“Okay.”
“You’re doing the right thing here. You’re going to have a future and life because of it.”
“I don’t . . . I don’t know if I should be doing this, you know? Maybe I shouldn’t.”
“Too late to go back now. It’s going to be easy. Angie’s who I want; not you.”
“Okay.” He took a deep breath. “How do I look?”
“Like a rock star.”
He turned and walked to the home half a block up as Stanton climbed back into the van. Slim Jim looked at him and smiled.
“Does he know he’s just as liable for the rape of those kids as Angie?”
“No.”
“There’s no fucking way Childs is gonna not pursue that. He’s gonna slam that kid hard.”
“Danny tends to take it easy on people that cooperate. If we can get a good word in with the DA too, he’ll probably be okay.”
“Okay? Okay in the sense that he might get out of prison one day I guess. Don’t justify it to yourself, Jon: the guy’s a piece of shit and deserves what’s comin’ to him.”
“Shh,” the tech said, attempting to pick up the signal from the wire.
There was music and then conversation underneath, but the music was so loud it was impossible to make out what was being said.
“He needs to go to a quiet room,” Slim Jim said.
“He doesn’t realize the music’s too loud.”
There was conversation perhaps another five minutes, most of it inaudible with the music. Then there was some commotion and the music began to die down. Eventually it was little more than thumping bass. Stanton could hear liquid being mixed and then a faucet running for a bit. A fridge opened.
“How come you couldn’t pick up Kim?” a female’s voice said.
“She wasn’t there. I waited for like twenty minutes.”
“I told her you were coming to pick her up. That’s really weird. I hope she’s okay.”
“That’s got to be her,” Slim Jim said.
“We’ll have to get her next time. She’s a little princess,” the woman said.
“How’d you meet her?”
Good boy, Stanton thought.
“She’s one of Tracey’s tutoring students. She’s over here all the time. I told her parents we’re having movie night over here and she’d be back by midnight. Want some coke?”
“No, I’m not feeling very good.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know, just sick. So do you have enough girls here?”
“Yeah, there’s some cheerleaders here. I think they’re already drunk in the hot tub. You wanna come watch us?”
“No, I’m okay.”
“Slim Jim,” Childs’ voice crackled through the horn. “Time to move.”
“Got it.” He turned to Stanton. “Let’s go.”
They threw on their Kevlar vests and jumped out of the van. They didn’t expect any gunplay but the regulations were clear and Stanton didn’t want anything to go wrong; not while he was under investigation by IAD.
They ran on the sidewalk and as they approached the house they saw officers running up the other side of the lawn to the front door. Two other officers ran around the side of the house to cover the back door.
They gathered on the front porch and Childs brought out the ram used to smash open locked doors. He held up his fingers indicating three, two, one.
He bashed the ram through the door while shouting, “Police, search warrant!” The door flew open. Down the hall in the living room several young girls began to scream. The officers rushed in with weapons drawn and secured the room. Stanton saw Cameron in the kitchen with Angie and he ran in and lifted his sidearm. He threw Cameron against the fridge and pinned him there. He turned to tell Angie to get down on the floor when he saw her reach into a drawer and pull out a handgun.
Stanton let go of Cameron. They stood motionless, Stanton staring down the barrel as Angie pointed the weapon at his chest. Every fiber in his body told him to go for a kill shot if he had to fire—his training had emphasized that the only time to withdraw a weapon was when you intended to use it—but he couldn’t bring himself to. He lowered the weapon a few inches, aiming at her pelvic bone. It would be extremely painful, but she would live.
“Drop your weapon.”
“No.”
She was frantic; he could see it in her eyes. She had the look of an animal that had been cornered and knew it was about to die.
“There’s nothing you can do, Angie. There’s half a dozen cops in your house and more on the way. Drop the gun and we can sit down and talk.”
“I want my lawyer.”
“You’ll get your lawyer. I promise you. But you have to drop the gun first.”
“No, no, go get my lawyer and then I’ll put the gun down.”
“Doesn’t work like that, Angie. I need you to drop the weapon right now.”
She looked behind her as two officers made their way in through the back door and looked toward the kitchen. Her eyes were wide now, she was in hysterics. Stanton could sense that she would fire; she didn’t know what else to do.
He lowered his weapon and holstered it.
“See, I’ve put my gun away. You’re not in any danger. We just need you to drop the gun and then we’re gonna get your lawyer over here and you can talk to us or not talk to us. Up to you.”
She stepped toward the counter. “I want my husband too.”
“Him too.”
“Okay, okay I’m gonna put the gun down on the counter but you don’t move.”
“I won’t move, I promise.”
She only managed to take a couple of steps before the uniforms coming in through the back made their way into the kitchen and saw the gun. Both raised their weapons and began shouting orders at her. Stanton saw the look in her eyes and he yelled, “No!” as she turned with the gun in her hand toward the officers.
They fired four rounds in quick succession. Three hit her in the chest and one in the head just above the right eye. Stanton sprinted toward her and cradled her in his arms. He ripped off his vest and tore his shirt, placing it on her chest and pushing to keep the blood contained.
