves. There was a box of Diet Coke on the counter and he lifted it and felt its lightness and knew it was empty. His headache had returned and sometimes caffeine and Advil together helped. But he was too tired to run to the store. He knew he hadn’t done any real physical exertion and wondered what it was that had exhausted him.

Stanton took eight hundred milligrams of ibuprofen and went to bed. He lay in the dark and stared at the ceiling. The moonlight was coming through his window and it lit up the room with a soft, blue light. He began counting the swirls in the paint in his ceiling, tracing the pattern with his eyes and making out familiar shapes. Slowly, he began to drift off.

It was 2:12 am when Stanton’s cell phone woke him up. He didn’t realize what it was until he remembered that he had thrown his phone on the nightstand without turning it off. He fumbled with it, sleep still in his eyes, and answered without looking at the number.

“Hello?”

“Jon, it’s Mike. I, ah, got something.”

“Where are you?”

“Home. Some uniforms just woke me. I’ve sent down a patrol to pick you up.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

There was silence on the other line for awhile before Harlow said, “It’s Detective Hernandez, Jon. He’s been killed.”

*****

The scene was chaos. There were at least ten patrol cars with their red and blues twirling in the night. Yellow police tape wrapped twenty feet from the apartment complex and held back a large crowd. A few had brought chairs and drinks. A news van was parked near the curb on the outside of the tape, a tall blond in high-heels having make-up applied as the camera crew set up.

Stanton parked a basketball court’s length away to avoid the cameras and the crowd. He walked slowly and when he neared, he saw that on the sidewalk in front of the Boca Del Ray stood Chief Harlow with George Young. As soon as Young saw Stanton, he darted for him. Harlow yelled something and two uniforms grabbed him and Stanton could make out one of them shouting, “He’s not worth it.” Young was taken to a cruiser and leaned against it as several officers came to him, trying to calm him down. Stanton went under the police tape and to Harlow.

“Sorry to call you out like this,” Harlow said, “but I figured you’d want to be here.”

“What happened?”

“Gangland happened, Jon. We think they got wind and popped him.”

“I’d like to go inside.”

“Go ahead. I gave Chin the case.”

Stanton walked past the officers standing on the porch. They gave him cold stares; long penetrating looks before they turned away and pretended they hadn’t seen him. He made his way down the hall and could see the flashes from the forensics unit cameras. The apartment was packed with police officers. Anytime an officer was killed everyone on the force wanted to be there. It was a sense of “that could’a been me.” It was also part of the job and every officer tried their best to prepare for it, but Stanton had yet to meet one that was ready to die for a paycheck.

He saw Chin Ho in the kitchen typing something in a tablet and he turned away and looked to the corner of the living room. Francisco’s corpse lay lengthwise, his arm under his head, blood pooled around him from the gaping wound in his skull. Written in blood on the wall next to him was the word PIG.

Stanton carefully brushed past the uniforms and stood next to the body as forensics investigators finished their photos and vacuuming and called the medical examiner’s office to send body lifters to haul it away.

Stanton waited patiently for forensics to finish. Though not police officers, since the airing of CSI they carried a sense of self-importance and condescension with them. They weren’t even allowed to carry firearms but applications to the police academy had declined in recent years and applications to forensics schools had skyrocketed. One forensic investigator had attempted to interview a witness and he was promptly fired and lost his state licensure. But because of a television show people now looked to them to solve crimes.

Stanton bent down and looked at the hole in Francisco’s head. It was large and there were gunpowder burns on the skin over his face, meaning he had been shot at close range. No defensive wounds anywhere, no sign of struggle.

“Did you know him?”

Stanton turned to see Chin standing there, staring at the body as one would stare at something that puzzled but didn’t interest.

“You could say that.”

“I don’t know why the chief gave this to me. I think it’s really pissing off some of the locals.”

“It’s just yours tonight. Mike knows everyone’s emotional and when they’re emotional they make mistakes. They’ll calm down by tomorrow and that’s when he’ll call you into his office and tell you he’s under pressure to keep it local.”

“Huh. Smart move I guess. So what’dya think?”

“Not typical gangland. These guys are crazy but I don’t know if they’re crazy enough to kill a cop and make a big deal about it. They know a lot of theirs would be next. Then again, I haven’t worked Gang Unit since the early nineties. I hear they’re a lot less scared of police now.”

“They would want to send a message though. You send us undercovers and this is what happens. But check this out.” Stanton followed him down the hall to the bathroom. Chin turned the lights off and grabbed a portable black-light from one of the forensics investigators. He switched on the light and turned the bathroom light off. Splashes of blood lit up like glow in the dark stickers. It was over the toilet, the wall, the bathtub and the floor. “Shot in here but there’s only droplets on the hallway carpet.”

“More than one?”

“That’d be my guess. Probably three. Two to hold him and one to pull the trigger while his head was down in the bathtub. Then they carried him to the living room and let him bleed out.”

“Why not leave him here?”

“No idea. But they tried cleaning the blood with bleach.”

“Everyone knows that doesn’t work.”

“Well these guys think it does.”

“Where’s the entry?”

“No damage we can find. These guys were invited in.”

Stanton shook his head. “I was careful.”

“Not careful enough.” He saw his face and added, “That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s all right.”

Stanton left the bathroom and watched as the body was placed in a black bag and zipped up. The lifters from the ME’s office were quiet when they carried it away. They were the low men on the totem pole. Typically they were either young and looking to apply to forensics school or to become pathologists, or they were old and they had grown comfortable with the silence of the dead. Live customers were much more difficult to deal with.

The officers stood still and didn’t speak out of respect until the body was out of the apartment.

Stanton walked outside. The air was warm but there was no breeze and the warmth sat on you and made the skin feel sticky. Harlow had left. This was his rebuke. Rather than tell him about it tomorrow he had him come down to show him what he had done.

But the scene didn’t make sense. They had attempted to clean up blood in the bathroom but wanted to leave a message on the living room wall. There was a disconnect between what happened in the bathroom and what happened in the living room. Something had not gone right.

Stanton saw out of the corner of his eye Young speaking with another officer. Young said something and the officer looked to Stanton and nodded.

26

Stanton went surfing the next day before the sun was up and stayed on the beach well into late morning. Someone with a large truck was selling tacos out the back and he bought two breakfast tacos and a horchata and ate near the surf, letting the water foam at his ankles. He then slept, the sun warming his cheeks and neck, and showered in one of the public showers provided by the city before heading into the office.

The entire building was quiet. No one laughing or telling stories and only speaking when absolutely necessary. Officers would quietly nod to each other in understanding when passing in the halls, to everyone except Stanton. Word had already gotten around.

He went to his office and shut the door. He turned on Pandora and listened to the Enigma station as he let his thoughts drift for awhile before turning to his computer. There was an email from Chin:

Hey, you were right. Taken off the case this morning.

C H

When he was through checking his emails, he saw he had two voicemails. One was from Melissa, wondering if he had the number to a doctor they liked to use when they were married. It was an odd little fact they shared and it tugged at him to be reminded of it. They would both have to use the same doctor. No, one of them would change. They would have to.

The other was a hang up. He turned away from his desk and spun the chair around so he could look outside. There were no clouds and the sun was cooking the city. He wished desperately he could’ve spent the whole day at the beach.

Tommy buzzed him. The chief would like to see him.

Harlow was not on the phone and was not even flipping through paperwork or a magazine when Stanton walked in. He was sitting quietly at his desk looking at his monitor. He turned toward Stanton as he sat down and smiled.

“I’m not a bullshitter, Jon. You know that.”

“I know.”

“So I’m not going to bullshit you. This is bad. One of my detectives was killed because you didn’t follow the orders of your superior. The media’s gotten hold of it already. Hunter wrote an op/ed in the Trib.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he did.”

“George wants me to refer this to the DA to see if there was any criminal negligence. I don’t think there was and I’m not going to do that. But I can’t have you on the unit anymore. It would taint everything we do.”

“I know.”

“I’m going to put you on administrative leave, with pay, until this thing blows over in the papers. Won’t be long I’m guessing. Some meth-head will shoot up a party cause he thinks the CIA’s out to get him and people will forget about this.”

He rose. “Can I go?”

“Sure. I’m sorry about this, Jon. I wish this could’a turned out different.”

“Me too.”

*****

Stanton waited by the fence at Theodore Roosevelt Elementary as his son walked out. He was carrying drawings he had done and Stanton wondered who they were for.

“Hey champ.”

“Dad!”

Mathew ran up and threw his arms around his father. Stanton hugged him back and kissed the top of his head, smelling his hair. He remembered the day at the hospital when Mathew had a fever of 103 and wasn’t yet a year old. He remembered rocking him late into the night and the smell of his skin and hair and the fear that was inside him as he looked at his boy’s cherubic face.

“What’re you doing here?”

“I just wanted to come by and see you. So what’s going on?”

“I got picked for soccer today and Josh kicked the ball really hard and it hit me in the face.”

“Oh no.”

“Yeah but I didn’t cry. I just kicked the ball back and said I was fine.”

“Good for you.”

“There’s mom.”

Melissa drove up in her car and parked. She saw Stanton and waved, a slight smile on her lips as she saw them walk toward her.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey. I just wanted to see him. Where’s Jon Junior?”

“He’s at day care.”

“Since when do you put him in day care?”

“Just a few times a week so I can do my yoga.”

“Melissa, we talked about this.”

“Not now, Jon. I don’t want to hear it. I have a life too. It can’t all be spent at home.”

Stanton looked down to Mathew who was hugging his leg. He had moonlighted early in his career as a bodyguard, a bouncer and even a night watchmen at a warehouse so that they would never have to put their kids in day care. He had done two years in Special Victims and had seen the videos of what happened when monsters were left alone with children and thought nobody was watching.

“Let’s go Matt.”

“I want to go with dad.”

“You’ll see him on the weekend. Come on.”

Mathew begrudgingly let go of his father’s leg and got into the car. He smiled and said bye and watched Stanton as they pulled away. Stanton turned toward his own car when he saw some boys in football uniforms assembled on the school’s field. On the sidelines the parents had gathered and were chatting. He walked onto the field and stood farther away than the other parents but close enough to listen in on their conversations. It was mundane and obvious but he ached to join them. To brag about his son’s time in the forty meter dash or how they had been practicing tackling in the backyard. But he knew that wasn’t his destiny. That was now Lance’s … if he wanted it.

27

Stanton went home and flopped on the couch. He thought about turning on the television, the mindless banter might distract him, but decided against it. He just lay there, listening to the sound of traffic outside and children yelling as they got home from school.

He was twirling his keys in his hand when he suddenly realized that he hadn’t checked the mail in a long time. There was nothing he was expecting and he had no inclination to see anything anyone had sent him, but there was a purpose in it that he wanted right now. Like crossing something off a to-do list. He rose and went outside and downstairs to the line of metal boxes. He opened his and saw that the mailman had crammed everything inside, wrinkling and folding most of his mail. He pulled out the advertisements and mailers and threw them in the trash the complex provided next to the boxes. As he walked back to his apartment he flipped through the rest of the mail. It was primarily bills, one letter from the UCLA psychology department asking him to donate as an alum. There was a handwritten letter addressed to him with his last name misspelled. He opened it as he climbed the stairs.

Before anything else, the signature line screamed to him and the rest of the mail dropped out of his hand:

Sincerely,

Francisco Hernandez

*****

Stanton sat on his couch and read the letter twice before laying it on the table and going out to the balcony. He watched some children playing in the complex’s playground and then went inside and read it again.

I’m sorry it had to come to this. This fucking department don’t have room for cops like us. Assistant Chief Anderson was the one that told me not to put in that stuff about the vic and the cop.

Sincerely,

Francisco Hernandez

The return address was the Orange County address for Disneyland and no name was listed. Stanton folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. He knew Anderson. He came up through Vice; An eleven year stint when most detectives could only put in two or three. He was known in the department for his undercover work until he began to go prematurely bald and wrinkles began to show on his face. The end came when every prostitute on the street would greet him as “Officer.” He took a desk job after that and rose through the ranks with old fashioned brown-nosing and putting in long hours. But Stanton knew him to be a by-the-book policeman. There was a story that had come down about him: when he was a patrolman in Indiana he had promised his Captain that he would be back to the precinct at a certain time to chauffeur the governor to a function. He was running late and speeding to catch up. He glanced down for a second to change the radio and hit a cow in the road. The cow bounced off the car but not before shattering the windshield and emptying its bowels over the car.

Anderson, unwilling to break a promise to a superior, drove the remaining ten miles to the precinct, cow feces flying off the car and into his face. That was always how Stanton had pictured him; a serious expression over a face covered in cow dung.

Stanton picked up the letter and slipped it into his pocket before heading out the door and to his car.

28

Assistant Chief Rodney C. Anderson was in the men’s room when Stanton checked in with his secretary. He took a seat on one of the couches and waited. There was a coffee table in front of him and issues of law enforcement magazines from across the country lay across it. There were a few issues of Guns and Ammo and a hunting magazine called The Happy Outdoorsman. On the cover was a man dressed in full camouflage hunting gear holding up the severed head of a buck. Stanton turned it over.

A few minutes later, Anderson walked up and said hello. He was tall and bald, slim at the shoulders with jowls that were just beginning to appear.

“I was told you need to speak to me, Detective.”

“I do. Mind if we talk in your office?”

“Not at all.”

His office was orderly and sparse. The only ornament that said anyone even occupied the space was a photo of Anderson and his wife on a boat. His arm was around her and he was smiling. It creased his face in a way that said he was not a man used to smiling.

Stanton was seated across from him and Anderson took his time settling into his high-backed leather chair. He sat rigid and folded his hands across the desk. Stanton knew instantly he was a man that had served time, a long time, in the military.

He took the letter out of the envelope and placed it on the desk. Anderson picked it up and read it. He didn’t flinch. Stanton was impressed that he showed no reaction at all. He just calmly placed it into his waste bin next to the desk.

“I assume he sent that to you recently?”

“I got it today. It was postmarked for yesterday, the day he was killed.”

“What are you suggesting, Detective?”

“Nothing, sir. I just wanted to talk to you about it.”

Anderson took a deep breath and his hands went to his lap. He leaned back in his chair, looking at Stanton, but he guessed anybody could’ve been sitting in that chair and receiving the same look.

“When I started in this department,” he said, “it was a whole different beast. There was … predictability in it. Most of the guys came from the armed services. Uh, were you in the service at all?”

“No, sir.”

“Helluva experience, Detective. Vietnam. You know I used to stick my rifle up and shoot without looking at what I was shooting at. I was an eighteen year old kid and what I did almost all day was shake.” He stood up and walked to a cupboard that was in a corner. He took out a clear bottle holding what appeared to be whiskey and poured a glass. He looked to Stanton. “A glass?”

“No thank you.”

He took three fingers of whiskey and came and sat back down. “Twenty-four hours a day, Detective, I shook. And I was always wet. If it wasn’t raining I was drenched in sweat. The humidity was something you can’t even imagine. The weather just stuck to you. You could taste it, it had a taste.” He took a long drink and placed the glass down on a coaster of the American flag he pulled out of a drawer. “Anyway, that’s all the past now. Most of the detectives I know up here want to get flashy positions so they can get the good jobs later. Guarding dim-witted celebrities or whatever. You know, that’s one of the hallmarks of a civilization in decline, when the celebrities are more revered than the day-to-day folks. Happened in Rome, happened in Gaul, happened to the French and English.”

“Yes, sir.”

Anderson finished his whiskey. “So what is it you want, Detective Stanton? I know the chief suspended you. Do you want to be reinstated? At a higher grade, I’m sure?”

“No, sir.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I want to find who killed Tami Jacobs.”

Anderson looked at him a few moments and said, “Why? It’s one homicide. You got us by the balls on this thing and you don’t want to use it?”

“No, sir. If I may be frank, I was retired before this case. I don’t care about my career. But the type of person that killed her is very rare. And very hard to catch. Given the timeline, I expect that since her death he’s killed anywhere from one to ten other girls depending on whether he is a plant or roving killer.”

“What does that mean?”

“Plant killers fix themselves in one spot, like if they have a home somewhere. But roving or rogue killers travel around, usually in between cities and states and sometimes even in between countries and look for victims. Because law enforcement has been slow in communicating with disparate agencies, they go for years, sometimes decades, without getting caught.”

“And you think that’s what you got here? A rogue?”

“I don’t know what I have, sir. He’s extremely smart, probably trained or self-taught in forensics. There’s little physical evidence left. What I do know is that outside of a shark attack, I’ve never seen a victim as badly mutilated as this girl.”

Anderson nodded as if he understood. “And all you want is to catch him? No fame or money?”

“No, sir. I don’t even need my badge back. I just want to make sure I’m given access to a few things I may need.”

“You shame me, son.” He leaned forward and placed his hands on the desk again. “Well you got your badge back. I’ll clear it with the chief. What else do you need?”

“Why did you order that information be kept out of her case file?”

“Because like Detective Hernandez, I was following orders too. And there’s only one person in this whole place that can give me an order I have to follow.”

29

Chief Michael Harlow’s home sat on top of a small hill overlooking the beach. It was upscale, more so than even a chief of police of one of the largest cities in the country could normally afford, and was filled with two children, a wife, and a mother-in-law with a live-in nurse.

Stanton came to a stop in front of it and sat in his car a long time. He watched the neighbors come and go. A utility man was on a power line repairing what looked like damage from someone throwing items up there. A kids pair of shoes hung over one of the lines. This used to be a signal to potential buyers driving through that drugs were being sold. A sort of “open for business” sign. But that had stopped since law enforcement picked up on it. It was now red lighting on porches.

Stanton guessed this neighborhood had some rowdy children; ones that had rich parents that were never around to see what it was exactly their children were doing. In many respects, though the media painted the poor as responsible for most crime, the rich committed just as much. But there were so few of them it didn’t seem significant.

He could see the family having dinner and he pushed his seat back and listened to an Opera to Relax CD for forty-five minutes until they were done. The children ran off and Mrs. Harlow cleared the table and then began helping her mother back to the guestroom upstairs. The chief sat alone at the table sipping wine.

Stanton knocked on the window to the kitchen rather than the front door. Harlow didn’t move and then eventually got up and opened the front door and stepped outside.

“What’s going on, Jon?”

“I need to speak with you. In private.”

“If this is about reinstating you-”

“I don’t care about that. I just need to speak for a few minutes.”

“All right. Well come inside before one of my neighbors shoots you as a prowler.”

Stanton was led through Harlow’s home to a study off to the side of the living room. Books lined cherry wood shelves and a puffy brown leather couch took up an entire wall. Harlow sat down at an old desk and lit a cigar. He put his feet up and waited for Stanton to speak first.

“You ordered Anderson to halt progress on the Jacobs case. Then you brought me in. You had to have known I would eventually find all this out. So that means you’re in trouble somehow and you thought solving this thing could get you out of it. My best guess is that you found out the cop she was dating was Noah and you didn’t want another body attributed to the San Diego PD. But why bring me in? What if I just went to IAD?”

Harlow sat frozen. He took his feet off the desk and put his face in his hands, rubbing his eyeballs with his palms. “Christ. I was hoping you could handle this without finding out certain aspects of it. I had a sneaking suspicion you would but I had to risk it.” He put his cigar out in an ashtray and mumbled something under his breath. “But you’re wrong, that’s not how it was.”

“Then what happened?”

Harlow rose and shut the door. He came and sat down on the couch. Stanton saw his shoulders slump and his belly puffed out of his shirt as he stared at the carpet. In a few seconds, he had gone from a man in control to a man spinning wildly through the universe.

“I met her at that restaurant. I was having lunch with Tommy. I think I actually offered him his position there.”

“Who’d you meet there?” Stanton knew the answer but wanted to hear it from him.

“I asked her out to dinner and we started talking on the phone. We would talk, get this, for two or three hours sometimes. When was the last time you talked to anyone for two or three hours? I felt like a teenager again.”

“Say her name, Mike.”

Harlow looked at him. You cruel son of a bitch, he thought. “Tami Jacobs. I was having an affair with Tami Jacobs.” He chuckled. “Would you believe me if I told you it actually made my marriage better. Swear to God. I was more attentive with Crystal. It felt like the time I would spend with her and the kids was more special. I can’t explain it. But that’s the way it was.”

Stanton thought of the young girl in the sweatshirt, her arms thrown around her grandfather. The look of joy on her face at being able to spend a sun-filled afternoon with her family.

“I can’t believe you can sit there and tell me this like it’s okay.”

“I know it’s not okay, Jon. Hell, I knew it right when I started doing it. You asked and I’m telling you what happened.”

“She was a kid. She was lost and looking for anyone to hold on to and you used her like trash.”

“Hey, who the hell do you think you are? I cared for her. You think working three days a week at that shithole paid her rent? I bought her clothes when she needed, I took her out, I got her car fixed. I did everything I was supposed to do.”

“Except save her life.”

It was low and Stanton felt the pain of his words cut deep into his boss. He regretted saying it, but then thought that perhaps Harlow deserved it. That this might be the only time that someone will be able to say it to him.

Harlow put his face in his hands again and they sat in silence. There was an antique clock on the wall and it was ticking softly. A shower started somewhere in the house and the groan of pipes ran through the room and then faded away.

“You’re right about something though. I am in trouble, Jon. And I need your help.” He stood up and walked to a space behind the desk and knelt down. Stanton could hear the turn key to a safe and then a click and the creak of a metal door that needed to be oiled. Harlow came back with a small box. He opened it and showed him what was inside. They were letters. Stanton glanced through them. They were demanding different amounts of money.

“After she was killed, I got one of these in the mail with a photo of me and her checking into a hotel. You gotta see, Jon, this was right after Noah. I mean right after. The media was all over us, looking for anything they could use to show that we were all sick fucks like him. I couldn’t let this get out.”

Stanton rose and began pacing. He had to move, to get blood flowing through him. He felt the softness of the carpet through his shoes and he looked to the walls, focusing on a single point of reference and keeping his eyes fixated before moving to another wall.

The idea of the Chief of Police manipulating a murder investigation to cover himself …

“You have to turn yourself in.”

Harlow suddenly appeared pale. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Having your detectives selling steroids and you taking a cut is one thing. This is something else.”

“Taking a-”

“I’m not blind, Mike.”

“No, you’re not. I’m sorry. These are things that just … not even Crystal knows these things about me.”

Stanton sat back down on the couch and looked him in the eyes. “You need to turn yourself in and resign.”

“Now hold on a second, Jon. We go back a long ways you and me. This ain’t just a Boy Scout solution to turn myself in and everything’s going to be fine. I’ll be thrown off the force. I’ll lose my pension. You know the forfeiture laws as good as me. All this,” he said, waving his hand around the room, “they’ll take it all and sell it at some fucking IRS auction. I got a family relying on me.”

Stanton rose. “You let them down a long time ago. Turn yourself in, Mike. Or I will.” He got out to the hallway before Harlow was on his feet.

“You’re not such a fucking saint! You got a good detective, a detective with a family, murdered for nothing.”

“I didn’t get him killed, Mike. You did.”

Stanton left the house and went to his car. He laid his head on the steering wheel and rested there. He remembered something his grandfather had told him: No one is what they want you to see. No one.

30

Stanton found he couldn’t sleep. He would toss to one side of the bed and then another and stare at the floor for what he thought were long periods of time. Then he would look at the clock and realize only a few minutes had passed. At two in the morning, he stopped trying and threw on shorts and sandals and walked down to the beach.

There was something more primal about the ocean at night. The water appeared like dark tar, devoid of any color and swallowing everything in its path except for the glowing light of the moon. Most predators in the sea hunted at night and there were no ships or wind-sails or yachts. But there were occasionally surfers. The crazier ones that had little outside of their time on the ocean.

Stanton remembered he had briefly been one of them as a youth. There was a shack on the beach about five miles from where he was sitting. The landlord was an old hippie who used to rent the space to surfers in exchange for free weed whenever he wanted. Sometimes there would be more than twenty people sleeping in a single room and only three or four blankets and cots between them. Many of the people were homeless, their only possessions their boards and a few trinkets they had gotten in their previous lives. When they had parents and schools and a plan laid out before them of where they were going.

Stanton fit in with them. None of them were looking for friendship or to get to know anyone around them. They knew each others’ names and that was enough. They would share a meal when they could score some money, but that was the extent of their bond. Eventually, no matter how long they’d been there, everyone would drop away one by one and be replaced by a new face.

Despite his parents’ pleas to come home, he stayed in that shack for over nine months after high school. He had met a girl there; pretty brunette with hazel eyes and a smile that made him think of the patients he saw when he visited his father’s hospital as a kid. It was empty and meaningless and full of genuine joy at nothing at all.

He had been working part time pumping gas and would surf every morning and night. He went to the shack after a night of surfing and the girl was gone. He asked around about her, but no one could give him a definitive answer. Everyone just assumed that she had found something better. He had cash in his wallet he’d hidden near the oven and she knew where it was. When he checked, all the money was still there.

It was warm tonight, almost hot. He lay back on the sand and stared at the moon and he thought about that girl. He wondered what it was she was doing now. If she ever thought about him or what their life might’ve been like if she would’ve stayed. If she thought about their clumsy attempts at lovemaking and it ever made her smile.

With her face and soft caresses swirling in his thoughts, he closed his eyes and drifted to sleep.

*****

The crash was what woke him. Wood splintered and a lock fell limp against concrete. It was in the distance but it was loud. It had broken the hold sleep had on him.

Stanton sat up, disoriented, and remembered he had fallen asleep on the beach. He stretched and checked the cell phone in his pocket. It was 9:14 in the morning. He turned to look where the sound had come from and saw three police cruisers and a SWAT van outside of his apartment complex.

He was about to head over there and find out what was going on when he noticed his balcony. An officer in full SWAT gear stepped onto it and signaled to a commander standing on the sidewalk below with a shake of his head. The commander ordered something into a small walkie-talkie attached to his collar and the SWAT team was pulled out and began taking off their helmets, standing around and talking and joking.

Stanton fell to his stomach against the sand and watched. He had an ingrain instinct that his father had placed in him to respect and trust authority and it seemed counter to that for him to hide. But his gut had a cold, dead-weight feeling and he knew he shouldn’t be found just yet. He stayed low and ran along the beach until he was out of sight of his apartment. He worked his way through a maze of dilapidated buildings and went across the parking lot of a burger joint and didn’t stop until he was near the grocery store almost five blocks away.

He dialed a number on his phone as he made his way into the store. The fluorescent lights made his head ache but there was hardly anyone there, a few cashiers standing by the automatic doors smoking.

