The White Angel Murder Page 12
“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 supervis
ing 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 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.