But the wound on her head spurted blood like a fountain. Black-red and pooling on the linoleum of the kitchen like milk.
“Get an ambulance!”
33
Stanton sat outside Assistant Chief Chin Ho’s office and took two Advil without water. The cellophane wrapping crinkled as he smashed it in his palm and threw it in the wastebin near him.
Seven in the morning and he hadn’t slept last night. He’d stayed awake watching the moonlight dance on the ceiling.
“Detective,” the receptionist said, “they’re ready for you.”
Stanton walked in and saw three men. Ho was sitting down at the desk and Childs was seated on the couch, looking out the window. Ransom Talano stood behind Ho with his arms folded.
“Detective Stanton,” Ho said, “sit down please.”
He sat and crossed his legs, leaning back on the chair. The office was cooler than the rest of the building, decorated with medals and framed photos of past chiefs. In the corner was a small statue of Justice holding the scales.
Chin Ho took a newspaper off his desk and slid it across to Stanton. A copy of today’s Union-Trib. The headline read SAN DIEGO’S ANGEL OF DEATH and had a photo of Stanton underneath the top caption.
“Have you read this?” Ho said.
“No, but I can guess what it says.”
“You can guess? And how can you guess?”
“The woman that was killed was a client of Gary Coop. He’s got contacts everywhere. I’m sure this is a hack-job, considering he’s suing us right now. He’s trying to taint the jury pool.”
“It is a hack job. And a damn good one. He paints you as some kind of maniac and us as accomplices.”
“She made her choice. She wouldn’t drop the weapon.”
“What about Darrell Putnam?” Ransom chim
ed in. “Did he make his choice too?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve had two deaths weeks apart, Jon,” Ho said. “The two officers involved were suspended with pay. Same for you. Please hand over your badge and gun to the sergeant before you leave.”
“I didn’t shoot her, Chin.”
“I know. But you were the commanding officer on scene. It was your responsibility.”
Stanton rose. He placed his sidearm and badge on the desk. “Keep them. I don’t want them back.”
Stanton stepped out of the precinct building and a smile came over his face. He lifted his head toward the sun and felt its warmth come over him. He felt as if chains had been lifted. There was lightness to him that he didn’t want to end. Like he could go anywhere and do anything.
He took out his phone and called Melissa.
“Hey,” she said.
“I quit.”
There was a long pause on the other end. He waited for what seemed like minutes before breaking the silence.
“Mel?”
“I’m here. What happened?”
“You haven’t seen the paper?”
“No, I’m just getting the kids ready for school.”
“Go online and check out the Union-Trib. They’ll hear about it at school so you should explain it to them now. I was involved in a shooting that ended in someone dying. Tell them I tried to save her.”
“I will. When can you come over?”
“In a couple of hours.”
“Okay. I’ll see you then.”
“Okay.”
“Jon?”
“Yeah, I’m still here.”
“I’m proud of you.”
He paused. “I’ll see you in a bit.”
He hung up and walked to his car. As he got in, he thought about what his life was going to be now. His schedule as a professor had been flexible and allowed him to leave early and take his boys to Padres baseball games or to catch afternoon movies. He’d never been stressed as he knew exactly what to expect in the coming day.
After he had retired from the force the first time after the shooting with Eli, he remembered it was difficult for him to sleep. Images of the dead filled his dreams and called to him. There was one dream in particular where he was lying on a lounge chair on some beach, the setting sun filling the sky with its golden glow. The water foamed in large clouds and the sand was smooth, untouched.
He was making love to a woman. She was slender and blond in a red dress. She had kicked off her sandals and was barefoot as she lifted her dress and cradled him around the waist. Her lips were soft and embraced perfectly white teeth and she kissed him so hard he couldn’t breathe.
She pulled away and he saw that her face was just exposed skull, adorned with flowing blond hair.
That’s when he would wake and feel his shirt clinging to him with sweat, and the pounding of his heart. Sometimes he would go back to sleep; most nights he couldn’t. But when teaching, the dreams faded a little each day until one night, he didn’t dream at all. A few nights after that he dreamt about his family and the ocean. Eventually, the dream with the blond stopped all together.
In the past year, it had returned.
Stanton started the car, anxious to get away from the precinct. He would go home and surf until the sun went down and then go take his wife and kids to a big dinner anywhere they wanted to go. Then they would stay up late and watch movies. He would pop popcorn and with any luck, Melissa would allow him to stay the night.
As the engine turned, he noticed something on his passenger seat. He looked over to see the open file and ten year old Sarah’s picture lying out.
34
Calvin Riley saw a puppy on the corner and it excited him. When he was a kid at his grandparent’s home, the neighbors had many dogs and cats and it was a quiet, safe neighborhood where they felt they could allow their pets to roam. It had started with insects, but they had no expressions. Cats and dogs had expressions and he absorbed them like a sponge as he cut the animals apart in his grandfather’s basement. He took some photos once and his mother discovered them. He was never left alone to play outside there again.