“Hello?”

“Jessica, it’s Jon Stanton.”

“Jon! Where the hell are you?”

“I’m in town. I just saw the SWAT guys tear my place apart. What’s going on?”

“There’s a warrant out for you. I just got off the phone with George Young asking if I knew where you were.”

“Warrant for what?”

“For homicide. They’re saying you killed Francisco.”

Stanton was silent long enough that Jessica asked if he was still there.

“Yeah, I’m here. Do you know how to access the CCJS database?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you look up the probable cause statement for me?” There was a pause and Stanton said, “You don’t really think I did this, do you?”

“Of course not. But I could be an accessory after the fact.”

“No, that wouldn’t be the charge. It’d be assisting a fugitive from justice. But I understand. I should go.”

“No, wait, hold on a second … okay, I have it up.”

“Could you read it to me?”

“On or about May the second, at approximately 1300 hours, an officer from the San Diego Police Department observed the suspect, Jonathan Nephi Stanton, at the Boca Del Ray apartments on 4521 South Winchester Boulevard. The suspect entered the apartment of the victim, Francisco Hector Hernandez. The officer heard shots fired and called for backup. Upon entering the apartment, the officer observed the suspect escape through a sliding glass door located in the front room. The victim was found in the front room with several gunshots wounds to the head and torso. Medical arrived at approximately 13:20 hours and pronounced the victim deceased.”

“Who’s listed as the officer on the affidavit?”

“Detective George B. Young.”

“Okay.Okay, I need some time to think. Jessica, if I call you, are you going to help me?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I’ll call you later today. I just need some time to process this.”

“You can’t do this alone. Meet me somewhere so we can talk.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Where do you think?”

“Barbeque Pit in La Jolla. You know it?”

“I’ll find it.”

“Let’s meet at lunch. It’ll be packed.”

“Okay, and Jon?”

“Yeah.”

“I … I don’t think you did this.”

“Thanks.”

Stanton hung up and walked down the aisles until he reached the deli. He bought a sandwich and a diet Coke and left the store, a security guard glancing him over before turning back to a magazine he was reading.

31

Jessica Turner hung up the phone. Chief Harlow and Assistant Chief Anderson sat across from her at her desk. A tech was at a laptop on the other side with a wire that ran from her cell phone to the laptop and then to a tracking device set up on the floor.

“Anything?” Harlow asked.

“Still working,” the tech said, “but he wasn’t on more than two minutes. I usually need at least three.”

Harlow exhaled loudly as if impatient. He tapped his fingertips together awhile and then decided to look over the office to occupy his mind. The photos were a nice touch but there were too many of them. How many photos did people really need of their children?

His eyes moved down to Jessica and he saw her biting the tip of her thumbnail, staring absently at the desktop.

“Detective Turner, something the matter?”

“No, sir. It’s just hard for me to believe … I just can’t picture him doing that.”

“I know. I’ve known Jon Stanton a lot longer than you. He used to sleep in this shitty apartment I had when he and Melissa fought. We’d stay up talking and drinking scotch. Well, I would drink scotch. He would drink milk or some other bullshit drink. He’s a friend of mine, but nothing anyone does surprises me anymore.”

“But why would he do it? He has no incentive. There’s no reason for him to-”

“You’re thinking like a civilian, Detective. You’ve seen the monsters just like I have. The blackness that’s in people, it doesn’t need an explanation.”

“I know, but-”

“Somebody, a high ranking, decorated captain, saw him do it. With his own eyes. George was following him that night on a hunch and the hunch paid off. You can question it all you want later. For now, we need to find him. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hey!” the tech shouted, “I got something.”

“I got something, sir,” Anderson corrected him.

The tech rolled his eyes. “I work for the city not the police. You’re not my bosses so have a donut and chill out.”

“Enough,” Harlow said, “what’dya got?”

“I can only narrow it down to a couple blocks but it looks like he called from less than a mile from his apartment. There’s some other complexes there, a tanning salon, a smoke shop, a grocery store and a warehouse.”

“Rodney,” Harlow said, “get units out there right away. I want people searching every fucking inch of those two blocks.”

“Got it,” Anderson said as he rose to leave.

“Detective Turner, I need you to get Chin and head to that restaurant. I’ll get some plainclothes over there to help with the takedown. I think it’s going to go fine, but just in case make sure you have your firearm. And don’t take any chances. He makes a move, you shoot.”

When everyone had cleared out of her office, Chin Ho walked by and whistled like he’d just seen a beautiful woman.

“You believe all this?”

“No,” Jessica said, “it doesn’t make any sense. And I know all the stuff about heart of darkness and all that, but he would need a reason. Why would he do it?”

Chin shrugged. “Who the hell knows? People are crazy.”

32

Stanton knew his car was off limits so he took a cab down to the Barbeque Pit. The ride cost him seventeen dollars. Money was suddenly a great concern to him. He had a couple of credit cards and a few thousand dollars in his checking account with a couple hundred in cash. He was grateful he had the habit of always taking his wallet with him whenever he left the apartment; otherwise he wasn’t sure what he would do.

He sat down on the curb near the restaurant and watched the entrance. It was busy at lunch and the crowd varied from businessmen in suits to stoner surfers in wet shorts and sandals. There were no patrol cars around but obviously there wouldn’t be. What he was looking for was much more subtle.

Plainclothes officers attempted their best to fit in but if one had an eye for them, they could be spotted every time. It was their attempt to seem natural that was the give-away. They would read their phone or newspaper or magazine too intently. A long line would cause just a little too much impatience. Stanton watched for that now but didn’t see anything but a hungry crowd coming in and out of the dilapidated building.

He stood up and brushed off the sand on his pants before making his way to the restaurant.

It was dim inside but the scent of fresh cooking barbequed meat and frying potatoes made his stomach growl. He had only bought a sandwich from the store to seem like he had a purpose but he was too distraught at the time to eat and just threw it away.

In the corner near the window with her back to the door sat Jessica. She was sipping strawberry lemonade and gazing at the ocean outside the windows. She was quite striking. Her face and body were lean and fit and she had a slight tan from her constant time in the outdoors. Stanton walked over and sat down across from her.

“Hi,” he said, unsure exactly what to say.

“Hi.”

“Thanks for coming here, Jessica. I’m sorry I got you involved in this but I don’t really have anyone else. Everyone I knew in the department’s transferred around.”

“It’s okay.”

Stanton could sense the hesitation in her and the minor grimace when she first saw him. She appeared normal to him, as if it were just another work day. But to her, he had crossed an invisible line that he could never uncross. He was a murderer now.

“Look at me,” he said. She raised her eyes to his. “I swear to you, on the life of my children, I did not kill that man.”

“Then why are they saying you did?”

“The chief was having an affair with Tami Jacobs. That’s why that information wasn’t in the initial reports. She was supposed to be with him that night. I told him he had to turn himself in and if he didn’t I would go to IAD. Francisco being killed by the gang was probably just an opportunity for him that he exploited.”

“Why don’t you go to IAD now? We could-”

“I’m sure he’s already thought of that. Someone’s probably been promised a promotion or intimidated or just bribed. I knew the corruption ran deep, but I couldn’t guess how deep.” The waiter came over and he ordered ribs and ice water. “I saw inklings of it before I retired. Some drugs missing here and there, reports altered to establish probable cause when there wasn’t any … but this. I couldn’t imagine Mike would do this.”

Jessica stared at him a long while. Looking at his face and the way his hands moved and his profile when he turned to stare at the ocean. Shit. He’s telling the truth.

She had a pen in her purse and she pulled it out. There was a moment’s look of panic on Stanton’s face before he saw the pen and she moved slowly to the table to ensure he saw what it was. She took her napkin and wrote a single word on it: Run.

Stanton glanced around the restaurant. Standing in the doorway of the kitchen, Chin Ho mumbled something into a mic connected to his collar.

Stanton rose and sprinted for the entrance. A waitress attempted to pass in front of him and he slammed into her, a tray full of drinks and barbeque catapulted into the air before crashing onto the hardwood floors of the restaurant. Someone screamed.

He pushed his way past a couple in the entrance and was outside. He looked left and right and didn’t see anyone. There was a convenience store across the street and he dashed for it when he felt an impact like a truck and saw a flash of white.

When his vision stabilized he saw the blue of the sky and felt the bright sunlight on his face and knew he was on his back. A large officer in shorts and a tank-top was on top of him, trying to twist him around to slap a pair of handcuffs on him.

Stanton curled his arm and grabbed the other man’s elbow. He thrust his hips up, pushing the man off him as he turned his body into the man’s elbow and spun him onto his back. He was now on top and he hugged him tightly and ran his hands along the lower back underneath the tank-top and found the butt of the handgun. He pulled it out and stuck the muzzle into his ribs.

“Easy,” he said.

The man held up his hands in surrender and Stanton sprinted away. A group of diners were exiting the restaurant and saw the gun and they ducked back inside. Stanton ran for the store. A young man pulled up in a Toyota and he tore the keys out of his hand and hopped inside.

“Sorry.”

Stanton slammed the door and locked it as the man started yelling and pounding on the windows. He pulled the car out, the tires screeching, and got onto Ocean View Drive and gunned it toward the intersection. He slammed on the brakes and turned right as another car veered away and hit the curb.

It was a straight shot onto the highway and he hit seventy miles per hour through another intersection and blew a stop sign. There were no cars behind him but he heard sirens in the distance. They weren’t prepared for how quickly it had gone. They were wanting to get some sort of confession and the cruisers were probably parked around the block.

The highway was packed and Stanton made his way over into the express lane and then back to the right hand side of the road. He got off on an exit near a gas station and then pulled into a residential neighborhood and parked. He turned the car off and looked out the windows. There was only one person he could think to call.

Mellissa answered on the second ring. She was at home now and the kids were in school. He told her he needed to talk and she agreed that he could come over. He started the car again and pulled away from the curb. A thought crossed his mind: he knew in his gut that the takedown was flawed. For whatever reason, whoever set it up wanted it to fail.

33

Deputy Attorney General Paul Harris sat across from Harlow at the crowded restaurant and ordered a sparkling water. The restaurant, named Marble after the owner’s grandmother, was airy and smelled pleasant from the cooking food in the open kitchen. A chest-high glass partition separated the chefs from the crowd and everyone watched as they worked; hurriedly preparing American-Thai fusion dishes loaded with spice and flavor. It had gotten four stars in the Trib, even though the year before the restaurant had been reviewed and declared mediocre. But at some point the owner had paid enough lip-service and complimentary food and drinks to the paper’s food critic that it was reviewed once more and given glowing praise.

Harris was thin and bald and Harlow had always been amazed how shiny he got his head to become. There was an art in it and he wondered if he did it purposely.

“The AG’s on board,” Harris said. “Judge Baylor too. Believe it or not, we just need the warden to sign off.”

Harlow was not surprised. Each entity in the criminal justice system was an independent cell unaware and apathetic to what the others were doing. The local police, the state Department of Justice, the courts, the FBI, the federal Department of Justice, the appellate courts, and the Department of Corrections all had their own interests and their own goals. For them all to align, as they had with Harlow’s request, required an enormous amount of political favors, almost more than Harlow could muster. But as the son of a former senator, he still had a few strings to pull.

“I just want it done and over with, Paul. No more motions and writs and campaign contributions and all that other bullshit. Just get the damned warden to sign the piece of paper and hand him over.”

“Patience never was one of your virtues.”

“Fuck patience. Patience is for people who sit around and watch opportunities fly by them. That ain’t me.”

“No,” he said, taking a sip of his water, “that certainly isn’t. Let me ask you though; why do you need him out so badly? You got the cream of the crop in Cold Case. Throw every man you got on it and I bet something breaks.”

“Christ, this is why prosecutors should have to be cops first. Do you know how fucking rare it is to solve a cold case, Paul? Almost impossible. Unless the perp walks in and says ‘Oh hey, sorry about that motherfucker I busted a cap in three years ago’ it’s not getting solved.”

The waitress was skinny and brown and Harlow stared at her legs as Harris ordered. When it was his turn he ordered steak and eggs and a beer and asked when her shift was over. She smiled awkwardly and then asked if they needed anything else and walked away.

“I don’t think she likes you.”

“Please,” Harlow said, “that was just playful banter.”

He grinned. “We’ve gotten old, Mike. I remember when I would go to a bar and get drunk and pick someone up, get a blow job on the way to the apartment and then go out again and drink some more. Now I’m lucky if I can keep my eyes open past ten.”

“It’s all in the mind. If you want to be younger you gotta act younger.”

“How’s that?”

“You ever thought of maybe looking elsewhere than in your matrimonial bonds?”

“Cheat on Lauren? No way. Not my style.”

“I’m just saying, it’s an option for guys like us. We paid our dues. It’s probably time we got a little interest back.”

“Yeah, well … I don’t know.”

“Don’t wait too long my friend. You only got one life.”

He finished his water and nodded. “This girl, Tami Jacobs, you sure this wasn’t revenge or domestic violence or something? Are you absolutely certain it’s a psychopath?”

“One hundred percent.”

“Are you willing to risk your career on it? If something goes wrong with this, it’s on your head. The AG, the judge, the feds, everyone will point the finger at you and say that you told them it was necessary to prevent more deaths.”

“I know, I’ve thought about that. But I need … we need, to catch this monster. He’s not going to stop.”

He shrugged and looked over to the waitress who was bent over picking up a slip of paper that had fallen on the floor. “All right. But if you fuck up, it’s your funeral, not mine.”

34

Harlow ate the rest of his meal and chatted about mundane things. When they were done, he paid and walked out to his black Mercedes MLS and put on his sunglasses before pulling out of the restaurant parking lot.

Farther down the road near the Interstate, he saw a group of thugs harassing a woman that was walking by. One of them jumped in front of her and began to talk as another came up behind her and grabbed her ass. She jumped back and tried to slap him and he took her arm and blew a kiss to her.

Her anger had turned to fear as she realized these men had nothing to lose and she was alone. She attempted to pull away but the man wouldn’t let go. Harlow stopped his car in the middle of the road, the car behind him slamming on his brakes and blaring the horn. Harlow flashed his badge, making sure that as he pulled it out the other car got a good view of his firearm too. He walked over to the men.

“Let her go, assholes.”

“Fuck you.”

He flashed his badge. “Let her go.”

The man held on a moment longer before letting go and walking away. The other man had already disappeared into the crowd and melted with the group. Harlow went after the one that had grabbed the woman. He stepped in front of him and the man stared into his eyes.

“I’m not going to arrest you,” Harlow said. “What I’m going to do is take all the drugs you got on you and I’m going to throw them away. Then I’m going to take that wad of cash I see lumping your pocket and I’m going to keep it. And then I’m going to let you go.”

Fear showed across the man’s face and his eyes were wide. If he were arrested, he would bail out in an hour. If his money and drugs disappeared, he would have to answer to someone. And that someone would not believe that a police officer threw the drugs away and took the cash without arresting him.

“What’chyu want?”

“I just spent a hundred thirty bucks on lunch. I want you to pay for it.”

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out some cash. He counted out six twenties and handed them over. Harlow kept his hand out and the man saw he didn’t have any tens. He gave over another twenty. Harlow smiled and went back to his car.

The woman had already walked away but would glance back to see what was happening. Harlow saw the line of cars behind him and climbed into his Mercedes and got onto the Interstate. It was too bad she didn’t stick around, he thought. He could’ve given her a ride home and had a date for later tonight. After all, who would turn down someone that just saved them?

He listened to a Talking Heads CD on the way back to the office. When he got there he pushed his sunglasses up onto his forehead and looked over his car to make sure there were no fresh scratches or dings, a habit he had developed when he bought his first luxury car, a BMW, two years ago. He remembered his shock when he found that he would park and people would purposely ding his car with their doors.

When he was satisfied there was nothing there he went into the building and up to the fifth floor. Before he even sat down at his desk his phone buzzed.

“Yeah?”

“Chief, can I get a few minutes?” Ho said.

“Chin you’re two doors down. You don’t have to call me. Just come over.”

A few minutes later Ho walked into his office. Harlow motioned for him to sit down. He offered him a bottled water and Ho turned it down. He wasn’t looking him in the eyes and Harlow could tell he was trying to figure out how best to phrase something.

“I wanted to talk about the bust, Chief.”

“What about it?”

“It could be nothing.”

“If it was nothing you wouldn’t be sitting here. What is it?”

“Jessica was having a good conversation. Jon didn’t seem like he was nervous at all. And then out of nowhere he started looking around the restaurant and spotted me. Then he took off.”

“That was my fault. I shouldn’t have stationed you inside. And I should’ve wired her.”

“Well, maybe. But I think there was something else too. Jessica wrote on her napkin. She threw it away so I didn’t look at it, but now that I think about it I think she tipped him.”

“That’s a big accusation, you sure about this?”

“No, not at all. She may have been doodling for all I know. But it’s an odd coincidence if he ran right after she started doodling.”

“I don’t want to cast doubt on people just yet. Lemme talk to her and see what she says.”

“You’re the boss. But I think she may have tipped him. Just to be safe, I don’t think we should have her on the task force looking for him.”

“I’ll take it under advisement.”

Harlow waited until Ho left the office and then he put his feet up on his desk. He tried not to feel moments like this, moments of glee and superiority, but it was difficult not to in this situation. Everything had gone well. He had placed Ho inside and knew Stanton wasn’t stupid enough not to spot him. The plainclothes and cruisers were placed far enough away that he could escape but it wouldn’t be obvious; it would seem like a tactical error. Stanton was almost no good to him caught. But a fugitive from justice? When he was eventually caught, who would believe anything he says?

Outside the office, he saw Tommy supervising maintenance as they drilled plaques near the front lobby and hung large glossy photos of the unit. Chin, Jessica, Nathan, and Philip were all up. Two new detectives, Henry Foringer and Alberto Cabellero, were also up. There was one empty plaque on the end.

“Tommy, take that empty plaque down.”

“It’s already drilled. We’ll have another detective here soon and then I can just-”

“Just do as I say.”

Tommy shrugged. “Your call, I guess.”

35

Melissa answered the door in jeans and a t-shirt torn a few places in the back. Stanton could tell it was done on purpose at the store and it took him back a little. She was plain and adorable when he had been with her. Now, it was something different. Her nails were long and her skin fake tanned. She had new piercings in her ears and her hair had blond highlights.

She led him to the living room and then went to get two drinks. He sat down on the leather sofa. One of the boys’ toys was out on the living room floor and he stared at it a long time. It was always an odd feeling for him to be in someone else’s home. Like seeing a side of them they didn’t allow others to see. But the familiarity of the toys and the photos of his two sons up on the mantle gave it a sense of home that confused him and made it uncomfortable. He wondered if coming here was a mistake.

Melissa returned with two orange juices and placed one on a coaster in front of him. The coffee table was an old, worn out wicker stand and looked hand-woven. He took a sip of his orange juice and they sat quietly awhile, the wind blowing through some trees in the backyard. The sliding glass door was open but the screen was closed. He could see several tall trees and a doghouse.

“I didn’t know you got a dog.”

“Lance bought it for the boys. All it seems to do is poop and bark but the boys love it.”

“What kind of dog is it?”

“I don’t know, some purebred he paid three thousand dollars for.”

“I was planning on buying a dog for them sometime soon. I’m glad they have it.” He placed his juice down. It was bitter and had a taste of mint. He figured it must be some sort of import, like the coffee table. “Do you go to church anymore?”

“No.”

“Do you at least take the boys?”

“No.”

Stanton was about to say something, but didn’t. There would be no point. Everything that needed to be said between them had already been said.

“Lance’ll be home in a couple of hours and I can’t have you here. It wouldn’t look right. So what is it you want, Jon?”

Stanton opened his mouth, and it seemed as if the words were pulled from the air. He told her about Harlow and the blackmail, about Jessica, about Hernandez, about Young. He had always found it easy to speak to her and was glad that that hadn’t changed. But there was something different. Very subtle, but it was there. Just a little lower inflection in her voice. A few more glances away as he was speaking. She was caring about him less and less.

When he was done she crossed her legs and played with her hair. It was something he had seen her do when she was thinking. He had always found it adorable but now thought it insignificant, like watching the idiosyncrasies of a stranger.

“I’ll talk to Michael,” she finally said. “He listens to me. Or he’ll at least listen to Lance.”

“Not on this. He’s played his hand. I have too much information on him and he’ll do everything he can to discredit me and keep me away.”

“Then why did you come to me?”

“Honestly, I just wanted someone to know. It may not seem like much to you but it means a lot that you believe me.”

“I can tell when you’re lying and you’re not lying right now.”

He rose to leave. “If anything happens to me … well, I don’t actually know how to finish that sentence.”

“You don’t have to.”

As he walked out the front door he turned to her. “I’m sorry. For everything. I really wish things could’ve turned out different between us. Even now I still love you.”

“I wish they would have turned out differently too. But that’s life I guess. You think you’re doing okay and something falls on your head out of the sky.”

Stanton climbed into his car and felt the warmth of tears streaming down his cheeks.

36

It was dark when Stanton pulled out of the Wal-Mart parking lot. He didn’t like driving during the day. There was no doubt that a BOLO call went out for him with his make and model. He thought about trading his car in. There were a few places he knew that would take his car, no questions asked, and replace it with another one. Granted, one of less value and reliability.

He drove down the boulevard and watched the moon reflect off the choppy water of the Pacific. A yacht was out past the pier, slowly drifting with the waves, and he wished he were on that yacht right now. Enjoying the ocean breeze.

It was nearly two hours and forty-five minutes of driving before he came to a stop in front of the Boca Del Ray apartments. Two young Hispanic males were on the porch again though they were different from any of the ones he’d seen. He walked over to them and they stared and sucked on spliffs loaded with weed and tobacco.

Stanton held up his badge and brushed past them without saying anything. His heart was racing as they entered the code and opened the door. He stepped inside and as the door shut behind him he heard one of them say, “One less pig you gotta worry about.”

The building was quiet tonight and a thick odor of marijuana hung in the air. Stanton remembered it was the first of the month. Welfare checks were distributed today. Many were cashed at all night check cashing businesses and the money was promptly spent on drugs and liquor. It would last six or seven days and then they would be scraping by the rest of the month until the next distribution.

He walked to Francisco’s apartment. Police tape covered the door and someone had tagged gang signs over it in black and red spray-paint. He took out his keychain and the Swiss Army knife attached to it and slit the tape along the edge of the door. A pad lock was on but the wood was so weak he just put his shoulder to it and gave it one good push and it cracked open.

The room was hot and stale from a lack of circulation. A dark black stain stuck out of the carpet where Francisco’s body had been found. Like a wound that won’t quite heal. Dirty footprints were over the kitchen linoleum and all the furniture had been taken from the apartment; probably by people in the building who had heard that somebody had passed away.

Stanton walked to the kitchen faucet and ran the cold water. He put his hand underneath and felt the bubbles on his palm before taking a long drink. He turned the water off and walked into the living room. He peered through the blinds outside and didn’t see anyone. It wasn’t a good view; just cars and a large withered tree that stuck out of the ground in front of the building like a massive weed. A car’s headlights shone toward him and then away as it U-turned in the street. He stepped back and stood in the living room a long time before moving.

Stanton walked down the hall from the kitchen to the bathroom and bedroom. There was a linen closet in the hallway and he opened it. A couple of dirty sheets were thrown on the ground and the top shelf was broken and leaning to one side.

He closed the closet door and went into the bedroom.

The bed was still there. A king-size with a stained mattress and chipping headboard. He glanced under the bed and opened the closets. They were empty. The view out of the window was the back of the building; an open space covered in dirt and weeds with an overflowing dumpster. The yellow of the street light gave it a warm glow but appeared like the lights in a university basement.

There was a loud crash and he froze. Instinctively, he reached for his firearm and felt nothing but the cloth of his shirt. It went quiet again and then another crash. It was coming from upstairs and he listened intently as people began yelling in Spanish. He exhaled, unaware that he had been holding his breath, and made his way to the bathroom.

He stood outside the door and peered in before flicking on the light. He had bought latex gloves at the store and he pulled them out of his pocket and put them on.

He stepped inside and shut the door. It was quiet here and he couldn’t hear the yelling any longer. He looked over the mirror and ran his hand along the edge of the sink and over the faucet. He bent down and looked from one corner of the tile to the other and studied the bathtub and the toilet.

Chin Ho and the forensics team believed there were two or even three assailants and that they killed Francisco in here and then dragged him into the living room. Stanton knew it wouldn’t take three. A single person was much stronger than anyone thought, especially when they were determined. But they scarcely considered why he would’ve been killed in the bathroom and then placed somewhere else. Their best guess was that the killers wanted to avoid a mess in the living room and instead opted to kill him in the bathtub. But they clearly didn’t care about leaving evidence or a mess behind. There was something else.

What is it you want me to find in here?

Stanton lifted the cover off the tank of the toilet and then examined the pipes underneath, trying each one to see if they were loose. Below the sink were cabinets and he opened them. They were empty except for an old soap wrapper and a carton of baking soda. He pulled on the pipe leading to the faucet but it was tightly wound and didn’t budge.

Forensics had combed this bathroom, but he knew that once they discovered the blood, it was a routine check from there. A grid search followed by checking all the traps and drains. He had found that forensics units were never invested in a case and once a plausible theory of what occurred was developed, they went on autopilot.

He ran his hands up and down the sides of the mirror, over the door and its hinges, the shower curtain and the small window over the tub. But there was nothing there. The air conditioner clicked on as he leaned against the counter and wiped at the sweat that had formed on his brow. He glanced over to the vent. It was tucked behind the toilet and he watched a piece of lint flutter on it a moment before being blown away.

Stanton knelt down and reached behind the toilet. Even from the ground it was difficult to reach. He lay on his side and stuck one arm back there and pulled off the vent guard. Cool air came rushing out and he held his hand over it and felt the pressure against his skin. The right side was stronger than the left.

He reached into the weaker side of the vent and ran his fingers in a circle. They touched something and he froze.

It felt smooth and had a sharp edge. He squeezed lightly and felt the crinkle of paper. His fingers wrapped around it and he slowly brought it up and out of the vent. It was a scrap of white lined paper neatly folded into a small rectangle. He carefully opened it and his heart jumped into his throat:

wElCoME to ThE gAmE DeTEcTIvE StAntON

MoNtEgo AVEnue abErdeen driVe

37

Jessica heard her phone and hopped out of the shower, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around her body though no one else was in her apartment. She got to it on the third ring and heard a car horn and traffic in the background.

“Hello?”

“Jessica, it’s Jon.”

