“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 abou
t 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?”
The White Angel Murder Page 6