The newspaper arrived eleven minutes late. Calvin knew he had access to any news he wanted online but there was something about holding an actual paper in his hands that made him feel adult; important, somehow.
“You’re late,” he said to the man that had hopped out of the truck and was loading papers into a bin.
“What?”
“I said you’re late.”
“Fuck off, asshole.”
Calvin glanced around and saw that no one was near. He stepped next to the man and grabbed him by the forearm. He brought the arm up around his back as his other hand was placed on the man’s neck and slammed his head into the bin. Calvin had him pinned there, applying pressure to his arm the more he resisted.
“You need to learn to be nicer,” he said. “You never know what people are capable of.”
A couple stepped out of a shop nearby and Calvin let the man go. He took a paper and crumpled up a dollar and threw it in the man’s face. He walked back to his Beetle and got into the driver’s seat. He wanted to read the paper right now, but decided he wanted to feel the anticipation more. He would read it when he got home.
He drove slowly on the freeway in the far right lane. The wind was warm and he rolled down all his windows and let it fill the car. He glanced at the passenger door and saw the lock. It had scratches carved into it from when he had attempted to make it a one-way lock so no one could open it from inside the car. He was unsuccessful and had briefly considered taking it to a mechanic, but knew that would be something that would be remembered.
When he got home, he parked in the garage and ran inside the house. He heard his mother in the kitchen and snuck upstairs to his room. Quietly, he shut the door, kicked off his shoes, and lay in bed. He pulled out the newspaper, flipped to the Op/Ed section, and began to read the article:
SAN DIEGO’S ANGEL OF DEATH
When I was fourteen, I remember walking home through the Edgewater neighborhood in Miami, Florida. I had been at a dance and the girl I had gone with decided there were better fish in the sea and had gone home with one of the basketball players whose name I wish I could mention here (he’s now a professional mover, so life does have a sense of justice).
I had rounded a corner near a small deli when a car came screeching to a halt across the street. Two men sprung out and opened the backdoors. They pulled out a man that was covered in blood from head to toe. He was wearing a leather jacket and I remembered thinking what an ugly color of brown the jacket was. They pulled the man down the street past a lamppost and I saw that his jacket was actually white but was so soaked with blood that it appeared brown.
The two men threw the third guy into an alley and proceeded to give him the worst beating I have ever seen (not counting a Lakers/Cavs game). They pummeled his head, his chest, his stomach, even his arms and legs when he tried to use them to block their vicious blows.
Finally, when they figured he had had enough, one of the men grabbed a baseball bat out of the trunk of the car and proceeded to break the man’s legs at the knees. The two then got into the car and drove away. I was horrified.
I had never seen, or been in a fight, that had drawn blood. And here was this man lying in the alley bleeding to death and no one was around to see it but me.
I looked both ways down the street and there were no cars. It was just me and this guy. I was maybe four blocks from home. I could make it, forget about him, and just have it be a little mystery in my life.
But, conscience got the better of me. I ran across the street and checked the guy’s pulse. Mostly because I had seen them do it in movies. His heart was still beating but he was unconscious and blood was pouring out of the wounds on his face. I ran down the block until I found a bar that was open and had the bouncer run back with me. He checked the guy out, and called emergency services.
The next day
a detective from the organized crime section of the Miami-Dade County Sheriff’s Office came to my house. I’ll never forget him. His name was Detective Macks and he was easily the biggest man I had ever seen. We sat on my porch and talked about what I had witnessed the other night. Macks was calm and patient and told me that I was a hero for what I did. That the man that had been beaten had done nothing wrong and didn’t deserve the beating he got.
“What are you gonna do when you catch the guys?” I asked.
“Nothing,” Macks said. “My only job is to catch them.”
Macks did catch his men. And true to his word, neither one of them were harmed. Macks testified against them in court and when it was my turn he sat in the courtroom the whole time and then walked me out. When the trial was over and the scumbags convicted and sentenced to ten years apiece, Macks took me out for an ice cream (little weird for a fourteen year old, I know. But he was old school).
I remember Macks because he is what a cop should be. He busted two thugs in the Cuban Syndicate and no one was hurt. He did his job and went home for the night.
I wish we could say the same for our boys in blue right here in sunny San Diego.
The nightmare of the Michael Harlow administration has left a scar on our police force that seems to tear open every few months, revealing a fresh allegation of corruption or brutality. Harlow was, to put it plainly, the most corrupt sonofabitch to ever wear the uniform in this county. But he wasn’t alone.
Most of his henchmen have been rooted out and brought to justice, but a few linger. Most notable among them: now Assistant Chief Chin Ho and Detective Jonathan Stanton.
For the most part, the Assistant Chief has kept a low profile. He moved up from the field quickly and has adjusted to life behind a desk with the quiet resolve we expect of our police force. But Jonathan Stanton, well, that’s another story.
You may remember Detective Stanton from several years back. When he joined our police force, the speed and depth of his manner of solving cases made more than a few people stand up and take notice (there was even talk, believe it or not, of his possibly being psychic).
Walk in Darkness - A Thriller (Jon Stanton Mysteries) Page 14