“Jon, where are you?”

“I’m here, in town. I need your help.”

“You need to-”

“You tipped me off because you believe me. If you believe me then you have to trust me. I need your help and I can prove I didn’t kill Francisco.”

“Where are you calling from?”

“Payphone at the 7-11 down the block.”

“Okay. Come up. I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

It was only a few minutes later before Stanton walked in to her apartment and announced his presence. She was getting dressed and said she would be out in a minute. He sat down on her couch and leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling. Before long she stepped out of the bedroom in pin-striped suit pants and a red sleeveless blouse. She wore her holster and firearm and put on a women’s jacket. He knew the firearm display was for him. Just in case.

“I found this,” Stanton said, laying the paper on the coffee table. She picked it up and read it.

“What does it mean?”

“I don’t know. I googled the two address terms. There’s only one place in the state where streets named Montego and Aberdeen intersect. It’s near the Salton Sea. But what I need from you is to check with Eddie in forensics and see if he checked the vent in the bathroom at Francisco Hernandez’s apartment.”

Jessica instantly knew where he was going.

“You think it was placed there after the scene was processed?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “It would be incredibly incompetent for Eddie not to look in the vent and I wouldn’t describe Eddie as incompetent.”

“Okay. Hang on.”

She pulled out her cell phone and dialed the police switchboard. She asked for Eddie Bowler and was put on hold for two minutes before a gruff voice answered.

“Yeah?”

“Eddie, this is Jessica Turner, in Cold Case.”

“Yeah, what’dya need?”

“You were the one that processed the Francisco Hernandez scene, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you remember checking the vent in the bathroom for any foreign material? Specifically a small sheet of paper.”

“I’m sure I did.”

“Would you mind checking?” There was a brief silence. “I know it’s a pain in the ass and I’m sorry. But this is really important to the Chief and he’s on me about it.”

“Yeah, all right. Sit tight.”

Jessica heard keys being punched on a keyboard and the loud exhalations of an annoyed Eddie Bowler. She thought she heard music in the background; Jimi Hendrix.

“Ok,” he mumbled to himself, “Hernandez, Hernandez … hey that was the detective that was iced. The one undercover.”

“That’s him.”

“Huh. Okay, hang on … all right, we did a grid search and … yes, I checked the vent for over twenty inches and didn’t find anything. It tilted at an angle and no one could’ve gotten anything in farther than that.”

“That’s all I needed to know. Thanks, Eddie.”

“Yup.”

She hung up the phone and sat down in a large wicker chair with a blue seat cushion. “Checked the vent for twenty inches and didn’t find anything. So I guess that means it was put there after we left. How would they know you would come back?”

“I don’t know. If they knew that they had to have known I wouldn’t be the one assigned to the case. So they would just somehow have to guess that I would come back and search the bathroom. We were thinking Francisco was killed and then dragged into the living room, but maybe someone came in after and dragged him there and left the note for me.”

“You thinking another cop?”

“Maybe. Honestly I don’t know what to think. I’m feeling burned out.”

“Jon, I do believe you. But I don’t want to lose my career by helping you.”

“I understand. I wasn’t suggesting that I stay here. I just need to go somewhere and sleep for awhile.” He rose to leave. “I’m going to the Salton Sea. I’ll call you afterward. Take the note in to latent prints and have them run it.”

“Do you need me to do anything else?”

“I don’t think there is anything you can do. But thanks. You can’t imagine how nice it is to have someone on your side when everyone else is against you.”

“Yeah, I can.”

38

Chief Harlow was not used to waiting. He sat now on a metal bench at the Pelican Bay State Prison and checked his watch. They had kept him waiting over an hour and a half. It was punishment, he knew, from the warden. The chief had scheduled a visit by his own calendar rather than the prison’s and two extra guards had to be pulled away and stuck in the visiting corridor.

He strove that, no matter what, he would always be honest with himself. It was difficult enough to be honest with others but to look at oneself without judgment and without filtering was nearly impossible. It was something you had to work on for years and do constantly, from sun up to sun down. He felt he had a grasp of himself now. Of what he felt and why he felt it. It helped calm him in difficult situations.

But for some reason he was fuming. He couldn’t think about anything but running up to the warden’s office and chewing him out. But he knew he had no authority here. At best, the warden would yell back. At worst, he would have him arrested and escorted off the property or stuck in a cell for a few hours. Wardens and judges were the last forms of tyranny left in America.

The door opened and a guard led Noah Sherman in. He placed him down on the metal stool in front of Harlow and he picked up the phone as Harlow did the same.

“I heard they got you as temporary chief now.”

“Position turned permanent.”

“Oh yeah? What happened to Rufino Ortiz? I thought he was next in line.”

“He retired based on some problems he was having.”

“Problems?” Sherman said with a chuckle. “Jesus, you are a politician. I heard he got busted with coke. I knew Rufino. Really well. Never once saw him with coke in all the years I knew him.”

“Yeah, well I guess we don’t really know people.”

“No, guess not. So first Jon and now you. You guys miss me down there or something?”

“I have a proposition for you.”

“And what’s that?”

“Tami Jacobs. Twenty-three, blond, found in her-”

“I remember the case. What about it?”

“I need your help on it.”

“You took me off that case and gave it to a couple of ass-kissers that just came up from the Gang Unit.”

“I know, I remember. But you got farther than anyone.”

“Then why’d you take me off?”

“I have my reasons.”

He was quiet a moment and then said, “You know what, Mike? I never trusted you. From the first fucking second I saw you I thought you were a snake that would kill his own mother if it made him a few bucks.”

“Fuck you, Noah. Don’t forget which one of us is on this side of the glass.”

“Yeah, I know. In a perfect world you’d be back here with me.”

“In a perfect world Jon’s bullet would have been a few more inches to the right and you’d be in a grave instead of a cell.” He leaned forward on his elbows. “And let me ask you something: why the fuck would you try and kill your partner? He would’ve worked something out with you.”

“He would have arrested me and testified against me at my trial. There’s no gray area for him. Now cut the shit. What do you want?”

“I want that case solved. As quickly as possible. You think you can handle it?”

Sherman’s eyes lit up and a smile came over his lips. He leaned back and spread his legs, allowing himself to slouch comfortably. “What makes you think I haven’t already?”

“You would’ve told me.”

“Would I? You fucked me and gave the biggest case of my career to two dumbasses who’d never worked a homicide. You really think I’d hand over everything I had to them?”

“No,” Harlow admitted, “you wouldn’t.”

“You know what’s interesting about you, Mike? Do you know why you just said that?”

Harlow bit the inside of his cheek. “Because I wouldn’t.”

“Yeah, I know you wouldn’t, man. I know it and it creeps you the fuck out that me and you think the same. You wanna hear something crazy? Everybody in here thinks like that. It’s a type of mentality. I don’t even know where it comes from. Parents maybe. Maybe they’re just born with it though. Like the way you think is just part of your package with your guts and brains.”

“I didn’t come here for a philosophy lesson. You gonna help me or not?”

“Can’t. Not from in here.”

“You wouldn’t be in there. You help me, you’ll be out of custody. You’ll have to wear chains and a location ankle monitor at all times, and you’ll have a federal marshal with you twenty-four seven, but you’ll be allowed to be outside the prison.”

“And?”

“That’s not enough for you?”

“You knew it wouldn’t be. What else did you get?”

“Your sentence is life without parole. You help me get who did this, it becomes life with parole.”

“How?”

“Your attorney’s gonna file a Post Conviction Remedies Act petition and the Court of Appeals is going to grant it. One of the justices, not in public of course, but one of the justices has already agreed.”

“Don’t matter. Just cause I got the possibility don’t mean nothing. They’ll never let me out of here. Charles Manson never killed anybody and wasn’t there when his followers did and he’s going to die in prison.”

“That’s all I got, Noah. That’s the extent of my connections. You can help me or not but I can’t give you anything else. And when have you ever heard of a serial killer getting the possibility of parole? It’s a huge deal.”

“I’m not a serial killer. I only got two kills. FBI defines it as three kills. But it don’t mean shit. They won’t let me out.”

“Fine,” Harlow said, standing up, “then I’ll find another way. Have fun with your butt buddies in here.”

“I didn’t say no.”

“Then what?”

“Put it in writing.”

“Are you fucking stupid? We’re talking about an appellate judge making a finding before being presented the case. I can’t put that in writing. No, my friend, we’re just going to have to trust each other on this one.”

“Well, I guess I ain’t got nothing else.”

“Ain’t? Since when did you start talking like a fucking redneck?”

“You are what you’re around.”

“God help us if that’s true. So, you still haven’t given me an answer.”

“Okay. You got yourself a deal.”

39

There was perhaps no more eerie place on earth for Jon Stanton than the Salton Sea.

In the nineteenth century the only reason Californians had to be near the Salton Sea were salt mining operations that occurred there. But the area proved too harsh an environment and went into decline.

There was an effort in the 1950’s to rejuvenate the area and celebrities from that era could be seen in old photographs hanging out in boats, sipping wine or beer with groups of friends. But the rejuvenation never stuck and the real estate boom that was expected as a result never materialized. Fish were introduced into the lake but the heavier than expected rains and the overwhelming salinity of the water wiped out the introduced species quickly. The rejuvenation resulted only in shores full of dead fish and half-finished homes staring out over the water like corpses.

Corpses were what Stanton remembered about the area from his childhood. Small fish lined along the shore in piles, their eyes dried out. Once he found an entire beach of sea shells and began happily collecting them, enjoying the crunch underneath his feet, only to have his father tell him they were not sea shells but the bones of dead fish and animals.

The Salton Sea was now nearly abandoned and all the nearby towns were known more for their massive production of methamphetamine than any tourism.

Stanton took Route 86 down and regretted not trading in his car. Every police cruiser on the road was a potential threat and his heart would race until the cruiser turned away or sped past him. Before long he came to the intersection of Montego and Aberdeen. It was near the shore and there was nothing nearby that he could see until he looked farther down the road to the south and saw an abandoned warehouse building. He pulled down the road and made his way to the front of the building and parked.

All the windows were broken out or painted over in black. The wood and paint were falling off in large chunks and the dirt surrounding the building was littered with trash. Stanton stepped out of his car and the powerful odor of sea salt filled his nostrils. He noticed piles of dog feces covering the surrounding ground and knew packs of feral dogs roamed this area, scavenging garbage cans and the carcasses of dead fish and game that died near the lake.

Stanton walked to the building and stood in front of a door marked, “EMPLOYEE ENTRANCE.” He looked around and saw that he was completely alone. Maybe it had been a mistake to come here? But he knew he couldn’t leave. He had nowhere else to go.

He tried the doorknob and it turned and opened the door. He walked inside.

It was a large space with no wall divisions and old machinery had been left to rust and fall apart on the factory floor. Stanton could see a few nests, what the homeless called the makeshift sleeping places they made with whatever soft material they could find. In this case it was newspapers and blankets. Blankets were valuable and he knew no one would leave them willingly. They would be back for it, or they were still here.

He turned toward the front of the warehouse and walked into an open doorway to the office spaces. The first office was small, almost the size of a bathroom, and he looked around before stepping out and going to the next office. There was a filing cabinet and he opened it and checked the drawers but there was nothing in them but rat feces. He came next to what he thought would have been a breakroom as there was an empty water jug and an old rusted fridge thrown on the floor. The carpet had been torn out, revealing wood underneath with large patches of glue that his shoes would stick to.

There was a calendar with a shoeprint on it lying next to the fridge and he kicked it open with his foot, revealing a woman in a string bikini and no top. He then opened the fridge. It was empty except for mold and a box of Arm amp; Hammer.

The other offices were the same. In one he found an abandoned pair of shoes that had been worn away to the point that the bottom halves were falling off. In another was a rusted kitchen knife with the handle missing. But it was all innocuous. There was nothing here.

He went out to the factory floor and wandered among the large machines. Once they had been powered and producing goods that traveled halfway around the world. They had been taken care of; cleaned and polished and maintained. Now they were on the brink of falling to dust.

There was a small stairwell near the back leading to a platform overlooking the floor. Behind it was another office. Stanton climbed the stairs and stood on the platform looking over the factory floor. He imagined the workers that must’ve been here, the laughter, the sadness, the hours upon hours of mindless labor that must’ve dulled their souls. He turned to the office door behind him. It was labeled “SUPERVISOR” and it was thick with a smooth steel knob that hadn’t decayed like the rest of the factory.

Stanton tried the door and it was locked. He tried kicking it open but the lock was too strong and the door too thick. Next to the door were a few windows. He broke one with his elbow and then cleared out the jagged edges carefully. He lifted himself up on the sill and began climbing in. There were still a few pieces of glass he hadn’t gotten to and they scraped and cut his knees and hands. A tiny stream of blood flowed from his palm and he instinctively sucked on it and then wrapped it tightly in his shirt. He stood frozen, applying pressure to his hand, listening to the sounds of a dead building.

There was another nest in the office with two old blankets. They had webs and rat droppings over them. He knew now that the nests were too old and too dirty to be in use. Even the homeless had abandoned this place long ago.

There was a large desk pushed against the wall and behind it was another door; a closet. He walked to it and tried the knob; it was open. The door creaked and dust kicked up as it scraped along the floor.

Though it was dark inside, he could make out the outline perfectly. Soft curves leading to a disheveled top. It had been pushed far back into the closet, behind a dark trench-coat and next to a box full of paperclips and documents and notepads. But the outline was unmistakable.

It was a body.

40

Stanton got outside into the sunlight and shut the factory door behind him. He snorted out of his nostrils, as if to get the air from inside out of his lungs.

With little light and no context, Stanton was still able to see the pattern. The animal-like ferocity of the attack, the torn and ragged flesh, breasts bitten or ripped away from the body. There was no doubt in his mind that it was the same as Tami Jacobs.

He called Jessica and told her what he had found. He asked her not to call it in for two hours to give him time with the body. She told him she would wait one.

It was a brisk walk to the shore. Laid out in front of him was a blanket of small bones and he could see through his childhood eyes why he thought they were seashells. He cleared a space with his foot and sat down; the crunch of bones he missed underneath him as he stretched his legs out and then curled them back against his body. It had caught him off guard, like the photos of Tami. As a detective in the thick of his career, he had distanced himself from horror. Desensitized was the word his father had used to describe it when Jon had told him how he felt. But that wasn’t accurate. He was still sensitive to it but was able to push it down deep inside, where it couldn’t get out. At least not right away. That’s how he could function and push himself forward when he needed to.

Still, he was glad this one was dead. The live ones were much harder to deal with. The interviews at the hospitals with broken and bleeding women or young girls. The guilt and misplaced blame they feel. The anger that would well up in him. It tore him apart inside. He never wanted any of that to touch Melissa or the boys so he kept it bottled up as tightly as possible, unacknowledged even to himself. But it was too large a part of his life to repress. Soon, he had to repress everything and he withdrew into himself. That’s when they didn’t talk anymore.

He stood up and watched the small waves lap on the shore for awhile before heading to his car and then back into the building.

It took a few moments of standing over the body before he leaned down and pulled out the flashlight he had taken from his glove-box and flicked it on. In a normal scene, there were things he would look for that he had memorized. A checklist he would go through. Ligature marks, synthetic and hair fibers, blood spatter, foot prints, fingerprints, photographs, video, three walk-throughs followed by diagramming. Later on would be a rape kit performed by a nurse and serological analysis. There was no time for any of that now. He checked his watch; he had thirty-seven minutes before Jessica called it in.

Stanton snapped on a pair of gloves and held the flashlight in between his teeth. He took a deep breath and then turned his attention to the body.

She was clearly female, early twenties, blond. Stanton went to bring the light closer to her face and her mouth fell open and she gasped.

He jumped back, the flashlight falling out from between his teeth and hitting the floor. His heartbeat was pounding in his ears. When he regained himself he felt her pulse. There was no beat. Her skin was cold and her body rigid.

When someone passed, bacteria in the intestinal tract would begin to eat the organs, releasing gas as a byproduct. This was what caused the bloating of corpses. The gas would sporadically be released through the mouth, causing a gasping sound. Occasionally, if it activated the vocal cords, it could produce sounds resembling words. In the middle ages, they often mistook this phenomenon as vampirism and the corpse would be staked, decapitated, and burned.

Stanton stepped away from the body and leaned against the wall. Sweat was rolling down his face and he wiped it with the back of his forearm.

When he was ready he turned back to the body. He didn’t want to disturb anything for the forensics unit so he tried to carefully just run his hands over the inside of the closet. He examined the body closely and the box and trench coat. Other than that the closet was empty.

He searched the office, the desk, and the blankets left on one side of the room. There was nothing. He checked the corners of the room and as he was about to turn back to the body he heard a noise on the factory floor. It sounded like someone dropping something and running.

He stepped out onto the platform. The floor was quiet. Stanton walked down the stairs as silently as possible and then ducked low, looking underneath the machines. On the far end nearest the door was a shadow. The shadow moved.

Without a firearm he felt helpless. He crouched low and ran behind one of the machines. Peering around the corner, he saw that the shadow was planted in one spot and didn’t move. There was the main entrance on the other side of the building but it was bolted and chained. The employee entrance was the only way in or out.

Stanton quietly went from one machine to the next, keeping his head low so he could watch the shadow. As he was on the main floor going to another machine, he heard a sneeze and then someone mumbling.

The person didn’t respond to his movements at all and Stanton managed to get behind him. He snuck around the machine and glanced at a man huddled on the ground. In one swift movement Stanton sprinted at him and threw his bodyweight against him, slamming him to the ground.

The man fought back, bashing his fist into Stanton’s jaw but he couldn’t get a good grip. He flipped onto his stomach to push himself up and Stanton wrapped his forearm around his throat and pressed his other arm to the back of his head creating a scissor choke.

The man was screaming and Stanton pressed harder, hard enough that the man’s body began to go limp. When the man had lost strength and was about to pass out, Stanton flipped him over and sat on his chest, his knees pinning the man’s arms to the floor. The man was coughing and Stanton let him finish before speaking.

“Who are you?”

“I ain’t nobody, man.”

“What are you doing here?” Stanton noticed his clothing, torn and ragged.

“I live here, man. I live here. Get off me. I ain’t done nothin’.”

“Tell me who you are.”

The man stunk of marijuana and body odor. Alcohol was strong on his breath and Stanton saw the yellowed and black teeth. He ran his hands over the man’s clothing and found no weapon. He stood up and let the man go.

“You,” the man said out of breath, “you the detective. You the detective, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Star, er, Stage something.”

“Stanton.”

“Yeah, man. I got a message for you.”

“From who?”

“Don’t know. Mutherfucker paid me a hundred bucks and said to wait here for you.”

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know, man. I told you. Just some white dude. He gave me a C note and said tell Stanton there’s gonna be another one in two weeks. That’s what he said. Two weeks.”

“What else did he say?”

“Didn’t say nothin’ else. Said, tell him there’s gonna be another one in two weeks.”

Stanton helped the man to his feet. “What did he look like?”

“White dude, man I don’t know. You mutherfuckers look the same to me.”

“Did he say anything else? It’s very important you tell me.”

“Nah, man. That’s all the dude said.”

“Do you know anything about who she is?”

“Who?”

Stanton saw the genuine look of confusion on the man’s face; he didn’t know.

“Here,” Stanton said, pulling out a hundred dollar bill. He gave it to the man and then asked if there was anything else he could remember.

“Nah, man. That’s it.”

“Did you see him bring anything into that office back there?”

“Nah, when he gave me the money I left. I ain’t seen nothin’ after that.”

“Well, the police are going to be here soon. I know you got some pot here. I think you should go somewhere else for awhile if you got some place.”

Stanton checked his watch. Jessica should’ve called it in over ten minutes ago. He gave another twenty and told him to spend it only on food and the man agreed.

He ran out and jumped into his car. As he pulled out of the parking lot and made his way into Salton City, he saw two police cruisers heading toward the factory.

41

Hunter Royal watched himself in a mirror over the bed as his climaxed, the young brunette bent over in front of him groaning with pleasure, their bodies glistening with sweat under the red lighting. When they were done he collapsed next to her on the bed and looked his body over in the mirror. He was about twenty pounds overweight. Not that that mattered with women when you had money, but still. It was something he would have to work on. His body was hairless from waxing and it looked good, he thought, not model good but good. But he’d always had a problem with his nipples. He thought they were too big considering that he had a slender chest. There was no doubt he would pay a visit to his plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills to get them done, but it was a matter of timing. He would be bandaged for at least two weeks and he was hitting the pool right now at least four times a week. Maybe in the cooler months.

“Are you spending the night?” the girl said.

“No. I got work to do early tomorrow.”

She pulled a joint out of the nightstand next to her and lit it. The smoke was sweet smelling and it quickly overtook the scent of sweat and sex. They passed it back and forth quietly for a few minutes before he rose and found his boxers and jeans.

“You could go to work from here tomorrow,” she said, “if you wanted.”

“Nah, you know I like sleeping in my own bed.” When he had slipped his shirt on and found his sandals he leaned down and kissed her, running his tongue over her lips. “I’ll call you.”

“No you won’t.”

“No, I won’t. You call me.”

He left the house and stood on the front porch awhile, enjoying the evening air. The garden next to the porch was well tended and the lawn was freshly mowed. He watched the sun climbing down into the earth and painting the sky a light pink.

Though nineteen, the girl still lived at home. Her parents were out of town right now. Royal got a big kick out of fucking her in her parents’ bed. Maybe he would send a note to her father a little later letting him know? He only wished he could see his face as he read it.

Royal walked down to his car. As he was about to insert his key into the lock, he felt pressure on his arms and his neck snapped back as someone had him by the throat. He tried to make a sound but his airway was blocked and he began to fight.

He was lifted off his feet and dragged down the sidewalk to a car and thrown in the back.

“What the fuck!” he shouted.

Two men climbed into the backseat with him. One stuck a gun into his side and Royal froze. He felt the warm trickle of urine down his pants.

“Listen, guys. I’m rich. I can get-”

“Shut the fuck up you piece of shit. I don’t want your money.”

Royal looked to the passenger seat and saw a man leaning back, absently tapping a ring against his teeth.

Harlow turned around and looked at him.

“Mike? Are you shitting me? You can’t-” One of the men sitting next to him elbowed him in the face, causing his nose to crack and start bleeding. “Fuck!”

“I need something from you. We’re both gonna get out of it so it’s a good deal. But I need a yes or no now.”

“This how you ask all your friends for favors?”

“You’re not my friend you fucking parasite and don’t you forget it.”

Royal pressed his fingers to his nose. The blood was gushing now and he tilted his head back, letting it go down his throat rather than down his shirt.

“Don’t tilt your head back,” Harlow said. “It’ll make you vomit if you get too much blood.”

Royal straightened up. “What’dya want?”

“Before we talk deal, how’s that little philly you were fucking in there?”

“She’s fine.”

“How old is she?”

“Nineteen.”

Harlow threw a piece of paper onto his lap. He flipped on the interior light so Royal could see it well. It was a copy of the girl’s high school ID.

“Fuck me,” Royal said.

“That’s right asshole. She’s fifteen. You’re smarter than that. You should always check ID. Although she may have a fake one she would’ve showed you. Under the law, doesn’t make a difference. How messed up is that?”

“What’dya want, Mike?”

“Now that you’re in more of dealing mood, we can talk. Noah Sherman. I got him released into my custody.”

“Why?”

“He’s helping with a cold case.”

“How’d you manage that?”

“That’s not your concern. Here’s what your concern is: you can’t write about it. Don’t snoop around, don’t ask questions, don’t call any of your boys. You leave this alone. I don’t want the public to know about this.”

“I’m not the only reporter in town.”

“No, but for some reason I think you’re the only one that would find out. You got the deepest contacts and I’ve seen how you operate. You wait until the crowd’s gone and then come over and ask your questions and get what you want. You’re a perverted little scumbag weasel, but you’re a good reporter.”

Despite the blood pouring over his hand, Royal felt a small gleam of pride. Legitimacy was something he had coveted since his days writing five hundred word op/eds for a porno magazine in Los Angeles.

“So I don’t report on it and you don’t arrest me?”

“And when I catch the cocksucker I want to catch, you can break the story and get exclusive interviews with me and Noah. I won’t give it to any other reporters.”

“Shit, count me in.”

“You know, Hunter, that’s what I’ve always liked about you. You know when you’re outmatched. Now get the fuck outta my car. And no more teenagers.”

Royal was thrown out and fell to the pavement. He stood up and flipped Harlow off as the car sped away.

42

It was nearly ten at night by the time Harlow walked out to his car from the San Diego PD headquarters. The air was warm and it was a full moon. He leaned against his car for a few minutes and stared at it. It was incredible, he thought, that that rock was what Caesar and Napoleon and George Washington and Al Capone and all the other people he had read about growing up looked up to and saw in the sky. The same moon. It gave him some comfort that there was continuity in his species. He was not religious, bowing and praising someone or something else had never appealed to him. Life to him was random chance that could’ve happened on a million different worlds but ended up happening here. But the moon that he looked at now was the same moon his ancestors saw. Life moved on.

He didn’t feel like going home to his wife. That relationship had ended years ago. They were now roommates, sharing the same space because it was more convenient than going through the hassle of a divorce and custody battle. They had sat down at the kitchen table and talked it through, rationally. Less rational people wouldn’t have been able to do it and he was pleased when she was receptive.

They had agreed they would stay together but live separate lives. They belonged to different gyms, they had different circles of friends, they went on separate vacations, and above all, they slept in different bedrooms. It had been working fine for quite some time until Harlow saw her on a date with another man. They had also agreed that they would see other people, but there was a world of difference between theory and practice. When he actually saw it, he longed for her and rage filled him. The man had been lucky Harlow was at the restaurant with other officers. He knew that for sure.

It had been confusing lately however. They had begun eating dinner as a family for the kids. They had started talking again, reconnecting. She had even asked him where he was when he had come home late one night. There would have to be another conversation and the dinners would have to end if it was going to work.

Harlow climbed in and began driving. He decided he didn’t feel like taking the freeway just yet. He drove down a residential neighborhood and saw the lights on in a large white house. A couple sat watching television in the living room and Harlow remembered it was Friday night. He had missed the fights and he didn’t have a date for tonight. It would be warmed up leftovers and pornography. But he would hit the gym in the morning and see what he could find there. Sometimes it only took him a couple of hours of faking exercise to strike up just the right conversation with just the right person. Once he had even banged an older aerobics instructor in his car in the gym parking lot.

He parked the car at the curb and observed the couple. The male had his arm around a young blond and they were watching The Royal Tenenbaums. Her face wasn’t visible at the angle he was at but he could see her sockless feet up on the coffee table. They were smooth and milky white with brightly colored toenails.

There was a squeal behind him and then the red and blues filled his car with light. A patrolman had pulled up behind him. The officer stepped out of the car with a flashlight and came to the driver side window. He tapped on the glass with his knuckles and Harlow rolled down the window.

“License, registration and proof of insurance please.”

“You’re new to the force, aren’t you Officer … Mesels.”

“License, registration and proof of insurance, please. Now.”

“Sure.”

Harlow handed him the documents and the officer went back to his cruiser. It was a Dodge Charger, one of the two dozen Harlow had commissioned for the traffic squad. The old model Fords the city used to buy simply couldn’t keep up with the newer vehicles coming out. There had been more one than suspect vehicle that had gotten away because the older cars were too slow and the chopper was busy. Harlow had gone to the mayor and gotten the extra funds he needed in less than three hours.

The officer was gone at least ten minutes. Harlow guessed it took him two to run his name, and then the rest of the time to figure out a way to apologize without coming off as a sycophant. Apologize too much, and you seem like you’re apologizing for doing your job. Apologize too little, and you offend the boss. It was a tough spot for a patrolman to be in and it was one Harlow enjoyed watching.

After twelve minutes, the officer came back. He handed the documents back to Harlow and said, “Everything looks fine. Have a good night.”

Harlow watched as the patrolman walked back to his car and then pulled away. Well done, he thought. He appeared like he didn’t know what he had done and could later claim ignorance, but still didn’t follow up with any questions or citations. Harlow had been pulled over several times as both assistant chief and chief and no one had ever played it quite so well.

He turned back to the couple on the couch but they had closed the blinds. Harlow sighed and pulled away from the curb.

The city was quiet tonight as he drove but it was a false quiet. Like someone inhaling a deep breath before shouting. Friday and Saturday nights were when madness took to the streets and the clubs and the bars. California had more madness than anywhere else in the country. Something about the people or the climate attracted madness from all over the nation. And he saw it now. In the movements of the pimps avoiding him. In the nakedness of the prostitutes he saw standing on the corners and propositioning him. In the eyes of the killers looking at him.

He came to a red light and a car full of girls rolled to a stop next to him. They giggled and he smiled at them but they turned away. He motioned for them to roll down their window but they didn’t respond. As they pulled away he caught himself in the rearview and saw the gray in his hair and wrinkles around his eyes. It took someone honking behind him to get the car moving again.

Harlow pulled into a burger joint. It was one where you could park outside and the waitress would come to you. A tray attached to the window and you could eat in your car. The waitress appeared old and spoke with a smoker’s cough that interrupted her often. Harlow ordered a burger and fries with water and ate slowly, watching the people in the cars around him.

In the car across from him, two kids that couldn’t have been older than seventeen were getting stoned. Next to them, a family was enjoying their meal. And on the other side two thugs blared Fat Joe, the bass shaking the windows of the restaurant.

When he finished he gave the waitress a decent tip and then circled around the restaurant once before heading home.

It took nearly an hour to get home and when he got to his driveway, another car was already parked there. He parked behind it and ran into the house. If there was a man in his house, inside of his wife, there was going to be hell to pay.

He opened the front door and got to the kitchen where he saw Melissa Stanton and his wife sipping coffee and talking. They both looked at him silently a moment before his wife excused herself and left the two of them alone.

“What the fuck are you doing in my house?”

“Making friends. Crystal’s actually delightful. I don’t know why you didn’t ever bring her around.”

“None of your fucking business and I asked you a question.”

“You really think you could do this to me and nothing would happen?”

“Do what?”

“He’s the father of my children, Mike. The father of my children! You think I’d let my kids go through life thinking their father’s a murderer. Getting comments and stares their whole life, not being invited to birthday parties and baseball games.”

“Not my problem.”

“Oh, but it is your problem,” she said, stepping to within a couple of feet of him. “Because you’re going to fix this and get those charges dropped.”

Harlow chuckled. “I’ve always admired your balls. Now, please, get the fuck outta my house.”

“I know where the skeletons are buried. I will destroy you, even if it destroys me in the process.”

“You don’t know shit,” he said, uncertainty in his voice.

“Oh yeah? You don’t actually think Jon never told me anything you told him, do you? Do you remember smoking a fat joint and drinking Cristal in a hot tub in Vegas with him? You told him what you did and then you started crying like a baby. He followed up on it, the young man in New Hampshire. Just to see if it actually happened. And now I know where he is. I have his phone number. And he is really anxious to know who you are.”

The color in his face was gone and he couldn’t think of what to say. He stood silently and watched her.

“Fix it asshole. Right away. If the charges aren’t dropped by tomorrow I’m calling the FBI.”

“I can’t do it by tomorrow.”

“Not my problem,” she said, imitating his voice. “And just in case you want to get crazy, I told Lance everything. And he told his staffer. Anything happens to me and they will burn you.”

As she left the house, Harlow slumped down onto the linoleum. He put his face in his hands and thought about what to do, but nothing came. There were always calculations running in his head, guesswork as to the next move and the next advantage. But now his mind was blank and he couldn’t formulate even the most basic thoughts.

He picked up the phone, and dialed Tommy’s number.

43

Stanton stopped at the mechanic’s shop and parked near the front next to a minivan. The shop was dingy and stunk of grease and the exterior looked like an abandoned gas station. He asked the cashier at the front for Louis and then sat on a fake leather couch and flipped through an issue of Time.

“Johnny!”

Stanton smiled and stood up as Louis hugged him and slapped his back. He’d gained weight and was now at least fifty pounds heavier than when Stanton last saw him, and he was tipping the scales even then.

“How are ya, Louis?”

“Good man, what’s up wit you?”

“Nothing much. Same old same old.”

“Yeah? How’s Melissa and your boys.”

“Fine. But we’re divorcing.”

“No shit? Ah, I’m sorry brother. What happened? You two seemed like you was perfect.”

“It was an act, I guess. Not from my end of it though.”

“Ah fuck man. I’m sorry. Look, my Juanita’s got this cousin man, Angelica, yo she is hot. Big tits, beautiful smile, man.”

“Maybe some other time.”

“All right man, but you hit me up if you get lonely.”

“I will.”

“So what’s up? What you need?”

“I need to get rid of my car and get a new one.”

“Yeah? There’s a dealer that’s a homie a mine that’s got some-”

“No, not like that.”

Louis looked at him a second and then said, “Oh, no shit? Awight. Well, it ain’t gonna be pretty.”

“I know.”

“Hang out a sec, lemmie see what I got.”

He went out to the back of the building and then stuck his head out of a door and motioned for Stanton to follow him. Behind the building was a massive field filled with cars. Many of them were out of service and used for spare parts, but there were a few that could still function and even a couple of luxury cars that had been abandoned by people in a hurry to get rid of them.

“I got a Beamer over there, 96. It’s awight but gots some problems with the catalytic converter. I got a old Taurus too, it’s that red one right there.”

“I’ll take the Taurus.”

“You sure, man? The Beamer’s a nice ride.”

“No, the Taurus is fine.”

They did an even trade, no paperwork, no questions, and Stanton drove out of the parking lot with a 2001 Ford Taurus registered to someone halfway around the country that didn’t know their name was being used to register cars in Southern California. As he pulled away he saw Louis’ team begin work on his Honda. Even though they had Stanton’s permission and he would have gladly signed over the title, they would change the VIN number, repaint it, change the tires and any other parts with serial numbers, and then sell the car through Craigslist or the Autotrader. Louis was known for making cars disappear.

Stanton drove for nearly three hours out of the city and ended up just outside Santa Barbara. He found a motel near a liquor store and a small convenience store and pulled in. The lobby was two old chairs and a rug with cigarette burns and the cashier sat behind a desk with a large sign that said, “NO CHECKS.”

He rented one room on the third floor and made his way up the stairs. The room was small and the bed was hidden away in the wall in what appeared to be a large closet. The furniture consisted of one 1960’s couch, a small coffee table and a 19 inch color television. He pulled the bed down and could smell that the sheets had not been changed since the last occupant. He sat down on the couch and dialed Jessica on his phone.

“Hey, Jon.”

“Hey. Any word?”

“Nothing much. Imperial County Sheriff’s are taking point and they made a big fuss that we came down too. They think it’s going to get a lot of media attention and they want to be the ones in front of the cameras.”

“Doesn’t matter. They don’t want to be the ones doing the work.”

“Yeah, I have no doubt. But nothing’s really happened yet. Someone called and left a message for the chief about it but he hasn’t called back. How are you doing?”

“As good as can be I guess.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“You sound worried about me.”

“Well, yeah, it’s just … I’ve put up with a lot of bullshit in my life but this is something I can’t really deal with. I’m thinking of quitting.”

“You shouldn’t do that. There needs to be good cops to counter people like Mike.”

“I just can’t believe what he’s doing to you. And that he’s probably going to get away with it. I just have this kinda sick feeling with me whenever I see my badge.”

“People like him, somewhere down the line, something will happen. It always does. You can’t be that crooked and get away with it for too long.”

She exhaled loudly and Stanton heard some glasses clink.

“I guess,” she said.

“Look, don’t quit. That’s not the right move and that’s not what I want. Stick with it just a little longer.”

“Jon, do you think the chief killed Hernandez? Is he that crazy?”

“I don’t know. If he had done it I don’t think he would’ve been as brazen as leaving his body out and blaming another cop. I think it was gangland. But something else is going on. Something’s overlapping with whatever happened to Tami Jacobs but I don’t know what it is. I’m getting closer to it, but it’s just not there yet.”

“I … just be careful.”

“I will.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow if there’s anything.”

“Okay. Good night.”

“Night.”

Stanton hung up and put his feet up on the coffee table. Down the hall, he could hear a couple arguing and then a slap before a woman started crying.

44

Stanton jolted awake. He had slept on the couch and his lower back and neck screamed with pain. Rolling his neck, he sat up and grabbed his cell phone off the table. The alarm had gone off though he didn’t remember setting it.

For a moment, he thought about taking a shower and changing clothes and then the weight of his situation fell on him and he remembered where he was and what he was doing. There were no other clothes, and a shower, usually relaxing, would not bring him any comfort now.

He walked to the lone window in the room overlooking the street. An old truck coated in rust with a cracked windshield sat on the curb, parking tickets piling up underneath the wipers. Across the street a Hispanic man rode a bicycle down the sidewalk and said a few words to some friends sitting on their porch drinking beer.

He wasn’t used to this; the inability to act. Normally he would be hassling the Medical Examiner’s Office or the forensics unit or the state toxicology lab to move quicker and put his case on priority status, though it probably didn’t merit it. He had always had an ability to motivate people to do things for him and he wasn’t sure he even did it consciously.

But there were no techs or ME’s or lab assistants to hassle now. He was an outcast, no more respected than the person he was chasing.

Last night, in the lonely hours before morning, he had thought about turning himself in and hiring a good lawyer. Perhaps it was better to fight this in court than out on the streets? But he knew that wasn’t true. He had seen many people, innocent people, suffer through a court system that neither cared for or respected them. They were human refuse to be pushed through a grinder in large quantities and plop out the other side. The court system, no matter how good his lawyer, would not vindicate him.

As he contemplated what to do next, his phone buzzed; it was Jessica.

“Hey,” he said.

“You need to get down here, now.”

“Where?”

“The Admin Offices. Harlow called me this morning. The charges against you have been dropped and the warrant’s been recalled.”

“How?”

“George Young recanted and the DA dropped the case. He said that he had actually seen someone else and when he did a photo lineup realized it wasn’t you. They dropped the case, Jon!”

Stanton kept his excitement in check. With the chief, there were always other angles and ones usually not seen or considered.

“What else did Mike say?”

“He said he knew that I had kept in contact with you but that he wasn’t upset. He just wanted you to come in and talk with him. But I checked the state-wide just now; it’s for real. The case is dismissed.”

“Give me an hour and then I’ll call you back.”

“Okay. Hurry up.”

Stanton hung up the phone and immediately called Melissa. She answered on the second ring.

“What did you do?” he said by way of greeting.

“What’re you talking about?”

“Cases don’t get dropped like that. Did you see him?”

“Maybe.”

“Mel, I didn’t want you involved in this.”

“Well you know what, Jon? I am involved. Like it or not you’re the father of my kids and everything you do affects us.”

“I know. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to upset you. I really appreciate whatever it is you did.”

“I didn’t do it for you. I did it for them.”

“Well, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Stanton hung up and looked out the window again, watching the sunlight reflect off a BMW driving by. Harlow would be prepared. He would have ammunition and an agenda. Stanton wasn’t sure if he just got kicked out of the frying pan and into the fire and was about to be kicked onto the floor.

*****

Stanton walked into the San Diego Police Headquarters and Administrative Offices. The place seemed odd; like a relative’s house he was no longer welcome in. The security personnel eyed him but said nothing. A few uniforms attempted to stare him down and one shoulder-checked him, but Stanton ignored them. He was far too relieved to hold any animosity, even to Harlow. After all, the man was corrupt and wicked, but he had just been looking out for himself and his family. Stanton, despite himself, forgave him.

He made his way to the Cold Case Unit and had to be let in. Harlow was at his desk, going through some paperwork, and he looked up but didn’t motion for Stanton to sit.

“Hey,” was all Harlow said.

“Hey.”

“Shut the door, please.”

Stanton shut the heavy door and sat down in one of the chairs. He crossed his legs and folded his hands and decided he would not be the first to speak.

“So,” the chief said, “heard any good gossip lately?”

Stanton smiled. “I heard the Chief of Police is an SOB.”

“Yeah, well, I guess he is.”

“Did you get George to lie or did he volunteer?”

“He wanted to do something. He blamed you for Francisco’s death. But it was my idea. I had the warrant drawn up and got the DA to get on board. Jon, I can’t even begin to say I’m sorry. I panicked. You said you were going to IAD and I thought about what would happen. Do you have any idea what they would do to me? I would go to prison for some of the shit we’ve pulled. The number of people I’ve put in there, the enemies I’ve made, I’d be dead in a week.”

“Did you kill him, Mike?”

“Who Francisco? Fuck no. How could you even ask me that? That just happened and fell into our lap. No we’re gonna catch the sons a bitches that did that. It was just an opportunity and I seized it. I’m sorry, Jon.”

“Let’s just move on.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that. I want you back in the unit, working the Tami Jacobs case. Don’t know if Jessica told you, but there’s been another homicide that matches the pattern.”

“She mentioned it.”

“Imperial County’s got it but they don’t know what to do with it. There’s still some saber rattling but they’ll eventually give it up to us.”

Stanton hesitated. “Are you going to IAD?”

“Jon, come on.”

“You’re lost, Mike. The line between us and them doesn’t apply to you. You don’t have the right to run this organization anymore. I know you’ve probably already greased a bunch of palms at IAD. But I know you haven’t at the Feds. They hate you’re guts and would arrest you as soon as you offered it. I’m asking you, please, resign. Don’t make me go to them.”

“You do what you gotta do. But I ain’t going anywhere.”

Stanton nodded and stood up. “Fine. I’ll come back, Mike. I need the resources here. But after this case is closed, I’m done for good.”

“Fine.”

Stanton walked out of the office and down the hall. He waited until he was on the elevator by himself to turn off the digital recorder that was in his pocket.

45

Noah Sherman lay quietly on a cot in his cell. There was never enough room and today he felt as if there weren’t even enough for him to think properly. The cell was nine foot by eight foot, shared by two inmates. There was a steel toilet, a steel sink, a bunk bed, a small mirror, and a stand with a television. Despite the surroundings, the cell was immaculately clean, Sherman insisting that his cellie clean whenever he couldn’t get the chance.

His cellie, Tucker Matheson, was a decent man by his estimation. An African-American that had been raised in Louisiana, he had a Southern drawl and deep-set eyes that always seemed to be bloodshot.

He had been charged with murder, pled to voluntary manslaughter, and was on the eighth year of a twelve year sentence. His wife had taken the kids and moved in with another man while they were still married. The other man lived for six hours with his new family before Tucker got into a fist-fight and ended up beating him to death.

Sherman guessed it was later in the evening but it was hard to tell. There was no clock and they had to guess the time by the television shows that were playing. He jumped off the top bunk, glancing once at Tucker who was asleep. Sherman remembered the first time they had met. It was in the yard and two of the Mexicans had decided to jump Sherman while he was working out. Payback for a fellow gang member he had put away for life when he was a young detective in the Gang Unit. Tucker intervened, slamming a forty-five pound weight into one of the gangsters’ face and shattering his jaw and cheek bones. A few of Tucker’s crew stood by, keeping anyone else from helping. The Mexicans were growing in number every year and soon they would overtake the prison. But for now, it was owned by the blacks.

He had never explained why he had helped Sherman other than the fact that they shared a cell. But Sherman had grown to like the man. He couldn’t read or write and had only a fifth grade education so Sherman took it upon himself to teach him. In six months time, he was reading children’s books and in a year was reading novels. His favorite novel was an old copy of Huckleberry Finn he had checked out from the prison library nearly a dozen times.

Sherman stripped down to his boxers and stood in front of the mirror. He had grown old in two years. His hair, once jet black, was now peppered gray. Wrinkles surrounded his eyes and the skin on his neck appeared looser. The numerous tattoos he had received while inside he wore like badges of honor. The most prominent were the ones he had on his knuckles spelling hell on both hands.

Though the prison noise had died down, it wasn’t quiet. It was never quiet, even in the dead of night. That was the first thing he learned about prison on his first day. The second thing was that it always smelled. The cleaning crew would come by twice a week and they routinely cycled the stale air, but it never helped. There was always the stench of sweat and piss and feces. The stench of hundreds of human beings crammed together so tightly the walls themselves absorbed their stink.

“Heard you was leaving?”

Sherman looked to Tucker but saw his eyes weren’t open. “Yeah.”

“You coming back?”

“Not planning on it.”

“Don’t seem right, you kill them girls and get to go free.”

“Whoever said the world was right?”

“Not me.”

“Not me either.”

“You gonna get them urges again, Noah? The bad thoughts.”

“The bad thoughts come and go. It’s a fight, that’s for sure.”

“I ain’t never got bad thoughts. I killed the mutherfucker cause he deserved it. Don’t seem right you getting to go free and me bein’ here.”

“No, it doesn’t.” He turned to him; his eyes were now open. “I never got to thank you for what you did for me. I have a feeling my time here would’a been a lot worse without you.”

“Every man got a choice in life. And he should be free to make that choice, even in hell. I did what I did cause I think that’s what Jesus would want me to. You want to pay me back, next time you get them urges, you think a Jesus.”

“I’ll try.”

46

Stanton went back to his office around six, just when everybody else had gone home. He sat at his computer awhile, checking emails, and then went through the Jacobs file again. He stared for a long time at the photos; but there was no doubt. It was either the same person that had killed both girls or someone with intimate knowledge of the first killing.

Chin Ho stepped into his office. He stood awkwardly at the door a full ten seconds before saying anything.

“I guess there’s not much I could say.”

“You did your job, Chin. Besides, I don’t hold grudges. They shorten your lifespan.”

He fidgeted with the doorknob a few seconds and then said, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So did you hear about Noah?”

“What about him?”

“He’s out. He’s being transported tonight down here to help with the Jacobs and Dallas murders.”

“Dallas?”

“Oh, yeah. Hold on a sec.” He ran over to his office and then came back and sat down, throwing a copy of a file onto the desk. “Pamela Maren Dallas. The girl in the closet at the Salton Sea.”

“How’d you ID her?”

“Dental records. She’s got some next of kin too, her mother and stepfather. They haven’t been notified yet. Harlow’s assigned the case officially to you and Jessica. Unofficially, Noah’s helping too.”

Stanton leaned back in his chair. “That’s a bad idea.”

“Why? Seemed all, Silence of the Lambs to me. Kind of takes one to catch one.” He saw that Stanton grew uncomfortable and then quickly said, “Harlow only wants him out a few weeks. After that, if there’s no developments, he goes back in the can.”

“Thanks for the file, Chin.”

“No problem. There’s an autopsy report too, but Imperial’s ME hasn’t faxed it over yet.” He rose. “You’re going to get treated like shit from some of the people here, Jon. I don’t know what the hell happened with George and that whole thing, but I just wanted you to know I think what you’re doing, catching this bastard, I think it’s noble.”

As he left Stanton flipped over the file. On the first page was the familiar glossy stare of the dead. There were a few photos of the scene, not nearly as many as there should’ve been, and then one of her laid out on the metal autopsy table. Despite the chalk-white skin and the purple bruising covering her body, her beauty still shined through.

She was twenty-one. There was a note from the autopsy report. The ME had already detected early signs of liver failure from alcohol abuse. Aside from her height, weight and some other statistics, there was no other information. Nothing about her. It was the type of report that would be written for a drug murder where victimology was not a factor. Salton City was not used to this kind of monster.

Pamela still lived with her parents and their home was in Orange County. Without an autopsy report he couldn’t be sure, but based on what he saw, she had been dead at least three or four days. Her parents should have called it in by now.

Stanton called Jessica and gave her the address to the parent’s home. She didn’t even hesitate or complain that it was after hours. She just agreed to meet him there.

Stanton drove in the waning sunlight down the Interstate and wished he would’ve waited another day or two before trading in his car. He thought about going back, but he knew it was already altered and on the market. It wouldn’t be fair to Louis, even if he was a crook.

He saw a sign for Disneyland and pain pulled at his guts and gave him a nervous stomach; he missed his boys. There was no doubt they had heard their father was a fugitive and he wanted to speak to them, to explain what had happened. But he knew that wasn’t possible. Melissa would do everything she could to keep them out of the darker side of his life. To her, the less they knew the better. But Stanton knew that wasn’t the right approach. They had a right to know; altering facts never did any good.

The house was rundown but in a middle class neighborhood. The lawn was torn up from being worked on and some engine parts were strewn over the driveway. A 1968 Mustang sat in the garage and an older man in a t-shirt and jeans was working on getting a dent out of the back bumper. Stanton guessed he was easily in his seventies.

Jessica was already parked down the street and began walking to him as he stepped out of his car. He walked to the driveway and waited for her.

The man saw them and nodded hello.

Stanton reached for his badge and remembered he didn’t have it. Jessica pulled out hers and flashed it quickly before looking away toward the home.

“What can I do you for, officers?”

“Are you Mr. Harold Dallas?” Stanton said, noticing that Jessica wasn’t looking at the man.

“Yes.”

“Do you have a daughter named Pamela? Born on June third of ninety-one?”

The man’s face went flush with anger. “What the hell did she do now?”

“Mr. Dallas, may we come inside and speak with you?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

They walked into the home. It smelled of cooking fat and meat and a television was blaring somewhere. They were led to the living room and sat on an old sofa. Harold continued to stand but leaned against the mantle over the fireplace.

“So, what’d she do?”

Stanton waited for Jessica to say something, but she sat quietly, staring at a magazine on the coffee table.

“Harold, your daughter has passed away. Her body was found near the Salton Sea and she was identified from dental records. I’m so sorry.”

There was no reaction other than clenching of the jaw, the muscles underneath his skin bulging and then relaxing. There was a long silence that seemed to go on forever. Finally Jessica cleared her throat and began to speak.

“She was murdered, Mr. Dallas. Under normal circumstances we would just notify you but these aren’t normal circumstances. We need to find who did this quickly. Your daughter was not the first victim. If you could answer-”

“Stop!” He was shaking and ashen white, but no tears came. He was from a different century, one in which men did not cry even in the most deserving of circumstances. “Just stop for a minute.” He rose up, straightening his back. “I need to tell her mother. Please wait here.”

Harold left the room for what seemed like a short time. He came back and sat in a lazy-boy next to the couch and looked out the window.

“Is she okay?” Jessica asked.

“No. But she will be.” He looked away from the window and down to the floor. “Pamie’s not my daughter. Her real daddy was killed in Iraq. I’m her step-father, but she thought of me more as her grandfather.”

“I don’t know what to say, Mr. Dallas. I wish we didn’t have to be here telling you this.”

“But you are, so let’s get on with it. What do you need to know?”

“Was Pam having any personal problems lately?” Stanton asked.

“Her and her mama’s been fighting a lot lately. Over drugs. We ah … one time we found her overdosed in our bathroom. She was a heroin addict and she called us from rehab. She seemed to be doin’ fine so we brought her home, but that was a mistake. She shot that poison in her neck cause she couldn’t get it in her arms no more. Since then, we been kinda expecting news like this.” He sighed loudly. “Oh Jesus. My poor girl. I raised six children a my own. They all doin’ fine. Could do nothin’ for Pamie though.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Jessica said. It sounded flat and unconvincing. Harold didn’t seem to notice. “She was probably killed three to five days ago. Did you see her around that time or notice she was gone?”

“No. She would come and go as she pleased. She was in Las Vegas for over a month one time and didn’t even call us. I ain’t seen her for at least a couple a weeks. I know her mama ain’t seen her for even longer than that.”

“Did she call or email or anything?”

“No.”

“Could you get us a list of her friends,” Stanton said, “particularly her male friends? And any boyfriends you may know about. If you know her daily schedule or routine, that would help too.”

“I’ll see what we can put together for you. Her mama would be the one to know. I’ll get it from her and drop it by.”

Jessica rose to leave and pulled out her card, placing it on top of the magazine. “If you think of anything else that may be helpful, please let us know.”

Stanton rose as well and said, “Does she have a room here I could take a look at?”

“Yeah, upstairs to the right.”

He turned to Jessica. “I’ll be out in a sec.”

Stanton walked up the stairs and looked at the photos hung on the wall. They were family portraits taken at beaches and camp grounds and fishing boats. None of them were of Pamela.

To the right hand side of the hallway on the second floor were two doors. One led to a small bathroom, stockings slung over the shower rod. Feminine products and make-up were on the sink and on top of the toilet tank and an empty waist bin sat next to the shower. The other door led to a room.

The carpet was brown and the wallpaper was polka-dot; red and blue and yellow. Something a child might choose. The room slanted at an odd angle and he could tell it wasn’t originally meant to be a room but storage. The ceiling sloped down from left to right and the two windows were different sizes. There was a bed with sheets decorated the same pattern of polka-dots and a small nightstand.

Stanton walked to the nightstand and opened the first drawer. It was filled with change and a belt, an old paperback novel, a few ID cards and receipts. The second drawer had a small black three-ring binder and Stanton opened it. There were names and phone numbers scribbled on the pages. He pulled out his cell phone and snapped photos of all the writings before putting it back in the drawer.

There was a closet on the other side of the room and he went to it and slid open the right side. It was cluttered and filled with clothing and shoes from top to bottom. Boxes were stacked on the floor and he opened some of them. They held socks and underwear and jewelry. The box farthest from him was the largest, pink with white trim. He opened it and found a couple of wigs and some high-heels, a few pieces of lingerie and some make-up. He pulled the box out of the closet and took photos of all the contents.

The room had no photos, no keepsakes or memorabilia. It was like a hotel room and Stanton suddenly felt sorry for Pamela Dallas. Not just for her death, but for the life that led her to this soulless room.

He left, and shut the door behind him.

47

Stanton finished the day by speaking to Jessica for a few minutes and then headed to his car. He got in and turned the key in the ignition and was about to put it in drive when it hit him he wasn’t sure where home was. The SWAT team was not known to be gentle and his apartment might be unlivable right now. But he had nowhere else.

He drove to his complex and parked in his usual spot. The sun was setting and he walked to the beach and sat in the sand and watched the last surfers and bathers pack up for home. A young couple was near him, lying on towels and whispering softly in each other’s ears. Their hands exploring their skin before interlacing fingers and kissing.

When the sun was swallowed by the ocean and the moon began to shine in the sky, gray-black clouds gently drifting across it, Stanton rose and went to his apartment. Suzie was out on her balcony and was sipping a hard lemonade and smoking her Marlboros.

“Where ya been, hon?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“All manner a cops came to my house askin’ about ya.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that, Suzie.”

“That’s okay. I told ‘em to self-fornicate. That’s what I said too, I didn’t want to be crass.”

“I’m sure they appreciated that.”

“You know, I was married to a cop back in the day.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she said, ashing onto a plate set on a side table. “Some damn near twenty years ago. His name was Archie Haines. He was a bear. Won all sorts of state championships in wrestling when he was young. Archie told me, he said, that every cop gets their house searched by other cops. That they all get suspected of somethin’ sometime.”

“That’s probably true.”

She inhaled the smoke deeply into her lungs from her last puff and then put the cigarette out. “Well, if you ever wanna talk about it you know where I am.”

“Thanks, Suzie. I think I just want to get to bed and try and forget about it now.”

“Well, have a good night.”

“You too.”

He walked up the stairs to his apartment and opened the door. The entire space was trashed and looked as if someone had thrown a massive party. The coffee table was kicked over, the couch was torn apart, and one of the cupboard doors was off its hinges. His television was on the floor, its screen a spider-web of cracks. He had been suspected of cop-killing, they would not spare him any courtesy.

The bedroom was a little better; the bed at least had not been demolished. He kicked off his shoes and lay down, asleep before he could remember to get out of his clothes.

*****

When morning came, he woke with a migraine. He had not slept that long since he could remember but it was a restless sleep. Filled with nightmares of the dead watching him, calling to him. He saw the killer too, a shadow cast upon a wall. Stanton told him to hang on, to fight as hard as he could. That he was coming and that he would stop him. The shadow replied that he was trying to stop but couldn’t.

Stanton knew it was true. Many psychologists believed the notes killers sent to police were taunting, showing their superiority and disgust for the people and organization they considered beneath themselves. In some cases, this was true. But that wasn’t what this was. There was no condescension or hatred in the messages he sent Stanton. In fact, they were helpful and leading to more evidence. He wanted desperately to stop, but needed Stanton to do it for him. There was a part of him that was still human.

After a shower he checked the fridge and saw that it was empty. He left his apartment and stopped at a Subway, grabbing an egg and cheese sandwich and some orange juice before heading into the office.

As he was about to get on the elevator, George Young stepped off. He stood and looked into his eyes a long while and then walked away without saying a word. Stanton got onto the elevator and noticed that a few uniforms waited for the next one.

He walked into the Cold Case Unit and received a few glances, but the shock had worn off. Nathan nodded to him and Philip waved hello and said it was good to have him back.

He settled into his office and flipped on his computer. He heard Harlow in the conference room speaking with somebody. His phone buzzed and Tommy asked him to come in.

Stanton walked into the conference room but stood at the doorway. He didn’t notice Harlow or Tommy or the two federal marshals standing by. He didn’t notice the breakfast spread or Jessica sitting with her arms folded quietly listening to Harlow speak. The only thing he noticed was Noah Sherman, sitting with his back to him.

“Jon,” Harlow said, “sit down, please. We have a few things to go over.”

Stanton sat down at the end of the table. “When Chin told me about it I didn’t think it would go through.”

Sherman glanced at him quickly and winked.

“Jon,” Harlow said, “I know this must be hard for you, but Noah has some insight that we may need.”

“He doesn’t have anything. And I’m quitting. You can deal with this on your own.”

Stanton rose to leave.

“Wait,” Harlow said placatingly, “just wait. Sherman was the original detective assigned to the case. He spoke with some people that weren’t put in the initial report. He has some insight into this, Jon.”

Stanton was about to ask why that information was buried but knew Harlow wouldn’t tell him with federal marshals and Jessica present. He simply sat quietly and waited for Harlow to speak.

“You can quit if you want, but I don’t think you want to. I think you want to catch this bastard as much or more than anyone here. I know seeing him is unsettling, but I think he can help us save some lives.” Stanton didn’t leave and Harlow continued. “So, what’ve we got?”

Jessica put her hands on the table and said, “We spoke to the family yesterday. There’s definitely drug abuse with the second vic and we’re following up on that. Family hadn’t heard from her in weeks but apparently that was normal. We’re working on getting a list of boyfriends and friends.”

“Okay. And what about the note to Jon?”

“I submitted it to latent prints and there was nothing there. I checked the paper stock but it’s a casual brand, something you’d pick up in a supermarket.”

“Jon, was there an envelope or anything?”

“No, I found it at the Hernandez scene stuffed into an air vent. It was folded a few times, but no envelope.”

“How the fuck did forensics miss a note in a vent?”

“It was put there after we left.”

“How would he know about Hernandez? You think he’s responsible?”

“Maybe. Or maybe he had knowledge of it from somewhere else and came to the scene after we were gone. Or maybe he was there with us.”

Harlow leaned on his elbows. “Are you telling me you think this cocksucker is a cop?”

“I don’t know. It could be someone close to cops like reporters or ME staff, forensics … it would make sense though. They knew I’d be back at the scene. And when I got there the police tape wasn’t cut, it was fresh and it was the official stuff. Nothing you’d buy at the Army-Navy store or online. So he either left with the rest of us or had some new tape.”

Harlow sighed. He looked to Sherman who was grinning. “Tommy, tell me we followed protocol and had a sign-in sheet at the scene?”

“We did, Chief.”

“Make copies and get that to everybody. I want every person there looked at but not confronted. Everybody needs to keep this low-key. Capiche?”

“There is one more thing,” Stanton said. He explained the homeless man and the message he had for him.

Everyone sat in a silence, the undeniable truth hanging in the air; he was going to kill again and there would be another family that would need to be notified.

“All right, well, Tommy follow up on that with Jon. See if we can find this guy.”

“Sure thing.”

“That’s it for now then. I cannot stress this enough people; no talking about this in public to anyone outside this room. Okay, excused.”

“You didn’t ask me anything,” Sherman said.

“Okay, what do you have to add?”

“I would put Missing Persons on notice for blonds with large breasts. Anything they get should be kicked up here for review.”

“Well, shit on me, but that’s actually a good idea. I might not regret bringing you down here after all. Tommy, get on that too. Anybody have anything else? All right, we’re done.”

Stanton went back to his office and rummaged his drawer for some ibuprofen. He found two in a cellophane wrapper and took them out, swallowing them without water. Jessica came in and shut the door and leaned against it.

“You okay?”

“Good as can be I guess,” he said.

“I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know why Noah is here. I don’t know why the charges against you were suddenly dropped. But I don’t think I can take this anymore. I’ve put in for a transfer.”

“To where?”

“Vice.”

“Are you kidding me? You want to work for the LAPD version of George Young?”

“It’s not about him. It’s about how quickly I can get out. They’re always looking for female officers to work as decoys in prostitution stings. Thought that would be interesting for awhile.”

“It’s not, trust me. And it’s a mistake for you to leave. A few years here and you can write your own ticket to anywhere you want to go.”

“That’s just it: I don’t know if I want to go anywhere. It feels like I’m moving through water. We deal with the worst parts of people and none of the good. And the faces …”

Stanton could see tears in her eyes and she stopped a moment and composed herself before continuing.

“And the faces of people looking at me from the grave. Begging me to help them and knowing that I can’t. This girl, Pamela. She was in Madrigals in high school and then enrolled in college and majored in Dance before dropping out. I did that, Jon. I did that same thing.”

“Don’t do this to yourself.”

“I just don’t get it. I don’t get why I’m standing here and she was stuffed into a closet like garbage. And even when she died nobody gave a shit. Not really. We see it as a challenge but we don’t care about her either.”

“You care about her, Jessica.”

“Do I?”

“Look, just finish this case before you put in your papers. That’ll give you time to think. Once the case is done and you still want to go, then you should.”

She nodded. “Okay, Jon. I’ll finish this case with you. Then I’m done.”

48

A trip had been arranged for Noah Sherman to go to the Salton Sea and walk around the scene of Pamela Dallas’ death. Stanton found it grotesque, but he didn’t have a choice. He needed to be here as well and he couldn’t bring himself to come back alone. Now that she had a history and a mother and polka-dot sheets, he didn’t want to be here at all. But he would have preferred to be here with anyone on earth other than Noah Sherman.

The federal marshals walked behind them as Sherman and Stanton walked in. Stanton went to the stairs leading to the managerial office without waiting for him but he followed, the rattle of leg chains echoing in the room.

Though he had been given civilian clothes, they couldn’t cover up his double-locked handcuffs and the thick chains that ran from his ankles up to his wrists. An ankle monitor was locked around his right leg and had a red blinking light. If the light at any point went green, meaning Sherman was out of range, the built in GPS device sent coordinates to the SDPD SWAT team and the federal marshals. It wasn’t said, but they had orders to shoot first if that situation ever occurred.

“Must be insulting seeing me out like this.”

Stanton opened the door to the office. “Haven’t really thought about it.”

“Bullsh-” He stopped himself and thought a second before saying, “I don’t believe it.”

“Trying to stop swearing?”

“I know you hate it.”

Stanton turned to him. “Since when do you care what I hate?”

“Just trying to be courteous.”

Stanton turned back to the office. He glanced out the door and didn’t want to admit to himself that he was comforted to see the marshals right outside.

“What’s the matter, Johnny? Don’t want to be alone with me?”

Stanton turned and stood face-to-face with him. “You won’t be here long.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know you don’t have anything to add to this case. Mike’s got twenty detectives that were better with evidence than you. He doesn’t need you walking around a crime scene.”

“Then why bring me?”

“He thinks that you know who the killer is. Once he realizes that you don’t know anything, you’ll be heading back.”

Sherman leaned in close, their faces nearly touching, and whispered, “Don’t bet on it.”

“Hey!” one of the marshals shouted, “get the fuck away from him.”

Sherman stepped back and leaned against a wall.

Stanton turned to the scene. There were muddy boot-prints on the carpet that weren’t there before. He guessed they would also find fingerprints and fibers that weren’t here. The local cops, probably guessing that this was bigger than their office and would be someone else’s problem, didn’t care about contaminating the scene.

“There’s another note,” Sherman said. “He wouldn’t give you just one.”

Stanton glanced at him and then turned his attention back to the room.

He ran his eyes over the entire space, taking in every corner and stain and chip of paint that had fallen to the carpet. He knelt down and ran his eyes over the floor in a circular pattern, beginning in the center of the room and working his way outward until he hit the walls. He sat at the desk and went through the drawers. The ceiling was exposed and he looked at each beam carefully. At the far end, nearest the closet, one of the water pipes was off center slightly.

He climbed up on the desk and pushed at the pipe. It came loose immediately and spilled putrid water down his shirt and onto the desk and floor. Stanton ignored it and pulled the pipe down and looked inside. There was a clear plastic bag taped to the side. He pulled it out and inside was a folded piece of paper.

“Well well,” Sherman said, “looks like you are a cop after all. Tell me something though; how many people were through here and missed that?”

Stanton shook his head. “Maybe the locals would have but our forensics are too good to miss it. It was put here after we’d already gone through.”

“What’s it say?”

“You don’t need to worry about it.”

“Tiss tiss, don’t make me go to the boss.”

Stanton hopped down and walked past him and onto the factory floor. He called Jessica and asked her to meet him back at the office. She suggested dropping the note off to latent prints and he agreed. He wasn’t expecting to find anything, but you never knew.

When he was alone in his car, he slapped on some latex gloves and took out the note:

Detective Stanton,

What do you think? She’s much better than the first, no? A tigress in the bed too. You wouldn’t believe how much loving this little bitch could give. I’ve kept a few pieces for myself, hope you don’t mind, but I didn’t think she would be needing them. Maybe I’ll send a few to her parents?

See you in a couple of weeks.

Sincerely,

Quaker

Stanton drove back to the office. He went to latent prints on the second floor and submitted the note after having a copy made. He didn’t find Jessica in her office or the conference room on the fifth floor so he tried the cafeteria downstairs and saw her sitting at a table by herself eating a salad and Diet Coke.

“Hey,” he said, throwing down the copy of the note in front of her, “read this.”

She read the note carefully and placed it back on the table. “Where’d you find it?”

“Stuffed in a pipe at the scene.”

“He’s trying to piss you off.”

“Maybe. Something’s off though. Most killers like this hold in their urges as much as possible until they can’t and they have to go out and hunt. That’s why some go for months or even years without killing. Then their urges take over and they have to kill more frequently. But they’re also sloppier cause they haven’t had months to fantasize and plan every detail. For how meticulous and careful he is, two weeks is too short a time frame. At two weeks apart, he’d be a crazed animal killing in broad daylight with witnesses. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Since when do any of these assholes make sense?”

“Good point.”

She took a bite of her salad. “How was it being there with Noah?”

“Awful. And it breaks my concentration.”

“I won’t be in the same room with him anymore. He told me I had nice tits in the conference room and the chief agreed that I wouldn’t have to work with him.”

“He won’t be with us long, I’m sure of it.”

She shrugged. “Hope so. So what do you make of the name?”

“I thought about that. Maybe he has some roots with the Quakers?”

“Could just be trying to throw us off. I once had a case where someone left a note talking about other victims and it turned out to be the vic’s husband that had just killed her for the life insurance.”

“I don’t think that’s it. He’s leading me to something but I don’t know what it is.”

“Can I be honest with you, Jon?”

“Of course.”

“I’ve never seen a detective analyze every little thing like you do. These people are crazy and evil. There is nothing else there. Their actions are random and there’s nothing for us there. I think we just need to work the evidence and sooner or later he’ll screw up or some neighbor will turn him in and we’ll have him.”

“Do you like abstract art?”

“Abstract art?”

“Yeah, Jackson Pollock, Rothko, stuff like that?”

“Not really.”

“Why?”

“I think a five year old could splash paint on a canvas. Doesn’t mean anything.”

“That’s exactly what I used to think when I was younger. I don’t believe that anymore and I love abstract art now. You know why? Because nothing is random. Nothing. Our unconscious is the bulk of our minds, it’s what motivates and controls us far more than what we see as our conscious mind. In fact, the more random you try and make an expression of yourself, the more the unconscious comes through. Guys like Pollock, their paintings may seem like throwing paint on a canvas but that paint represents something buried deep inside them that even they may not want to admit is there.

“It’s the same with the monsters. The more they try and throw us off, the more they reveal. They can’t help it. Everything we need to find him is right in front of us. We just have to make the right connections.”

Stanton’s cell phone buzzed. It was a text from Tommy saying that Pamela Dallas’ step-father had just dropped off a list addressed to him and Jessica.

“Come on,” he said, “we need to get upstairs.”

49

They sat at the conference room table and looked over the list. There were only four names and just one of the four was male. Scribbled next to the names was the relationship they had with Pamela. Two friends, one cousin, and one ex-boyfriend.

“Dropped it off himself,” Tommy said looking over Stanton’s shoulder at the list. “Could’a just called or emailed.”

“He’s from a different time, Tommy. This was something he wanted to do himself.”

“Yeah, I guess. My grandpa still refuses to use a computer. Says technology is throwing off the balance of nature and causing the world to go crazy.”

“Well,” Stanton said, “I think I should hit the ex-boyfriend. Do you want to hit the two friends and the cousin?”

Jessica looked over the list one more time, memorizing the names. “I think I should talk to the ex. If it is him, it may piss him off if you come at him.”

“Okay. I’ll hit the friends and the cousin. Let me know as soon as you’re done with him.”

Jessica rose and walked out of the room as Stanton leaned back in the chair and put his hands behind his head, trying to force himself to relax.

“You sleeping all right?” Tommy asked.

“Good enough. Why?”

“You look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

He sat down in a chair next to him. “How you holding up?”

“I’ve been better.”

Tommy glanced around. “I know what the chief did, Jon. It made me sick when he told me. You didn’t deserve that, no cop does. As far as I’m concerned, he crossed the line.”

“But you didn’t do anything to fix it, did you?”

“I … no. No I didn’t. Truth is, I’m a coward. I think you need to be to do what I do. I’m basically his assistant. I’ve never sought a promotion or to branch out or anything like that. I just do what I’m told. But I’ll tell you, there’s freedom in that. I don’t have to think, just act.”

Stanton rose. “That’s slavery, Tommy. Freedom at the end of a leash isn’t freedom. Thanks for the list.”

“Sure.”

*****

No one answered their phones at first so Stanton had to leave messages. While he waited for return calls, he tried to busy himself by reading the newest issue of Scientific American and going through some profiles of known sex offenders that were released from prison around the time of Tami’s death. He wasn’t sure what he hoped to see, but he studied every face, every expression. He wished that something would scream to him, or at least give him an uneasy feeling in his gut. He needed something to follow up on, some goal to be working toward rather than treading water and wasting time.

Slowly, as the day wore on and people began leaving work, the calls came in. Pamela’s cousin was the first to call. She worked at the make-up counter at the local mall and hadn’t seen Pam for at least a year. They had exchanged a few messages on Facebook but nothing substantive. She didn’t know anything personal about her or who she might’ve been dating. The one thing the cousin knew for sure was that Pamela was a drug addict. That her family had spent their savings to get her into the best treatment facility in the state located in Palm Springs, and that Pamela had convinced one of the other patients to steal a car and take off with her.

One time, she was certain, Pamela had prostituted herself for a thousand dollars.

It was chilling for Stanton to speak with the cousin, not because of anything she said but because of how normal she and her family were. There was a disconnect somewhere between the life Pamela should have had and the life she actually had.

Stanton talked with the friends next and they were even less help than the cousin. Both of them spoke in the whirlwind unintelligible speech of meth addicts and Stanton guessed one if not both were dealers for Pamela. Towards the low-end of the addiction, addicts believe their dealers are actually their friends.

As he hung up the phone and knew he had no one else to call, a heavy melancholy came over him and he hoped Jessica had fared better. Pamela’s family had given up and abandoned her; she had no friends and no one that really cared about her. He prayed that they would not be another in a long line of people that had failed her.

“Hey,” Tommy said, poking his head in, “they found him.”

Stanton’s heart jumped. “Who?”

“The homeless guy at the factory. They’ve got him at Salton City. Jessica’s heading down there right now.”

50

Jessica walked in to the Imperial County Sheriff’s Department with an ipad under her arm. She was greeted by a large uniformed officer with a handlebar mustache and tattoos on his forearms. This was the Salton City branch rather than the main branch and it was a small building joined to the fire station. It reminded her of the small town caricatures of police departments she would see on old television shows like The Andy Griffith Show and Perry Mason. In the back of the space there was even a drunk tank with an old man sleeping on a bunk.

“What do you need?” the uniform said.

“I’m Jessica Turner with SDPD, I called earlier about interviewing a Mr. Hood.”

“Sign in here and leave your gun with me.”

She signed the sheet and handed her.38 special over the desk. The uniform took it and stuffed it into a small box behind him and gave her a laminated badge that said “Guest.” He led her to the back and they opened a door that led down a corridor and to another metal door that he unlocked. In a small room with a desk and three chairs sat an older black man wearing an orange beanie though it was over ninety degrees outside.

She saw bruising around his eye and a scuff mark on his cheek.

“Hi Darrell, my name’s Jessica. I’ve driven up from San Diego to see you.” He didn’t respond and she sat down across from him. “I’m just here to show you some pictures, Darrell. Would that be okay?”

He shrugged. She took out her ipad and placed it on the table facing him and flipped it on. A screen shot of eight photographs came up.

“I want you to tell me if you see the man that you told Jon Stanton about. The man that told you he had a message for Jon. If at any time you get tired or want to stop for a little bit, you tell me okay?”

He nodded.

She began flipping from page to page, eight at a time. They sat for over an hour and flipped through seven hundred photos, but he didn’t recognize anyone. She told him she would be right back and she stepped outside and called the SDPD dispatch.

“Dispatch.”

“This is Jessica Turner, CCU, number 28546. I need a sketch artist down at the Imperial County Sheriff’s Office, Salton City Department as quickly as possible.”

“We’re gonna need authorization from a captain and a request form filled out and faxed over to us.”

She hung up without saying a word and called Tommy. He said he would have a sketch artist down to her in half an hour.

Jessica went back into the room and asked if Darrell needed anything. He said he would like a Sunkist orange drink and she went to the vending machine and got him one. When she came back in she sat down and scanned the room for cameras or audio recorders; there were none.

“Darrell, I know that somebody hit you, and I would like you to tell me who it was.”

“Don’t matter.”

“It matters to me. Would you please tell me?”

“Cops round here, they ain’t too friendly. Don’t want no homeless in their town. Whole town’s goin’ to hell cause’a them tweekers and they tryin’ to run us out for sleepin’ in their parks.”

“Was it one of the cops here that hit you?”

“I don’t want no trouble.” He popped open the Sunkist and took a long drink. “I’ll take a sandwich if you got one though. Ain’t eaten since yesterday.”

She rose and went back out to the vending machines. There was a large rotating one with various items and she bought a ham and cheese sandwich, chips and a slice of chocolate cake and took them to him. As he ate, she checked her emails.

“So why you need to find this dude?” he said with a mouthful of food.

“He’s done some very bad things. He’s a bad person, Darrell, and you could be saving some lives by helping us find him.”

He nodded. “Lot’s a bad people in this place. Why’s he so special?”

“He’s a rare type of person. One that we need to catch right away.”

Darrell ate another ten minutes and then they sat in silence until the sketch artist arrived. He was tall and slim with wire-frame glasses and Converse sneakers. He looked annoyed and didn’t say hello.

“They have sketch artists here,” he said as he sat down and placed his pad on the table.

“I wanted the best I could get.”

He mumbled something and then began asking Darrell questions.

“What can you tell me about what he looked like?”

Darrell began describing the man and the artist made a rough outline before pulling out a thin album that was underneath his pad. He opened it up to stock photos and began pointing to them and asking if his nose looked more like this photo or this photo, if his eyes were this shape or this shape.

Within half an hour, and after only a handful of erasings, he was done. He handed the pad to Jessica.

“Shit,” she said.

“What?”

“I know who this is.”

51

Stanton, Jessica, Chin Ho, Harlow and Tommy sat around the conference room table and each looked at the composite drawing. It had already been uploaded into the VICAP database and a search was running to match facial features with mugshots. Sherman had not been transported from the local jail this morning on Harlow’s orders.

“It’s fucking him,” Harlow said. “No doubt about it. Jon?”

“There’s definitely a resemblance, but, I don’t know. He doesn’t meet the profile. He’s successful, comes from a good family, is highly educated. I think the person we’re looking for is a loser, heavy drinker, going from job to job … but there is rage in him. I can see it whenever I talk to him. I just don’t know.”

Ho interrupted, “We pulled his rap. There was nothing on there but just to be sure, we did a check for expungements too. He has a forcible sodomy on a child charge from eight years back. The case was dismissed from lack of evidence and he got the charging documents expunged and sealed.”

“Jessica, what’s your take?”

“He’s a slime ball. The first time he met me he asked me out and when I said no he asked if there was any amount of money he could pay me to have anal sex. He offered me fifty thousand dollars.”

“Wow,” Tommy said, “for fifty grand he could have anal sex with me.”

There was an awkward, subdued, laugh, more a relief from tension than a response to humor.

“Well,” Harlow said, “unless we got something better we’re following up on this. There’ll be two teams on him but I don’t want any of you involved in the actual take-down.”

“Chief,” Ho said, “maybe we should surveil him first? We’ve got enough for an arrest warrant but not enough for a jury. We need more.”

“You don’t think he’ll crack?”

“No.”

Harlow pointed to Stanton. “I once saw him break open the toughest son of a bitch I’ve ever seen. Three hundred pound Hell’s Angel that raped and killed his girlfriend’s sister by smashing her head in with a rock. Refused to talk, even to tell us his name. Jon came in to the interrogation room and put the rock on the table and just leaned back in the chair and waited. He waited for seventeen hours, and didn’t say a thing. The guy broke down and started talking, he couldn’t take anymore.”

“I’d still like to tag him for awhile.”

“There’s no guarantee, Mike,” Stanton said. “He’s clever. He might not talk.”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out. I want him picked up. He’s got money and friends. If he gets a whiff that we’re on to him he might be in Guatemala by the time we get our act together. I’ll email Judge Hilder and get the arrest warrant and warrant for his house. You guys get ready to make him talk. Anything else? No? All right, let’s make it happen.”

As everyone filed out, Stanton picked up the composite drawing. Add about twenty pounds with a bigger forehead and there wasn’t a doubt: it was Hunter Royal.

52

Stanton sat in a black Mustang with tinted windows. Jessica was next to him and a plain clothes officer from SWAT was in the driver’s seat. They were parked at a meter downtown in front of a strip-club called The Bush.

It was nearly ten at night and the lights of the city flickered around them. This was when the real residents of the city came out, the ones that never left, never transferred jobs, never vacationed. They were the blood of the city that kept it open and kept it functioning. During the day, they cleaned its streets, threw out its trash, served its food, mopped its floors and fixed its broken parts. But at night they were here, feeding on the youthful energy and bodies of young women and men that had been abandoned by life and thrown in a pit of vipers.

Stanton counted twenty-six prostitutes. Among them were nine young men, dressed in jeans and tight shirts. The rest were women dressed in little more than underwear.

They stood on corners in groups and waited for the cars to pull to a stop. There would be a brief conversation through the passenger side window and then they would get into the car and go to some hidden alley or parking lot. The smart ones had a motel room rented for the night around the corner, splitting their revenue with the motel owner or desk clerk.

He could see the progression of the career. On the last corner, farthest from the street lamps and the most out of the way for passerby in cars, were the newest and youngest ones. Their faces and bodies were flawless and they worked with an exuberance based on the perception that this was a temporary job to earn some cash and move on to what they really wanted to do.

On the other end of the block, taking up the prime location to make it easy for johns to pull up and pull away, were the experienced ones. The ones that had realized there was no leaving this life and had given up. Their faces were scarred and worn and their bodies sagging and unkempt. In between the two of them were the ones just beginning to realize what they had done to their lives.

“Angel One, I don’t have the target. Over.”

The driver picked up the sleek black walkie-talkie. “Copy. Witness on scene says he’s in the back getting a private lap dance. Over.”

“Copy that.” There was silence a few minutes. “Negative, Angel One. Two lap dances, neither is the target. Rest of the rooms are empty. Over.”

“Copy that. Hang tight.” The driver turned to Stanton. “Can you go in there and point him out?”

“He knows me too well. If he sees me in a strip-club he’ll know something’s up. We want to take him as quietly as possible.”

He exhaled loudly as if in protest of being asked to do something ridiculous. “Angel Two be advised I’m staking the first floor. Check the bathrooms and the bar on the second floor. There may be some private rooms up there that weren’t in the blue prints submitted to City Hall. If you can’t ID him let me know. Over.”

“Roger that.”

“All right,” he said, pulling his jacket on, “you guys wait here.”

Stanton watched as he left and went into the strip-club. He was not used to undercover work and it showed. He glanced around too much, looked at people just slightly too long. SWAT was a hammer and was not used to the razor blade work required in an undercover operation.

“I worked prostitution for awhile,” Jessica said. “Did I ever tell you that?”

“No.”

“I was a uniform fresh out of the academy in Los Angeles and they needed new faces. New female faces. I was stuck pretending to pose as a prostitute at a Motel 6 near a Mexican bar. The bar would get people drunk and the bartender would set them up with the hookers across the street at the motel.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“No.”

“Then why do you want to go back to that?”

“Because there were no victims, not in any real sense. Nobody got hurt. Even the johns usually just got a fine.” She looked out the window at the people passing on the sidewalk. “There was one time though where there was a young girl on the corner with me. She was maybe fourteen. I gave the arrest signal to get her off the street but they didn’t catch it. Some trucker stopped and picked her up before I could alert anybody and no one saw her again. I like to think she was just dropped off somewhere else, but I don’t think so. I talked to the other girls later and they said she disappeared.”

“What was her name?”

“I don’t even remember. How awful is that of me?” She pulled out a piece of Nicotine gum and unwrapped it. “Sometimes I don’t think it’s even worth it, Jon. The darkness is so thick. It’s like a blanket that covers us up and won’t let us out. And it just seems to get worse instead of better. I remember when I was growing up I had so many good people to look up to. Neighbors, teachers, local cops and firemen … I think now I could count how many good people I know on one hand.”

“They’re out there. They just don’t get as much attention as they used to.”

“Not sure I believe that.”

Stanton was watching the front entrance when he saw a man in jeans and a black sports coat leave. He turned and said something to the bouncer and they both laughed. It was Royal.

“Wait here,” Stanton said.

He jumped out of the car and caught up with Royal as he was walking through the parking lot next to the strip-club.

“Hey, Hunter.”

“Jon? What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I needed to talk to you.”

“Now? Why didn’t you just call me?”

“No, not over the phone.”

“What is it? What’s the matter?”

There was only the slightest hesitation. A single moment in which Stanton’s mouth opened but no words came out. It was enough.

“Shit!”

Royal sprinted in between two cars and out of the parking lot and into the street. Stanton started running and shouting toward the Mustang for Jessica to call it in, but she wasn’t paying attention.

Royal ran into an alley and there was a chain-link fence behind a dumpster. He climbed up the fence and tore a cuff on his pants as he hopped over. He dashed for the intersection out the other side.

Stanton hopped the fence and felt the burning in his hands as he scraped the top on the way down. He saw Royal run through the intersection on a red light and two cars screeched as they tried to stop but both rammed into a large SUV coming from their right, the first one knocking it sideways and the second rear-ending the car and battering it into the SUV again. Horns were still blaring when Stanton got there. He maneuvered past the mess and got to the sidewalk on the other side and saw Royal run into an apartment high-rise.

Stanton ran in and instantly recognized the building. It was low-income housing and the cheap red carpet and tacky wallpaper of the hallways screamed government contractors. He’d been here several times previously on various calls.

There were a set of stairs at the end of the hall past the elevators and Royal was bounding up them two at a time. Stanton got there just as he was rounding a corner to the second floor. Stanton reached the top of the stairs to the second floor and looked down the hallway to his right and then his left. It was empty.

He closed his eyes and listened and all he could hear was his own heavy breathing. And then, almost as softly as the patter of mice, there was the quiet sound of shoes on carpet.

Stanton ran down the hall and came to a utility closet. He opened it and Royal bashed him in the face with a janitor’s mop bucket.

Stanton heard a crunch in his nose as blood instantly began to pour. He stumbled back as Royal tackled him. He felt his hands searching him for his gun and it gave Stanton just enough leverage to twist him off and onto his back. Stanton climbed on top of him, cradling him with his thighs and smashed his fists into his face until they were coated in blood, small droplets raining over his face and clothing.

Royal went limp; his breathing labored and gurgled with blood. Stanton collapsed next to him, his lungs on fire and his shoulders aching and stiff. Blood began to pool on the carpet and Royal stirred but was dazed and couldn’t focus. He waited a few moments without moving and then became more aware. His hand went to his face and he attempted to stop the bleeding by applying pressure to the gap in his teeth.

“You knocked out my fucking teeth!” he stammered, out of breath. “I forgot you don’t carry your gun.”

“Why did you run from me?” Stanton said, his chest tightening from the exertion and making it difficult to breathe.

“You know why I ran asshole.”

Stanton realized no one had called it in. He had no help coming and was alone with no protection.

“Look, Johnny. I’m leaving. You’re not taking me in.”

“You’re not going anywhere.”

Royal climbed on top of him with a yell and pressed his forearm into Stanton’s throat. He was heavier than Stanton by at least fifty pounds and Stanton, out of breath and weak, couldn’t get him off. The world began to go black and little sparkles of color appeared in his vision.

There was the sound of a hammer cocking. Royal looked over to see Jessica pointing her firearm at his face. He waited to see if he could tell if she would actually fire and she steadied her arm and naturally fell into the Weaver stance. He put his hands up and Stanton choked and spit as air rushed back inside him.

53

Maverick Hunter Royal sat in an interrogation room for the second time in his life. Though the first one was years ago in a different state, they both looked the same.

It was gray and empty of any semblance of normality. There was a desk and two chairs, a pad of paper with no pens or pencils. A camera was mounted in the corner and covered with a tinted hard plastic shell. A two-way mirror sat in front of him and he stared at his reflection.

The paramedics had done a good job cleaning and bandaging his face. His teeth had stopped bleeding. He knew protocol said they were supposed to take him to an ER whenever there was “substantial bodily injury,” but that phrase meant different things in different jurisdictions.

Life had a sick sense of humor, he thought. Yesterday at this same time he was getting a blow job in his hot tub from a model he had met at a Hollywood party. There were no A-listers there but there were some actors that had passed their prime and were now in sitcoms or made for tv movies. He had done cocaine in the basement with at least ten other people and drank Bacardi and Cokes.

Now he was beaten and bruised and sitting in a room staring into a mirror; wondering where his youth had gone. He was forty-two years old and was still a boy; clinging to everything he had dreamed about when he was a kid.

Stanton walked in, shutting the door softly before sitting down across from him. “How’s your teeth?”

“Only one fell out but a couple of ‘em are loose.”

“I’m sorry about that, Hunter.”

“You want to know the fucked up thing? I think you actually are.”

Stanton gave him a courtesy grin. “The homeless man at the Salton Sea, Darrell, identified you.”

“I figured. He was so high when I spoke to him I didn’t think he would remember me.”

“How many more are there?”

“How many more what?”

“Victims, Hunter. How many more girls am I gonna find?”

“Whoa, wait a second. You think I killed those girls?”

“What should I think?”

“Johnny, you know me. I’m not into that S amp; M stuff. I like my sex nice and sweet. I could never do that. Tami Jacobs-check my calendar and with my secretary-I wasn’t even in the fucking country when that happened. All I did was tell Darrell to give you that message and paid him a hundred bucks.”

“The note I got was signed Quaker. You went to the University of Pennsylvania. I think that’s the mascot isn’t it?”

His eyes went wide. “That motherfucker. He’s trying to set me up.”

“Who, Hunter? And why did you pay Darrell a hundred bucks to tell me that?”

He looked away, toward the camera and then back to the table. “I want a deal.”

“A deal for what? If all you did was pay someone to tell me something you won’t get an accomplice or conspiracy charge. Maybe obstruction of justice at worst. I won’t go forward on assaulting a police officer or fleeing. A good lawyer’ll take care of it in a month.”

“I take it you have an arrest warrant for me?”

“Yeah.”

“And a warrant at my house?”

“Yeah.”

“I want a deal on what’s going to be found in-”

The door opened and Harlow walked in. He placed a CD carrying case on the table and stared at Royal.

“What’s that?” Stanton asked.

“Tell him, Hunter.” Royal kept his eyes low, staring at the table. “Should I tell him? Okay. Well, Jon, these are homemade DVD’s. Short films starring a new up and coming actor: Maverick Hunter Royal. Tell him who your actresses are, Hunter. No? Cat got your tongue? Okay, I’ll tell him: the actresses are young girls. We’re talking-what Hunter-seven and eight year olds?”

“That’s all overseas, man. Never here. You got no jurisdiction.”

“Oh, but get this my friend, some of the DVD’s are labeled. Mostly Singapore but a few in Pakistan of all places. Rape of a child is punishable by death in Pakistan. Did you know that, Hunter?”

“It was never rape. They were prostitutes at brothels. You can find them anywhere over there.”

“It’s rape because a child can’t consent under the law.” Harlow put his hands on the table and leaned in closely. “You’re a child rapist you piece of shit. And you can’t bribe your way out of this.”

“I want a deal.”

“A deal means you got something I want. What the fuck do you have that I want?”

He looked to Stanton. “The fucker that killed those girls. I have his address.”

*****

Stanton and Harlow sat in the cafeteria. It was afterhours so Harlow had front entrance staff open it up for them. They made grilled cheese sandwiches in the microwave and got two bottles of water before heading out to the metal tables and placing their food down. It was dark and they turned on half the lights and sat across from each other.

They ate in silence and were done in less than ten minutes. They finished their waters and then Harlow checked his watch.

“They should be done by now,” he said.

The two headed back upstairs to the third floor. Technically, as administrative offices, the interrogation room was not used in investigations and was just a training room for rookie detectives. But Harlow wanted this one close by.

They sat on a sofa by the receptionist’s desk with two uniforms guarding the door to a conference room down the hall. After twenty minutes, the door opened and a fat man in a gray pinstripe suit stepped out. He walked to them, sweating glistening on his forehead and neck, and sat on a chair next to the sofa.

“Jesus Marty, what’dya sleep in your suits?”

“Just always on call,” he said. He turned to Stanton. “How are ya, Jon?”

“I’m good. How have you been?”

“Good good. Crime’s a growth industry so there’s always good business for lawyers.”

“All right, Marty,” Harlow said, “what’s the deal?”

“My client says he knows the actual, physical address of the man you’re looking for.”

“How’d he get it?”

“The man contacted him. Said he was a fan of his work or something. He sent my client-ah, this is all off the record and excluded from court as plea bargain negotiations by the way.”

“There’s no one from the DA’s Office here, but all right. It’s all off the record,” Harlow said.

“He sent my client a letter about the victim at the Salton Sea. Said he would give him more information if he passed along a message to a homeless man that had set up camp there.”

“Why didn’t Hunter just come to us?” Stanton asked.

“That I can’t say. My guess is he just wanted to follow a good story. Maybe he was a little scared too that if he didn’t do what the letter said the man would never contact him again.”

“This smells like bullshit, Marty,” Harlow said.

“Hey, I’m just the messenger. Take it or leave it.”

“How’d he get the address?”

“He traced the letter back to its source. It was sent from a forwarding address in Las Vegas but, again, off the record, if you can hand out some cash at the post office you can find out anything privileged.”

“What city is the address in?”

“Can’t say that without a deal, Mike.”

“Marty, damn it, just tell me the city. I’m not asking for the whole thing.”

“No, we want the DA here and a deal in writing.”

“What kind of deal?”

“No extradition, of course. And a charge of one class A misdemeanor for unlawful sexual contact with a minor. One of the girls on the discs is American and my client has no doubt you’ll discover it as you go through them. Just that one charge, no jail.”

“Marty, he rapes little girls.”

“The guy you’re looking for kills them. Take your pick.”

Harlow turned to Stanton. “What’dya think?”

“The A won’t put him on the sex offender registry.”

“I know. Is it worth it?”

Stanton ran his tongue along his upper lip and realized he was dehydrated, his lips dry and cracking. “No. Hunter’s not the more dangerous but he’ll have a lot more victims.”

Marty shrugged. “Up to you guys. Otherwise we’ll just take our chances.”

“Hold on,” Harlow said, “A third degree felony, no jail or prison, but he has to register. Tell him that’s the best we can do. I know the DA and he won’t go less than that no matter how many killers Hunter knows about.”

Marty thought about it a moment and said, “That’s doable. Get the DA down here and I’ll convince my client to take it.”

54

Stanton drove home and by the time he parked and got into his apartment it was nearly one in the morning. Royal’s alibi had checked out. His secretary, who ran to the police station once Royal’s attorney called her, and his official calendar placed him in Singapore the week of Tami Jacobs’ death. Stanton checked the airlines and the hotel. The hotel only had records going back a year but the airline had him checking in and out when he told them he did. They also had credit card transactions from Singapore at the time.

The District Attorney had sent an ADA to negotiate the deal and draw up the plea bargain contract. They would be there a few hours hashing out the details of Hunter’s guilty plea. When they were done, a uniform would call Harlow and let him know they had the address.

Stanton kicked off his shoes, took off his clothes, and changed into sweats. He was too wired to sleep and instead he flopped onto his couch and turned on the television. An interesting series based in a fantasy world was on and he watched an entire episode before getting up to go to the bathroom.

When he came out he checked his fridge and remembered there was no food. He ordered a pizza from a twenty-four joint; extra cheese and tomatoes, and got out his credit card, reading the numbers off before putting it back into his wallet.

As he sat back down, he was hit by how much he missed his boys. It was too late to call them now. The temporary orders of the potential divorce decree specified that he couldn’t call them past six, but he wanted just to hear their voices and wish them good night.

He wondered if, when they got older, they would even remember him.

His own father had been distant and Stanton felt like he couldn’t care less where he was or what he was doing. His grandfather had raised his father that way. He was a man with tightly held Victorian values. His father had told him stories that at the dinner table there was to be nothing but absolute silence. His grandmother once tried to ask about everyone’s day and his grandfather had quickly shut her down and let her know that the dinner table was no place for conversation, especially from a woman.

Someone knocked on his door. Stanton didn’t move for a time and then went into the kitchen and pulled out his gun from a cupboard. He held it behind him as he answered the door.

Jessica stood there holding a pizza and a six pack of Diet Coke.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.”

“Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

She walked in and sat down on the couch, placing the pizza on the coffee table. “I couldn’t sleep. I was just going to come over but I didn’t want to come empty handed.”

“I’m glad you came. Let me get some plates.”

He placed the gun down on the counter and pulled out two plates and two glasses and came back over and sat down next to her.

“What are you watching?”

“I don’t know what it’s called. It’s good though. About a king trying to rule seven kingdoms and all the deceit that’s going on in his court.”

The other pizza came and Stanton placed it down on the table as well. They ate and chatted about their kids and careers. When they were done they watched television, Jessica placing her head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her and they watched a DVR recording of David Letterman.

“I’d like to sleep here tonight,” she said.

“Okay. But … you know I can’t …”

“Not before marriage, right?”

“Yeah,” he said, relieved that he didn’t have to say it.

“That’s okay. I just want you to hold me in your arms.” She leaned in and kissed him a long while. They rose and went into the bedroom.

*****

It was seven in the morning when Stanton was woken by the sound of his shower. They had slept in each other’s arms all night. Nothing sexual had taken place but it was an intimate night, long kisses broken with the conversations that you don’t share with strangers.

Stanton got up and went to his balcony and sat cross-legged. He said a long, meditative prayer and then went inside, catching her as she was walking into the kitchen.

“Afraid all I got is cold pizza.”

“It’s all right,” she said, putting an earring in, “I’m gonna grab some coffee from Starbucks before heading in.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to. It was really hard to resist. But it’s just something I think I have to do.”

“I know. But I’ve always figured that’s what repentance is for.” She walked over and gave him a long kiss. “Some things are worth repenting for.”

When she left, he went and changed and headed to the beach for a morning of surfing. By seven, there were too many families and teenagers on the beach to get a spiritual experience on the ocean. Occasionally though, when there was no one and nothing but the sea, the morning mist, and the sun, he would have deep experiences with God. Deeper even than those he would have in church.

The waves were light and the water choppy. He finished early and headed back to his apartment. As he got in he checked his cell phone. There was a text from Tommy:

got address get ur ass down here

55

The conference room was packed and the noise of ten different conversations numbed Stanton as he walked in. Every seat was taken and extra chairs had been brought in and placed around the room. A map was up on the screen connected to Tommy’s laptop. It was a Google Maps view of the house and neighborhood.

Stanton had received a fax from Imperial County: a copy of the autopsy report. It read like Tami Jacobs with one exception: semen had been found in the rectum. The sample had been rushed to the state lab and Stanton had been assured there was enough for a DNA comparison should he have a suspect.

Stanton saw the pattern immediately: he was growing arrogant. He had been so careful with Tami not to leave evidence behind other than fecal matter. No pubic hair had even been found; which means he probably shaved it before the attack. But with Pamela, it was different. He didn’t care if he left DNA behind. He was getting more careless, but also more dangerous.

Stanton sat down in the corner next to Chin Ho and read through the autopsy reports again. He leaned over to Ho and said, “Where’s Noah?”

“Shipped back to Pelican Bay. Didn’t need him anymore.”

“Okay everyone,” Harlow bellowed, “listen up. We got a white male, forty-one years old, Brady Louis Rattigan. Lives with his mother in this house. His mother is wheelchair bound and with high blood pressure. When we go in, we’re goin’ in hot but avoid any heroics. The last thing I need is this douchbag’s mom croaking from a heart attack.” There was quiet laughter. “I’d show you a photo but we don’t have one. No driver license, no ID card, no bank accounts. All he’s got is a social security card with a name and birthday. This guy’s living completely off the grid for obvious reasons.

“Now we’re having surveillance until we get something good and you all got your assignments. Four shifts in six hour increments. AC Anderson is gonna go over the details but I want to be kept in the loop on everything. Rodney.”

Anderson stood up and began going over the logistics of the operation. Harlow motioned for Stanton to join him outside and he followed him to his office.

“Shut the door,” Harlow said, sitting down at his desk.

“Where’s Hunter?”

“County lock-up. He’ll probably get bail today though, little shit. I kinda wish his alibi didn’t check. Anyway, why I asked you here, I need something done that’s delicate.”

“What is it?”

“The window we got right now isn’t for surveillance. Don’t get me wrong, the fucker can’t take a shit without one of my detectives being there to smell it, but that’s not why we got surveillance going. This one’s smart. I’m not expecting to find anything.”

“What do you have planned?”

“We checked out his mother too. She’s one sick old bag. Cancer, two strokes this year and dementia. I’m willing to bet she sleeps most of the day. I need someone to go in there.”

“You got a warrant already?”

“No, actually. We don’t. I can’t list what we’re looking for in the warrant with any particularity. Stuff showing he killed some girls, doesn’t hack it.”

“What authority do we have to be in there then?”

“None.”

There was an awkward silence and Stanton shifted in his chair. He thought about it a few moments and said, “No, we’re doing this clean. I want it to stick.”

“It will stick, no one’s going to know.”

“Someone always knows. I’m not doing it.”

“I wouldn’t normally ask you, but like I said, it’s delicate. I need someone that’s going to be careful and that’s you.”

He shook his head. “No way.”

“Well then, detective, your involvement in this case is over. We’ll talk about some new assignments on Monday.”

Stanton rose. “Mike, you can go self-fornicate.”

He gathered a few things from his office and left.

56

Zoe Kelly finished her shift at the Gap in the mall and was counting out the register when Brian Newman walked by. He pointed to his watch and she mouthed the words “I know” and then continued to count.

It had been a long day. One customer was enraged that a blouse wouldn’t fit that she claimed was in her size and went to the manager. The manager was sympathetic but basically told the lady she was too fat for that blouse. That hadn’t gone over very well.

But that was finished now. She just needed to count out the stupid registers and she was done until Monday evening.

When the registers were counted out she walked around the displays in the windows and made sure everything was okay. A kid had spilled some frozen yogurt over the pants of one of the mannequins and she tried to scrub it out with a wet cloth, but it didn’t look good. Now it was a dark stain instead of white splotches.

She unlocked the glass double-doors and yelled to Brian. He walked over and came inside the store and she locked the doors again.

“What’s taking so long?”

“I’m almost done. Some little asshole put frozen yogurt on our mannequin and I need to change his pants.”

“Just let the morning shift do it.”

“I can’t, they’ll get mad and tell Cindy.”

“Well hurry up then. We’re supposed to be at Jason’s at nine.”

“I’m trying, Brian. God why are you being such a dick?”

“I’m not. But we told them we’d be there and they’re gonna wait for us before going.”

“I’m so sick of clubs anyway. Why don’t we just go on a date?”

“Like what?”

“I dunno, like dinner and movie.”

“Fuck that,” he said, checking his watch again, “just hurry up. I wanna get drunk.”

“You’re such an asshole.”

He laughed. He grabbed her by the waist and kissed her neck.

“Let go of me!” she said.

“Make me,” he said, running his tongue up her neck.

“Brian, God. Cut it out.”

“Let’s go in the back room.”

“No.”

“Come on, it’ll be quick.”

“No, they have cameras. Now go wait outside. I’ll be done in a second.”

He groaned and waited for her to unlock the doors before going out into the mall and sitting on a bench. He started texting Jason to let him know they would be late.

Zoe finished putting the new pants on the mannequin and then did a quick walkthrough of the rest of the store before turning off the lights and flipping on the alarm. The mall was almost empty now but a few of the shops still had people inside them. She went next door to Forever 21 and saw Candice folding some shirts.

“Aren’t you done yet?”

“No.” She threw a glare over to a couple that was still browsing. “These guys won’t leave. I’ve told ‘em we’re closing.”

“Just tell them to get out.”

“I did that once and got in trouble. I have to wait until they leave but I can’t even count out the register cause they might buy something.”

“That sucks.”

“I know. But what can you do I guess. Hey, I saw Brian. What are you guys doing?”

“We’re supposed to go to Jason’s house and then to Desert Ice.”

“Again?”

“Yeah, we’re there like every week. I’m getting bored.”

“Well, my brother said any time you get sicka Brian to give him a call.”

“Yeah I dunno, maybe. I need some time to think, ya know? Anyway, I guess I better go.”

“See ya. Don’t get too drunk.”

“I won’t.”

She found Brian and sat next to him on the bench. She thought about Candice’s brother. He was Latino and buff and had a good job as a club promoter. Brian lived at his mom’s house and mostly played video games when they were together. She was so sick of Call of Duty she would get a queasy feeling in her stomach whenever it came on.

Then, he put his arm around her and she remembered why she had started dating him. She rested her head on his shoulder a second and he kissed her.

“I have to get my stuff out of my car,” she said.

“I’m parked by the food court. Come over there when you’re done.”

He kissed her again and she got up and made her way through the mall. She stopped for a couple of minutes and said hi to her friend at GNC and then went out into the parking lot.

It was warm and the moon was out. The lamps in the parking lot lit up all the stalls a warm glow of orange and she saw her Prius and took out her cell phone as she walked to it.

There was one text from her mom, asking her when she’d be home, and one from her friend Angie asking her if she wanted to come over because her parents were out of town. She replied that she might later and if it was okay that Brian came too.

There was a van parked next to her Prius on the driver’s side and it was parked so close she could barely fit in between them. She made her way down to the driver’s door and put her key in the lock when the door to the van opened.

Before she could turn around, there was a flash of white, and the warmth of pavement against her face.

57

Detective Marcos Garcia sat with his feet up on his desk. The Missing Persons Unit was split into two sections and he had recently been promoted to what was considered the less stressful section: adults. The juvenile section, he believed, was the most painful unit of the police department next to Sex Crimes. There were an average of forty-three missing persons reports filed in the County every week. With both units combined, they had only six detectives working them.

Many people, especially the families of the missing, were shocked to learn that so few resources were dedicated to this unit. But they didn’t understand, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to explain to them, that eight out of ten missing persons were never found and had no workable leads. In reality, only seven real, feasible cases per week came in. The rest had no leads, no evidence, and no hope.

His phone buzzed and the receptionist told him someone was here to see him. He told them to make an appointment but the receptionist said it was a mother who needed to file a report on her daughter.

“Send her back,” he said.

He took his feet off the desk and straightened his tie. Though most detectives at this point in their careers were phoning it in, he believed in his work and thought that the way he treated the families mattered. People could sense when someone was really going to work for them or not.

An older brunette came to the door, but not too old. Garcia guessed she was in her early fifties. She’d had some plastic surgery, her breasts definitely, but also her face. Her eyes were swollen and red and she wore no make-up. She sat down across from him without being asked to do so and pulled out a photograph and gave it to him.

“This is my daughter Zoe. She went missing last night.”

“Did you speak with her last night, Ms …?”

“Mrs. Mrs. Diane Kelly. Yes, I spoke to her. She was at work at the Gap and we were texting back and forth. She was supposed to go to some dance club with her boyfriend. She went out to the car to get some clothes and make-up and she never came back. He called me.”

Garcia began typing into an ipad. “What’s her boyfriend’s name?”

“Brian Newman.” She took out a sheet of paper. It was covered in names and phone numbers and addresses. “These are her friends and his number’s on there too.”

“How old is she?”

“Nineteen.”

“You sure she’s missing, Mrs. Kelly? A lot of times nineteen year olds stay out too late and-”

“I’m positive. That’s not her. We talk. She tells me everything and she always lets me know where she is. This isn’t like her at all. And her car is still at the mall; it’s Fashion Valley mall. I went and saw it. Her keys were on the ground next to it. Something’s happened.”

“What kind of car does she have?”

“A green Prius. It’s parked right out in front of Macy’s.”

“Mrs. Kelly, Diane. Ah, may I call you Diane?”

“Yes.”

“Diane, I’m going to ask you some questions now and they’re going to make you uncomfortable. But I promise you they are necessary. And if Zoe is missing, they are going to help us find her, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Does Zoe have a drug problem that you know of?”

“No, she doesn’t use drugs. She drinks sometimes, I know that. She comes home smelling like alcohol. But we talk about it and if she’s been drinking she doesn’t drive. We have a deal that if she’s been drinking and needs to drive home she has to call me and I have to not get angry or punish her. She’s very good about that.”

“Okay. Now, is Zoe promiscuous?”

“What kind of question is that? No, she’s not promiscuous she’s nineteen. I don’t think she even really knows what sex is.”

“Okay, again, I’m not trying to be invasive or hurtful. I just need to rule out a few things. Now where was the last place anyone saw her?”

“Inside the mall. Brian was the last to see her.”

“Well, I’m going to give Brian a call and speak to him. Then I’ll draft a report and we’ll wait forty-eight hours and if she doesn’t turn up, we’ll file the report and then put out a-”

“Forty-eight hours? She’s missing. We can’t wait that long.”

“I understand your frustration, Diane. But that’s the law. We have to wait-”

“That’s bullshit! My daughter is missing. Find her.”

“We will, but, I can’t file a report for forty-eight hours.”

She began crying and Garcia pushed a box of tissues toward her. She took two of them and dabbed at her eyes.

“Please, just find her.”

*****

Garcia drove down to Fashion Valley mall. He was not required to take any action on a missing persons case for forty-eight hours. A lot of cases were people that had fled and wanted a break, or, more likely, people with mental illnesses that had gotten lost and would eventually wander back. The forty-eight hour waiting period, though painful for the families, was necessary so that the detectives could spend their time working the real cases.

But something about Zoe Kelly’s case didn’t sit right with him. He had spoken to Brian and didn’t get a good feeling. He was too flippant about it, too calm. He asked too many questions and they all involved him: What do I have to do if she doesn’t turn up? What will I have to fill out if she’s missing? — questions that revolved around him and showed little concern for her. Though he wasn’t a suspect, Garcia decided to keep his mind open and go take a look at the car while it was still in the mall parking lot.

His air conditioner didn’t work well and it was spewing warm, dusty air in his face. He turned it off and rolled down all his windows as he got onto the Interstate. It was a scorching day and the sunglasses that had been sitting on the passenger seat were too hot to put on. He had to squint as sunlight reflected off the windows and metal emblems of the cars in front of him.

He got off the exit and drove down a palm tree lined road to the mall. He had to circle around to find the Macy’s and he slowly went up and down the rows of cars. On the third one over, parked next to a motorcycle and a truck, was a green Prius with the license plate number he had pulled from the DMV.

He parked behind it and got out. The car was new and the interior looked clean and polished. Hanging from the rearview was a picture of Zoe and some of her friends hugging on the beach. On the passenger seat was a small CD carrying case and on the backseat were a pair of sunglasses and white flip-flops next to a make-up bag and some items of clothing.

Garcia made his way around the car and checked the doors and the trunk. He should’ve asked her mother for a copy of the key or for her to meet him down here.

He checked underneath the car and didn’t see anything. As he was about to stand, he saw a small discoloration on the pavement. He bent down and looked at it a minute longer before going back to his car and retrieving a q-tip from a little container he kept in the glove-box. He went back to the stain and dabbed at it with the q-tip. Though it was dry from the heat, he could see the particles of black that were entwined in the cotton. It could be blood. It could also be tomato or prune juice.

He went back to his car and looked at the photo again. He had been debating whether to send an email and it was still unclear to him whether he should. He opened the car’s built in laptop and reread the email Assistant Chief Anderson had sent to the Missing Persons Unit:

Report any and all missing young women ages twenty to twenty-nine with blond hair directly to the Homicide Unit.

Garcia typed up the email, and sent it.

58

Stanton saw Tami Jacobs. She was lying on her bed, tears streaming down her face as she begged for her life. Blood was everywhere. It wasn’t the red, ketchupy look like in the movies. Blood, fresh blood from a body, was black. The walls and bed and floor were coated in black and they were closing in on him. But he couldn’t think because she was screaming.

And he saw Pamela Dallas. She was crying and choking but couldn’t really speak. Finally, through the tears, there was just one word that came out: help.

Stanton jumped awake in his bed with a gasp. Cold sweat stuck to him and his sheets were soaked. He took off his shirt and undergarment boxers and got into the shower. He let the water run over his head and cover his ears so that he heard nothing but the rushing droplets hitting his flesh. The bathroom became filled with steam and it helped him breathe and made him sweat.

He stayed in the shower until the water went cold and then got out and changed. He knew there would be no sleeping again and instead he decided to go for a walk in the moonlight. He slipped on shorts and sandals and headed outside. After he had already locked the door, he unlocked it and went back inside and took his firearm and holster and tucked it into his shorts.

It was hot tonight and the heat came off the pavement and mingled with the salty ocean air. It smelled like New Orleans.

Stanton had been there almost a year. A vacation after completion of his doctorate turned into an indefinite stay. There was something to the city that was not found elsewhere in the states. It was magical and deadly and depraved in equal doses.

He had met a girl there one night after a bout of heavy drinking in a rundown bar off the French Quarter. He’d taken her into the bathroom and they had had sex. But it wasn’t joyful or pleasurable for either of them. It was a test, to see how much they could degrade each other. At the time, Stanton was not active in his church and had no desire to be. In a city full of cemeteries and ghosts, church didn’t sound appealing.

The apartment he had been staying in was known for the excellent marijuana sold by Stanton’s roommate on the fifth floor and for a murder that had occurred there the year prior. Stanton’s roommate, whose official position was as a drug dealer, had rented the room to him on one condition: never, ever, no matter what, call the cops.

The year Stanton lived with him he attempted to pay taxes until Stanton explained to him that a drug dealer didn’t have to pay taxes. Though incredibly slow, he was, in his own way, charming and polite. He had never once raised his voice to anyone Stanton had seen. But their relationship didn’t last long. After a long night of drinking, his roommate fell asleep on the couch and let his friend and girlfriend sleep in his bed. In the middle of the night, the girlfriend crawled into the living room and they had sex. In the morning she cried rape and he, shocked, explained that it was consensual. The jury disagreed with him, and he was locked away for six to life.

After that Stanton went and lived in a ten dollar a week hostel rented primarily to European and Southern American tourists. There was one bathroom for the entire hostel and it was always occupied. At night, there was nothing but the patter of cockroaches and the wail of sirens outside. But on the upside it had a constant influx of new, young women looking to meet American men and as long as he watched how much he ate and drank, he could live comfortably on a hundred dollars a month.

Though he was miserable, there was an enjoyment in it. No, enjoyment wasn’t the word he thought of when he looked back to those times. Comfort maybe. A soothing calmness found in the sadness. Predictability.

He wasn’t sure why he had left New Orleans. He had fallen into a relaxed pattern of degradation. But something told him he had to leave, to get out, and to never return.

As he walked along the beach he came to a convenience store and went inside. The lighting hurt his eyes and the bright tile of the floor was aggravating. He saw a man behind the counter reading a Hustler and it made him sick. He bought a Sprite and some Tums and left and went back to the safety of the beach.

He sat and buried his feet underneath the sand. The moon was a bright crescent in the sky and he stared at it a long time. In the distance he could hear a whale, or at least what he thought was a whale, and it delighted him for a reason he couldn’t name.

He took out his cell phone and dialed Melissa’s number. She picked up on the fourth ring.

“Jon, what are you doing? Do you know what time it is?”

“Yeah, sorry. I figured you might be up.”

“No, I took an Ambien. Hold on a sec.” He could hear sheets rustling and then footsteps as she went to a different room. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to talk to you. How are the boys?”

“They’re good. They miss you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. You’re too hard on yourself, Jon. They love you. They just don’t understand what’s going on.”

“How’s Lance?”

“You don’t want to hear about him.”

“No, I don’t. I don’t know why I said that.”

“Because you want to accuse me of something but you don’t want to say it. So just say it, Jon. I already know you’re thinking it.”

“I never would’ve brought someone else in to raise our kids.”

“I was lonely. You wouldn’t understand because you like being alone. I thought for a long time that’s how you handled pain but I think maybe it makes you stronger somehow.”

“Maybe, but I’ve never liked it. I understand why you did what you did. I just needed to say it.”

“I know. I’m not mad.” She hesitated. “I miss you.”

“I don’t know what to say to that.”

“Tell me you miss me too.”

“You know I do.”

“I … I talked to Lance the other day about the wedding and I think I need some more time.”

“For what?”

“You know what.”

“Yeah, I do. How much time?”

“I told him I want to put it off until next year. He seemed upset but he said he understood. Why do you think I did that?”

“We’ve shared a lot of time, Mel. I think eventually you’ll move on, but now might not be the time.”

“What about you? Will you move on?”

“No, you were my first love and you’ll always be my first love.”

“I hate how you do that. How you always know just what to say to make me feel like shit.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

She sighed. “I know. I better get back to bed. Lance already doesn’t like you.”

He grinned. “He’s a tool.”

“Jon,” she said with a giggle, “he is not.”

“Yes he is. Look up what tool means and you’ll see.”

“Good night.”

“Good night.”

Stanton put his phone on the sand and waited a long time, as long as the phone call had lasted, until he closed his eyes.

Hearing her voice and talking about something other than the dead made him feel light and happy, but it didn’t last. Tami and Pamela had burned themselves into his mind and that was all he saw. Their pleading faces as they were torn apart while still alive. In that last moment he wondered if they cried for fathers that had left them long ago. They had died alone, and lived alone. Discarded by everyone that should have cared about them.

But he wasn’t going to be one of them.

He took his cell phone and texted Harlow:

I’ll do it.

Though he wasn’t expecting it, a text came back within minutes:

I knew you would.

59

Noah Sherman sat on the plane back to Pelican Bay State Prison and thought about the last time he had been on a plane.

It was almost ten years ago. He had been dating a girl that loved to travel and though he lived on a meager detective’s salary, she was independently wealthy. An inheritance given to her by an uncle that she talked about incessantly. Sherman had always suspected they had been lovers in her youth.

He remembered sitting next to her on the plane and the child across the aisle. He was perhaps ten and reading a book quietly to himself when his father knocked the book out of his hand and said something about not being a “faggot.” The child then leaned back and stared at a spot on the chair in front of him and didn’t move. Not when his little brother kicked him and not when the stewardess brought out drinks and peanuts.

Sitting now in a four passenger plane, shackled from ankles to wrist, he wondered what had happened to that little boy. What he had grown up to become. A father like that could either break you or make you stronger. He hoped that the boy had been made stronger for it.

The marshal sitting next to him jabbed a finger in his ribs. “Excited to get back you piece of shit?”

Sherman stared forward, to the horizon before him. He had been cut out of the loop and would not be given anything Harlow had promised. He suspected as much and was not surprised. The trip was worthwhile anyhow. Even shackled, the sunlight and the ability to walk without walls made a man feel free.

The plane landed after scarcely an hour in the sky and he was placed in a Department of Corrections van and taken back to the prison. It was smaller, he thought. Smaller and more gray and the sounds were louder than he remembered. There was wailing and laughing and crying and maniacal conversations that made no sense. Seemingly out of the ether, Sherman’s mood changed. His persona had to go back up. His chest puffed out, his chin tilted upward. It was all an act, as was everyone else’s. Hardened criminals all acting like they were harder than they are. And only for the benefit of each other.

He was led back to his cell but no one was there. Sherman sat on the bottom bunk and stared at the floor. He was waiting for someone. To pass the time, he flicked on the television and watched cable news. Something about a military strike in the Middle East. He followed the Iraq War closely. Thousands upon thousands of people dead over a lie. How was it that politicians could get away with killing so well?

An hour passed and he noticed someone standing by the cell. A female guard. She was overweight by at least sixty pounds and her hair was long and brunette. She had a pug’s face, he thought.

“I missed you,” she said.

“I missed you too.”

“I kinda thought that maybe you wouldn’t be back.”

He rose and walked to the cell door. “And how would I manage that?”

“I don’t know. You’re smart. I didn’t think you would let them bring you back.”

She reached into his cell and down his pants, pulling out his penis and beginning to stroke it. She glanced around and made sure there was no else on the floor and then began kissing him through the bars, their tongues rolling over each other. He reached out of the cell and between her legs and began caressing her.

“I need something from you,” he said.

“What is it?” she said, her breathing heavy.

“I need you to send a letter for me.”

“Okay,” she said, her eyes closed and her head tilted back.

“And then I need you to bring me something.”

“What?”

“A new belt.”

“For what?”

“I’m going to trade it for something.”

“What are you trading it for?” she asked, her strokes speeding up.

“I’ll tell you when I have it.”

He bit down hard into her lip as he ejaculated and he tasted blood. She groaned, and climaxed as well, tasting the ejaculate on her hand before wiping it on her shirt.

“I’ll get you some paper,” she said.

60

She felt dampness at first. Like being wrapped in a wet towel. Then there was the sensation of the hard floor against her back and the thick dust in the air that made her nostrils itch.

Zoe’s eyes fluttered open. The light hurt and she squinted until her eyes adjusted. The first thing in her view was an unfinished ceiling. Water pipes and electrical cords in between thick wooden panels and fiberglass. She felt the pounding of her head on the right side and instinctively reached her hand up to find the stickiness of dried blood behind her ear.

She looked around, her neck stiff. It was dark but there was light coming through a door at the top of a set of stairs and she sat quietly and stared at the light. She remembered the mall and closing the registers … she went to her car … and then she woke up here. As she tried to sit up she felt pain in her feet and looked down to see that they had been tied together securely with a length of plastic. She tried pulling it off but it was wrapped so tightly she couldn’t get her fingers underneath the straps to get a good grip. She worked at it for a long time before giving up and crawling over to the wall. She pulled herself up using a built-in shelf.

There was a children’s bike in the corner, red with white trim. It was covered in dust and the wheels were flat. Behind that was a shelf packed with all manner of things. Glass jars filled with nails and screws, tools, old books, broken photo frames … it appeared to her to be more like garbage than storage.

She ran her fingers along the edge of the wall and a splinter broke off a shelf and embedded itself in her thumb. She put her thumb in her mouth and sucked on it and as she did a loud thud made her jump.

Her back was flat against the wall and she held her breath. There were more sounds and then something being dragged. It was coming from the ceiling and she realized she was in a basement.

The sounds stopped and she felt the warm trickle of urine down her leg. She choked back tears as she realized what had happened and continued to run her hands along the wall; looking for a door, though she knew now that she wouldn’t find one. As she made her way to the other side of the room, she felt something hard and loose and it jingled. They were chains hanging from the ceiling.

She collapsed onto the floor, her hand covering her mouth, and began weeping. She cried and then prayed. She hadn’t always been good about going to church or following any commandments. But she prayed now harder than she ever had before. She promised that if God took her home, she would start going to church more and stop having sex with Brian.

After what seemed like hours all the noises upstairs stopped and she stood up. Slowly, she made her way to the stairs. The steps were wooden and creaked loudly as she crawled flat on her belly.

There were maybe twenty and it took her a great length of time to get to the top. She looked underneath the door. The crack between the floor and the bottom of the door was wide and she could see red carpet. There was a couch against the back wall and to the right, maybe six or seven feet, was a thick door.

Zoe reached up and tried the doorknob. It was heavy and greasy to the touch. She tried turning it one way and then another but it wouldn’t budge. She put her face back down to the bottom of the door and tried to look to the far edge to see if she could see anything.

A pair of boots suddenly appeared in front of the door and made her gasp and pull away.

61

Stanton sat at his desk. He had the pathologist from the Imperial County Medical Examiner’s Office on the phone and was discussing the autopsy of Pamela Dallas. He asked if fecal matter had been found in her throat and the pathologist asked why he would’ve checked for that. He said he did look to see if it was clear of obstructions, but no scrapings were taken.

From the way he spoke, Stanton guessed it wasn’t him that had actually done the autopsy. Salton City was small, a population of less than a thousand, but Imperial County as a whole had one of the worst epidemics of meth in the entire nation. He dealt with plenty of corpses and may just have assumed Pamela was some junkie before giving the project to his assistant. Or, as Stanton had seen in smaller towns, he knew he was not qualified to perform forensic investigations of homicide victims and he passed the buck to someone else that could catch the blame.

His desktop dinged and he looked to see that he had received a new email. It was from Anderson. It was a scanned file of a missing persons report with a note that said, “You may want to check this out.”

Stanton opened the file, and his heart stopped in his chest. He told the pathologist he would call him back and stared at the photo on his computer screen. It was Tami Jacobs, but not quite. This girl was younger but the resemblance was striking. Same color eyes, same height, big breasts, they even styled their hair the same.

It was also Pamela Dallas.

He read the report quickly as it was only a page and a half. The investigating detective had written that the boyfriend grew hostile and seemed unconcerned about the girl’s disappearance. Stanton checked to make sure the email had also been sent to his Android and then took off out the door.

He saw Jessica in the hallway.

“You’re going to want to come with me.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“Might be nothing.”

“Hang on, let me get my badge.”

She went to her desk and pulled out her badge and firearm with her holster and took off her jacket before placing it on. She met him at the elevators and saw that he looked excited and agitated at the same time.

“What’s this about?”

“Missing person.” He pulled up the file on his phone and let her read the report.

“Looks just like-”

“I know.”

“We going to pay Brian a visit?”

“Yes.”

Stanton got on the elevator. She followed and pressed the button to the first floor.

“I called you last night,” she said.

“Yeah, I saw. Sorry, I meant to get back to you. What was it?”

“Nothing important. I just wanted to talk.”

“About the case?”

“No, just … talk.” She cleared her throat. “I saw George Young today.”

“Oh yeah, what did he say?”

The elevator stopped and they got off. “Nothing much. He got off of his suspension today so he’s back at his desk. They didn’t find any misconduct; just that he had identified the wrong witness. He did mention you though. He said for me to tell you to keep the hell away from him.”

“No problem there.”

They climbed into Jessica’s Jeep Wrangler and pulled out of the parking lot. Stanton noticed that the CD playing in the car was Yanni.

“You like Yanni?”

“Don’t laugh. A lot of people like Yanni.”

“No, that’s not what I was laughing at. I like him too. I just never pictured you liking him. You seem more like a Led Zeppelin girl.”

“I can like both. But you’re right. When I was ten I went to a Led Zeppelin reunion concert with my grandfather of all people.”

“How’d he like it?”

“He hated it. He was strictly a Johnny Cash and Merle Haggard guy. But he took me cause he knew I liked them.”

“Were you guys close?”

They turned onto the interstate and Jessica sped past another car on the onramp.

“When he was around. He was actually in and out of jail most of my life. Nothing serious, he was just always drunk and getting into fights. He was Irish though so it’s hard to blame him I guess. But he could be a real asshole too. He sold all of his kids’ Christmas presents once and took the money to a bar and got drunk.”

“It’s difficult to know what other people are going through. He may have had some demons that wouldn’t let him go unless he was drunk.”

“I guess. It wasn’t all bad though. Scared the crap out of my dad so he never touched so much as a beer.” She turned the music down. “So why are we going to interview Brian? I thought we had our guy and he’s under surveillance.”

“I checked on that this morning. He hasn’t left his house. Surveillance hasn’t even seen him to snap a photo. If he has her she could be in his house. Brian may know something.”

They came off the interstate onto Maple Drive and Stanton directed her down a residential neighborhood and then up a hill. Near the top of the hill was a convenience store and gun store and across the street was a barber shop. They parked in front of the convenience store and then walked down to the gun store.

The first thing they saw when they came in was a giant poster of the statue of liberty with a holster and a gun and a giant stamp on the bottom that said SECOND AMENDMENT: USE IT OR LOSE IT.

An older man was at the counter showing some handguns to a family and Stanton walked over to him and flashed his badge.

“I need to speak to Brian please.”

“We got two Brians. Which one you need?”

Stanton flipped through the report on his phone. “Newman.”

“All right, hang on.”

He went in back and came out with a young man following him. Brian appeared malnourished he was so skinny and he had the floppy, disheveled haircut of a stoner.

“Are you Brian Newman?”

“Yeah.”

“Nice to meet you, I’m Jon. We’re from the San Diego Police Department. We just need to ask you a few questions about Zoe.”

“I already talked to the cops.”

“I know, but we have some follow up we’d like to talk to you about. Won’t take more than a minute or two.”

“All right, let’s talk in back.”

They followed him through a door to the back area. It was filled with boxes and firearms. A few deer and moose heads adorned the walls and there were two other people cleaning pistols and rifles on a metal table.

“So what’dya need?”

“The night she disappeared, you said she ran out to her car in the parking lot.”

“Yeah.”

“Could you see her from where you were?”

“No, I was inside the mall.”

“How long did you wait for her?”

“I dunno, like five or ten minutes maybe.”

“And I think you said you were in a hurry to get to a friend’s house.”

“Yeah, we was way late and she was taking forever. So I went out there.”

“Did you go to her car?”

“Yeah, I didn’t see nothin’ though.”

“Well was there anything or anyone around her car? Or nearby; maybe farther down the parking lot?”

“Nope. There wasn’t nothin’. I thought maybe she’d gone back inside.”

“Where was her car parked?”

“Near a light in the back’a Macy’s.”

“Were there any cars around hers?”

“Yeah, like some blue van and a-”

“Where was the van?”

“Um, like right next to her car.”

Stanton took out his notepad and began to write. “What kind of van was it?”

“Blue. Had like rust all over it. Looked like a piece.”

“Did you see anyone in it or anyone that got into it later?”

“No.”

“Did you see the license plate?”

“No I wasn’t really lookin’ ya know?”

“Were the windows tinted?”

“Yeah, yeah I think so.”

“Brian, this is really important, do you remember anything else about the van that could help me identify it if I saw it?”

“Um, no. No I don’t think so.”

“All right.” He asked for a card from Jessica and gave it to him. “If you think of anything else, you call this number and ask for Jon or Jessica, okay?”

“Okay.”

When they had left and were back on the road Stanton called Chin Ho. He answered on the second ring and sounded out of breath.

“What’s up, Jon?”

“You at the office?”

“Yeah, yeah just took the stairs. What’s going on?”

“I need you to log in to the State-wide and check on a car for me.”

“Okay, one sec … all right, whose car?”

“Our boy’s mother.”

“Okay, you know her name?”

“Debra Rattigan. She’d have a birthday in the sixties.”

“All right, hang tight a sec … okay, three Debra Rattigan’s, one with a birthday of August eleven, sixty eight. Same address as our boy.”

“That’s it. What kind of car?”

“She has a Chevy Express cargo van.”

“What color?”

“Ah … blue.”

62

It was six o’clock when Stanton pulled to a stop in front of Hunter Royal’s house. He had been released on $50,000 bail and went straight home. Within hours, his mug shot and the probable cause statement for his case was online on six blogs and a local paper. He had a lot of competition that was excited to see him go.

Stanton knew he wasn’t stupid and would not drift silently away. He was, in fact, extremely clever. One of the cleverest people Stanton had ever known. People underestimated him because of the industry he had chosen as a profession, but he could easily have been behind a surgeon’s scalpel or at a lectern lecturing about medieval philosophy.

Stanton walked to the door and rang the doorbell. Royal answered in shorts and a t-shirt. He hadn’t shaved and had dark, patchy stubble covering his face.

“What is it?” he said.

“Can I come in?”

He opened the door and began walking back to the couch. Stanton walked inside and shut it behind him.

The house was messy and there were plates covered in dried food on the counter. Though his maids hadn’t come in awhile, his cook looked to be a frequent visitor.

“I didn’t think you would take it this hard,” Stanton said.

“I’m going to be a registered sex offender, Jon. How am I supposed to take that?”

“I thought you would use your notoriety. Make it a part of your persona.”

“If I had robbed a bank, yeah. But people with my preferences aren’t treated that way. I may actually have to move out of this house once the neighbors find out what happened. They got kids.”

Stanton sat down in the tan leather Ottoman. “Is that what you think it is? A preference?”

“What do you think it is?”

“Do you really want my opinion?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think you would. But anyway, I need your help.”

“For what? I gave you all I got.”

“Your lawyer told the ADA that you threw away all the letters.”

“I did.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Search my fucking house then if you don’t believe me.”

“You wouldn’t throw them away, Hunter. We both know that. Which means either you still have them, or you’re lying about them.”

He turned his attention to the television that was turned low. “Fuck off. I gave you all I got. Now get outta my house or arrest me.”

“Do you believe in evil, Hunter?” He didn’t wait for a response. “I do. I think there’s real evil in the world. People, for some reason, even people that don’t believe in God, still believe in a devil. Why do you think that is?”

“Am I supposed to give a shit?”

“They believe in him because what they see for most of their life is evil. Good is far rarer and most people only get glimpses of it. But evil is all around us. Everywhere. You’re evil, Hunter.”

“Fuck you, Jon.”

“You may not want to say it out loud but I know you think it. Especially when you’re alone. At night in those moments before you go to bed and the cocaine and the booze have worn off and the woman you slept with isn’t there; I know.”

“What’d you want from me? I don’t have anything left.”

“That’s not true. You have your soul, Hunter. Even someone as evil as you still has their soul and you can redeem it. Not all the way, but a little. Help me catch this guy. Give me everything you’ve got. Don’t bullshit me, we’re past that. Just give me what you got. It’ll stay between us. Besides, if you’re telling the truth, he tried to blame you. You don’t owe any loyalty to him. Your reporter’s integrity will stay intact.”

He sat silently, staring at the television. Stanton thought he looked like someone that was just settling in to a long illness. His skin was pale and he had dark circles under his eyes.

“He would email me,” he finally said. “I got the emails. He was following you. That’s how he got that note into Francisco’s apartment. He said he went in after the esays popped him and he dragged the body into the living room and tried to clean up cause he didn’t want anyone else to find the note. I don’t know how he knows who you are, but he does.”

“Can I have the emails?”

“Yeah.” He stood up and walked out of the room and then came back with a stack of pages. They were printed copies of emails dating back nearly two years ago. “He wanted to be featured in some stories but with his name taken out. I did one piece when Tami was killed but that was it. But he didn’t stop emailing me.”

“I need you to email him.”

“And say what?”

“I’ll draft it,” he said as he rose.

They walked to the bedroom. The floor was covered in empty beer bottles and the nightstand was an assortment of imported liquors. There was a half-eaten jar of peanuts next to the bed and many of them had spilled over the covers and pillows.

Royal sat down at the desk in the corner and punched up his email account.

“I thought they got a warrant to search your email?”

“They did. But I got other accounts. Got one through an offshore IP address. The President couldn’t get to it if he wanted to,” he said proudly. He stood up and sat on the edge of the bed. “All yours.”

Stanton sat in the chair and began to type:

Police have something. Need to talk to you right away. Don’t call from your number. Call me from a payphone. I want one interview. Call me tonight as soon as possible. I’ll be home at seven.

Stanton listed his own cell phone number and then sent the email.

*****

When Stanton had left, Royal lay on the bed and waited for the reply email. He received it within the hour. It asked what was wrong and what the police knew. He only replied that he couldn’t talk and that he needed to call him at seven. Then he shut his computer off and went out the back doors to the pool.

It was a small act he had done. A drop of goodness in an ocean of misery and wickedness. His life had been short and evil. Stanton was right about that. He had committed acts that he had blocked out and not thought about for years. The pills he had taken this morning, lortab and oxycotton, numbed his mind and it flooded with images and sensations and sounds. Like a damn of putrid acts that broke and was drowning him.

He sat in a lounge chair and threw an empty can into the pool to watch the ripples as they scattered and disappeared into the concrete perimeter. He had had sex with two women in that pool only recently. Both of them had been bent over near the shallow end, leaning against the stairs, and he fucked them from behind. When he was done, they all shot up in the living room and one of them went to the bathroom to piss. She didn’t come out for a long time, but Royal didn’t notice. He passed out with the other girl and didn’t wake up until the middle of the night.

He went to the fridge and drank down half a beer before going into the bathroom. The girl was sitting on the toilet, a syringe dangling out of her arm and a shoelace tied around her bicep. Drool sopped from her mouth onto the floor and her nose was running. Her bowels had let loose and runny feces coated the toilet and floor and gave the room a warm, fetid smell.

Royal checked her pulse and she was still alive. He went to the phone to call 911 but then hung up. There was heroin, cocaine, guns, and illegal pornography all over his house. He thought for a few minutes in the kitchen and then went and put on his clothes.

He dragged the girl out and put her in his car. They drove to a secluded beach near Santa Monica and he waited until there were no headlights on the road to take her out. He carried her down to the beach and placed her on her back. Someone would find her.

But no one did. His line at the Santa Monica PD called him the next day to feed him the story. A young twenty year old pre-law student found dead from a heroin overdose on the beach. The officer said that she had been hot too. Royal hung up the phone.

Now, sitting in front of his pool, he wondered where that girl would be if she had never met him. Would she have gone on to law school? Had a family and a successful practice? Or would some other Hunter Royal have come into her life and given her the needle and drugs?

Royal rose from his chair and walked to the edge of the pool and stripped down naked. He pissed into the pool from the side and then walked inside and to the den on the far end of his house. There was a revolver in a safe and he took it out.

He put the barrel in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

63

Colby Lashowe sat in the surveillance vehicle and munched on pork rinds. It had been a hot day and his underarms had rings of sweat. Sweat had soaked through his undershirt and his chest and belly had dark splotches.

It was evening but the sun hadn’t gone down yet. The sky appeared that odd gray before nightfall and he watched the stars beginning to shine above him. His partner, Chad Eldridge, was asleep in the backseat. Chad was at least fifteen years his senior and was close to retirement. Surveillance to him was boring, painful work. He would always tell Colby that it makes his ass and his mind flat.

Colby pulled out a copy of the Times and flipped through until he found the crossword section. He neatly folded the paper into a rectangle and pressed it against the steering wheel. The first line asked for a five letter word that meant “hard to stir.”

A car engine started and Colby’s head jerked up. The subject was in his van and pulling out of the driveway and into the road.

“Shit! Wake up, Chad!”

Colby started the car as his partner jumped up in the backseat. He waited until the van had passed before pulling away from the curb and following him.

“He’s on the move.”

“Shit. Did you call it in?”

“No.”

Chad dialed a number on his phone and then reported to someone that the subject was on the move and they were following him northbound. The van drove under the speed limit and obeyed all the traffic laws. Almost to the point that Colby thought he may have had some law enforcement experience. He signaled for three seconds before changing lanes and didn’t stop the signal halfway through. He came to a complete stop at every stop sign and waited behind a school bus that was letting kids off at a stop instead of going around.

“Did you get a photo?” Chad asked.

“No I missed him. The fucker popped out of nowhere.”

The van got onto the 405 and Colby counted four cars before he hopped on and pursued him. He let another two cars in between them and then fell back about sixty feet. The van was going the speed limit, exactly the speed limit, in the far right lane.

Chad thought about climbing into the passenger seat but didn’t think he could make it with his gut. So he buckled his seat belt and looked for the bottle of Pepsi he’d been drinking. He found it on the floor underneath the driver seat and bent down to pick it up when Colby hit the brakes.

He slammed his head into the seat and said, “What the fuck?”

“Sorry,” Colby said. “He’s gettin’ off.”

They took the 28 exit and the van drove for another fifteen minutes before parking in a convenience store lot. Colby parked at a Mexican restaurant across the street as Chad got out the camera and began snapping photos.

The subject was huge. Colby guessed somewhere around 6’2 and maybe three hundred to three hundred and twenty pounds. His face was clean shaven except for a mustache and he wore glasses. A large belly hung over his belt and he glanced around before walking to the payphone.

*****

Stanton received a call from an unknown number at exactly 7:02. He waited three rings, wondering if there was any way he could’ve possibly ever heard Hunter’s voice. Hunter was a writer and shunned television and radio. But the possibility was still there and Stanton wasn’t quite sure what he would do if he was caught.

“Hello?”

There was silence on the line except for the sound of passing traffic in the background.

“Hello? Is someone there?”

“What do the police have?”

The voice made Stanton’s heart drop. Until now, he had been a shadow; a conglomeration of images and theories. Now he was a living, breathing person. And it hit Stanton that those images of Tami and Pamela that had burned themselves into him were caused by another human being.

“I have a copy of what they have. But I want something in exchange.”

“What?”

“An interview. Exclusive, which means you can’t give anyone else interviews if you ever get caught. I’m gonna have you sign a contract and if you ever give another interview they won’t be able to use any-”

“Fuck your interview. What do they have?”

“That’s the deal. A copy of the police file in exchange for one interview. Recorded.”

There was silence again and Stanton thought that perhaps he had pushed him too fast. He needed to feel in control and if he didn’t, he would run.

“Look,” Stanton said, “I’m risking my ass by giving you anything. It’s not fair if I don’t get a lot in return.”

“One interview. Tonight.”

“Where?”

“Your house.”

“No.”

“Take it or leave it.”

Stanton knew he had to stand his ground. Hunter would’ve never agreed to this. “Then I leave it. And you can go it on your own. I’ll find the next story of the week. See ya.”

“Wait. Where do you want to meet?”

“Somewhere public but not too public. Like a library or something.”

“Mission Hills Library. It’s on Washington Street.”

“It’ll take me half an hour to get there.”

“That’s where I want to do it.”

“Fine. How will I find you?” Stanton said.

“I’ll find you.”

*****

Colby watched as the man hung up the phone and then went inside the convenience store. He looked around for what seemed like a long time and then purchased a fountain drink and a package of donuts and got back into the van and started driving.

“Did you see the number he dialed?” Chad asked.

“What am I a fucking hawk?”

“You can see what numbers he dials from where his hand moves. It’s called police work kiddo.”

Colby shook his head. “Go back to sleep, Chad.”

They waited half a minute before getting on the road and starting to follow him again. The van drove slowly and it seemed like in a circle. It went down into a residential neighborhood, stopped near a liquor store, and then started again.

As it was passing a busy intersection the van began to slow, and then out of nowhere it sped through the intersection on a red light as a motorcyclist had to swerve and lay down his bike to avoid hitting him.

“Shit!”

Colby tried to follow but without his red and blues none of the cars stopped and a Dodge truck hammered into his right side. The impact swung his car around sideways and a Saturn slammed on his brakes and narrowly avoided smashing into them head-on.

Colby was dazed and realized he’d hit his head against the window, causing it to cut and bleed. He looked back to Chad who was holding his mouth, blood cascading down over his hand.

“Hang on.”

Colby called into dispatch and requested an ambulance. Then he called Tommy and told him they had lost the van.

“He’s heading east on Sandy Boulevard. Get a unit down there now.”

“How the fuck did you lose a van?” Tommy said.

Colby hung up and turned to his partner. He took his hand away from his mouth to look at the wound and saw that he had bitten into his tongue.

“They’re on their way.”

Chad wrapped his tie around the wound and pressed hard to stop the bleeding. “I ucking ate surweilance.”

64

Stanton turned his cell phone off. He pulled to a stop a block from the house and put the phone and his wallet in the glove compartment. Last he had checked, the surveillance team was following the van and the street was quiet and empty. The type of place where neighbors could live ten feet from each other for thirty years and never know each others’ names.

It wasn’t quite yet dark but he had little time. After Brady realized that Hunter wasn’t coming, it would take him about forty minutes to get home. The variable was how long he would wait there without Hunter answering his phone. Stanton’s guess was not long. He probably had somewhere between an hour and ten and an hour and thirty minutes in the house.

He stepped out of the car. The air was warm and there was no breeze, the trees still as glass. He looked at all the cars in the driveways and guessed this was a lower-middle class neighborhood. At the far end of the street two kids were playing on the sidewalk.

The house appeared old and the windows were tinted so dark it was difficult to see through them. Stanton looked around one more time and then went to the front porch. The mother, he had been told, was bedridden in a room on the top floor. The surveillance team had only seen her come to the window once to empty an ashtray onto the driveway and then go back to bed. He guessed she wouldn’t be a problem.

He looked at the lock. It was a simple pin and tumbler. None of the windows had alarm stickers and Stanton had checked all the major alarm companies and they didn’t list this address as a client.

Stanton took out a pin and a tension wrench. He inserted the pin until he heard a click and then put the tension wrench into the bottom portion of the lock. The problem was that he didn’t know which way to turn the cylinder and he had to try both directions several times before it clicked and turned over.

He quickly got inside and shut the door behind him.

The house was cool and he could hear an air conditioner going. There were stairs just to his left leading to the second floor. Past those was the living room. To the other side was a hallway that led into the kitchen.

He leaned against the door and let himself adjust to the house. He observed the decorations on the walls. Mostly, they were just plants; their long vines strung up with thumb tacks along the ceiling and walls. It reminded him of an abandoned house in a jungle that nature had overtaken again. He glanced into the living room and saw a large painting of Elvis on black velvet. The sofa and love seat were wrapped in plastic and in the corner was a basket filled with yarn and crocheting needles. The television was outdated by at least fifteen years and still had the dial channel changer and bunny ear antennas.

Stanton walked softly on the shag carpet and went into the kitchen. He could see a table with only two chairs and place mats with silverware already laid out. The centerpiece was a bowl of plastic fruit with a thick layer of dust over it.

The linoleum was clean but the sink was filled with dirty dishes. Bowls and plates and filthy glasses covered the countertops and the garbage can was overflowing. A large butcher’s knife lay by the sink on a cutting board.

Past the kitchen was another small hallway. He walked into it and saw a bathroom on the left. It was filled with men’s products. Shaving cream and aftershave and hard, unscented soap. He continued down the hallway and came to a bedroom. It stunk of body odor and sweat. He went around the bed and then looked underneath. There was a dresser-drawer against the wall and he began to open the individual drawers. Socks, underwear, loose change … but in the far right drawer was a stack of pornography.

They were magazines and Stanton flipped through them. Some dated back to the eighties. They were all bondage and rape and gangbangs. He placed them back and closed the drawer. Research showed that violent pornography didn’t make people violent, but if they had a predisposition to violence, it was like throwing gasoline on a forest fire.

On the nightstand next to the bed was a lamp and alarm clock and tucked underneath the alarm clock were some papers. They were envelopes and he took them out and saw that each one had papers in them. He looked at the return address on the envelopes: they were from the Pelican Bay State Prison.

65

Stanton took a few minutes and read through the first letter twice. There were five total: three from Noah, and two from “BLR” to Noah. The first letter was sent from Noah and introduced himself and told Rattigan how he knew him. Tami Jacobs’ boyfriend had told Noah about the manager of her building and how he had a key to her apartment and let him in. The responding officers took a statement from the manager and then never followed up.

But something never sat right with Sherman. The boyfriend had said the manager vomited in the bathroom and the manager had said the same. He said he had flushed the vomit away and washed out his mouth before leaving and calling the police. Sherman had checked under the toilet seat. Bits of vomit, no matter how hard one tried, always got underneath the toilet seat and there was none there. Sherman investigated the manager and had discovered that the managers were not allowed to have keys to the apartments in that building. He had pulled a criminal history and saw that there were several burglaries and minor sex offenses for Brady Louis Rattigan. Many rapists began as burglars that stumbled upon vulnerable women when they were burglarizing a home. They would develop a taste for it and continue down that path.

Brady had gotten the job from an uncle who owned the apartment complex.

You had him and you let him go. Damn you to hell, Noah.

As he was about to turn to the second letter he heard a sound. He held his breath and waited. It happened again. It was a scraping sound; a pen being dragged across concrete. He stood up and removed his firearm from the holster, placing the letters down on the bed. He kept his gun at chest height and moved toward the door. He leaned against the wall and peered out into the hallway. There was nothing but air shooting down on his forehead from a vent on the ceiling.

Stanton stepped into the hallway and made his way into the kitchen. He went past the table to the sliding glass door and thought that perhaps they had a dog. But no dog had been observed by surveillance.

There was the scraping sound again, coming from near the stairs, and Stanton turned to it. It was coming from behind a door. He leaned against the wall, the gun by his face, enjoying its weight against his hands, and waited.

The sound occurred again and he saw the doorknob twist slightly to the right and then to the left. He saw the bottom of the door. The gap between the floor and the wood was massive. This door was not part of the original home design, or it had been replaced with a wrong size door.

Fingers came through the bottom and the knob turned again and Stanton stood and pointed his firearm, his finger on the trigger. The fingers retracted and he heard thumping down a set of what sounded like wooden stairs.

He knelt down to the gap between the door and the floor. “This is the police. Who’s down there?”

“Oh my God,” he heard someone shout. “Help me, please help me.”

He heard the crying of a young girl and the sobs and pleading for help. His instinct was to kick the door down but he remained calm and put his firearm away and took out his pin and tension wrench.

The door was open in less than a minute. It was dark but Stanton could see the first few steps leading down into a basement. Near the middle of the stairs was a girl, her blond hair covering her face, her feet bound. Stanton jumped down the stairs.

“Are you hurt?”

“No,” she cried. “Please, we have to go. He’s going to come back. We have to go.”

“Okay, okay, calm down. We’re going to get out of here, okay?”

Stanton tried to loosen the plastic wraps around her ankles but they were too tightly bound. “Wait here.”

“No! Don’t leave me!”

“I’ll be right back. Hold on.”

He ran to the kitchen and grabbed the butcher’s knife off the cutting board. He ran back to the girl who screamed when she saw him.

“Shhh. It’s okay, I’m just going to cut these wraps, okay? Don’t move for just a second.”

He placed the blade in between the wraps from the bottom and sawed into them. The plastic was hard and he could feel that bits were flying off over his arms. He got through and took them off.

“Come on.”

He helped her up the stairs and turned for the front door. He was going to get his cell phone, when he remembered that he had no reason to be here. There was no warrant. Everything found in this house would be suppressed in court, including the statements made by the girl.

“Can you walk?” he said.

“Yeah. Come on, let’s go.” She pushed for the door.

“Hold on, I need you to do something for me. I need you to go to the neighbor’s house and call the police. When you do, you’re going to tell them that you found that knife in the basement and you cut yourself loose and got out. That the door wasn’t locked when you tried it and you got out on your own. I’m going to leave and you can’t mention me.”

“No, we have to go.” She was crying and beginning to get hysterical. “We have to go. We have to go, please.”

Stanton put his palms on her cheeks and brought her eyes to his. “Listen to me. They can’t know that I helped you. I’m going to leave and you’re going to tell them that you found that knife in the basement and you cut yourself loose. Please.”

“Okay.”

“What are you going to tell them?”

“I … I found the knife and I cut myself loose.”

“Okay. Now I need you to be strong for me just a little bit longer, Zoe. Okay, just a little bit longer.”

She nodded and they walked to the door. Stanton opened it and watched as she walked to the neighbor’s house and knocked on the door. He was about to leave, and then ran back into the bedroom and grabbed the stack of letters, shoving them into his pocket before dashing out to his car. He waited until he saw Zoe speaking with the neighbors and one of them pull a cell phone out before driving away.

Stanton stopped near a small neighborhood park. Sweat was pouring out of him and his heart pounded in his chest.

He tried to relax but the tension coursed through his body and it tickled his stomach and bladder and he had the sensation that he needed to urinate. He got out and went to the public bathroom at the park. Nothing came so he went back to his car and flipped on an overhead light and read the second letter. The third and fourth letters were as uninteresting as the rest; they praised each other and talked about their conquests. It reminded Stanton of a schoolyard pissing contest.

Then he got to the last letter. It was dated two days ago:

Jon Stanton’s address: 2312 New Haven. If you want to be free you’re going to have to take care of it. Send a message to all of them.

Stanton thought Sherman had given him the wrong address and then recognition pounded in his head like a hammer against steel: it was Melissa’s address.

66

Stanton raced on the interstate, weaving in between cars. He cut off a semi and the loud horn startled him. He fumbled for his cell phone and was annoyed that he had to wait for it to turn on. He dialed Jessica’s number.

“Hey,” she said, “what’s up?”

“He’s going after Melissa. Call dispatch and tell them an officer needs assistance immediately and get them to 2312 New Haven. Tell them the suspect is armed and hostile to officers.”

“Oh my God. Okay, I’m on it.”

He then called Melissa. There was no answer as it went straight to voicemail. He tried again with the same result.

Stanton glanced down at his speedometer and saw he was doing nearly ninety miles an hour, disrupted only with the frequent braking he had to do before passing slower vehicles.

By the time he got off his exit six minutes had passed. He knew he would be closer than any responding officers and probably be the first one there.

The street was quiet and there were no vehicles parked in the driveway. Stanton ran up onto the grass and left the car on as he darted out and to the front door. It was locked and he pounded and rang the door bell and shouted for Melissa. He took a step back and raised his right leg and smashed his heel by the doorknob. He did it again, and again, and again. The door was beginning to splinter and he did it twice more with the other leg before switching back.

With a thunderous crash the door swung open, bits of wood flying everywhere, and Stanton pulled out his firearm and entered the house.

It was dark except for the blue light of the television coming from the living room. He flipped the switch on the wall and nothing happened. He pushed his back against the wall and slid along it, heading for the living room when saw a figure slouched on the sofa.

“On the ground!”

There was no movement. Stanton reached for the light switch and a lamp turned on. It was Lance. His head was leaned back against the leather, a small hole in his forehead drizzling blood down over his face. The back of his head was blown out and brain matter and blood was on the wall behind him.

He heard screaming from farther down the hallway. They were of young children.

Stanton sprinted down the hall. The gun was in his hand but it was lowered now and he couldn’t think; there was only the instinct to run to the voices and destroy anything in front of him.

They were coming from the bathroom and the door was locked. Stanton rammed his shoulder into it and it flung open. His boys were on the floor, their faces covered in tears and sweat, their eyes swollen. But alive.

They ran to him and he wrapped his arms around them.

“Where’s your mom?”

“I don’t know.”

Stanton glanced around the bathroom. “Come on, let’s go.”

He took them outside and shouted for help. A neighbor came out, an older woman in gym clothes. Stanton told her to take his boys inside her home and wait for the police and lock her doors. She was frightened and confused, but did what he asked without a word.

Stanton ran back inside the house.

His heart was pounding so hard he didn’t think he could hear anything else. He ran back to the bathroom and checked the two rooms farther down that hallway. They were empty. He ran over to the stairs leading to the second floor. On the first few steps were dirty boot-prints.

Stanton climbed the stairs slowly, straining to hear any sounds. He got to the top and stood for a moment listening. There was a muffled cry in the room immediately to his left. He twisted around the other side of the door and ducked low. He took a deep breath, and reached for the doorknob.

He twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open. Tied to the bed with plastic cuffs, Melissa was in her bra and panties. Her make-up was running down her face and she was hysterical, fighting against the straps as her wrists bled.

Stanton pushed the door open farther, and then went deaf.

A shotgun blast tore through the wood just above his head. Where his chest should have been had he been standing. He fell to his stomach as another blast went off, his ears ringing and causing nausea.

He crawled along the floor away from the room as another blast tore through the wall, blowing fragments of wood and drywall over the hallway and on top of him. Another blast farther along but above him.

Stanton climbed to his knees and got toward the end of the hall when he heard Melissa scream. He stood and ran for the bedroom. Brady was at the door and fired, the spray mostly hitting the wall behind Stanton as he fell to his stomach and fired up at the figure in front of him.

Stanton squeezed the trigger and felt the impact against his wrist and shoulder. Another shotgun blast caught Stanton and tore chunks out of his midsection and shoulder. Brady was hit once in the throat and the face. His jaw shattered into pieces, revealing his tongue and pink throat, and he stumbled backward. Stanton steadied his hand, and fired.

A single shot went into his cheek just underneath the eye. He fell to his knees as Stanton stood up and fired two rounds into his head, knocking the corpse over onto its back. A handgun was in Brady’s other hand and Stanton walked over and kicked it away. He stood over the body, and fired his last round into the heart.

He ran over to Melissa and tugged on the straps. They weren’t tightened all the way: he had been interrupted. Stanton ripped them off and placed his arms around his wife and kissed her forehead as she wept onto his chest.

“It’s over,” he whispered. “It’s over.”

67

The glass partition was dirtier than Stanton remembered. There were fingerprints smeared across it; small fingerprints about the size of a child’s hands. Stanton didn’t want to be here. He would have preferred to be on the beach with the ocean foaming around his ankles. But he felt that if he didn’t come questions would always nag at him. And he needed to look him in the eyes and tell him that he had lost.

Sherman was sat down and picked up the phone with a grin on his face.

“So, Johnny boy gets his man. I’m humbled that you came to see me. Heard you spent some more time in the hospital?”

“Were you ever going to turn him in?”

“I don’t know. I enjoyed his work. He was progressing, Jon. Tami wasn’t the first. He came to visit me once. He told them he was my attorney and they didn’t record anything. That’s what you should’ve done.”

“How many were there?”

“His first one was when he was fourteen. Such an early age to begin, isn’t it? I wonder how far he would’ve gotten if you hadn’t murdered him.” Sherman bit a long piece of his thumbnail off and spit it out. “I saw on the news that you retired after this case.”

“I have.”

“Retirement’s an odd thing. Actually decreases your lifespan. I’m dying to know something, Jon: what’d they find in his house? Any trophies?”

“They found Mike’s cash he’d been paying in blackmail. I take it you found out Mike was sleeping with Tami and had him follow them around for photos?”

“Mm, part of that money was mine. Such a shame. What else did they find?”

“His mother. She had her head bashed in with a hammer.”

He chuckled. “A little going away present. He was going to go away, you know. Right after he killed you and tortured that little woman of yours. He would’ve had fun with her; she’s a fighter.”

Stanton leaned in close to the glass. “I came here to tell you that you lost, Noah. I’m still here and you’re still in there. Have fun, I hear their retirement plan is a good one.”

He hung up and left without looking back.

Stanton sat in the hot sand and let the sunshine warm his body. The beach was nearly empty as it was a Wednesday afternoon but there were a few people playing hooky from work that had gotten out their surf and boogie boards and were yelling and laughing in the water.

Melissa was farther down the beach, playing in the surf with the boys, the water foaming at her ankles. She looked beautiful, her hair wet and touching the tops of her shoulders. The smile on her face was genuine and the tan made her appear young.

Stanton looked out over the water and saw a seagull land near shore and dip underneath the water before coming back up and taking flight with something glistening in its mouth. He watched it a long time, effortlessly gliding through the air and landing on a secluded part of beach farther up near the parking lot.

“Helluva life you got.”

Stanton turned as Philip lumbered up to him and sat down on the sand. He still wore his suit coat and loafers and appeared uncomfortable, sweat glistening on his forehead.

“I love the ocean,” Stanton said. “It doesn’t care who you are or what you do. It treats everyone the same. Our bodies have the same percentage of salinity as the ocean. We have a deep link to it.”

Philip shrugged. “So, what’d you want to talk to me about?”

Stanton reached underneath a towel that lay next to him and pulled out a manila envelope. It contained a digital recorder and a CD. He handed it to Philip.

“I know why you left the FBI, Phil. And I know you don’t want to be on loan to the San Diego PD. This,” he said, pointing to the envelope, “is the biggest police corruption case of your career. Make it count.”

“What is it?”

“Listen to it in your car on the way back.”

Philip stood up and wiped the sand off his ass. “Guess you heard Noah tried to hang himself in his cell.”

“No, I hadn’t heard that.”

“He survived. Don’t know what’s worse, killing yourself or wanting to kill yourself and failing. Hey, by the way, the chief asked where you were at the press conference. He thanked you before he noticed you weren’t there. Made him look like a real asshole.”

“Tell him I quit.” He stood up. “I’ll see you later, Phil. Listen to that CD.”

Philip began walking away. “I will.”

“Hey, Phil?”

“Yeah?”

“Where’s Noah now?”

“At the hospital I think.”

“Not the prison infirmary?”

“No, I think he’s too fucked up for that. He’s in a coma.”

“They only assign one guard to escort to the hospital, don’t they?”

“I don’t know. I guess. Look I gotta run, I’ll see ya.”

Stanton watched as he walked back to his car. He waved once as he pulled out of the parking lot and Stanton waved back.

“Daddy, come on there’s a turtle!”

“Coming.”

He turned and watched his children as they ran to him to show him their find. He grinned and held open his arms. For the first time in his life, he couldn’t think of a single other place he would like to be.

Content

Victor Methos
The White Angel Murder

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