Purgatory (Jon Stanton Mysteries Book 11) Page 6

  He could see his reflection in the window. The black circles under his eyes were more pronounced.

  A cold rush of air hit his chest. He turned, and a woman with her throat slit and her eyes ripped out of her sockets sat in front of him.

  He jumped, gasping and reaching for the firearm that wasn’t strapped to him. His water spilled over the table and onto his lap. The ice-cold water soaked his pants as he tried to stand. He glanced down for a second at his lap, and when he looked back up, the woman was gone.

  “Are you alright, sir?”

  The waitress stood next to him and Stanton just stared at her, not knowing what to say.

  “Yeah,” he finally muttered. “Sorry. Spilled the water on me and startled myself.”

  “Oh! Let me get you some napkins.”

  Stanton put one hand over his eyes and his other hand on the table for support. His legs felt weak. He knew that woman.

  It was a case back when he was in Sex Crimes in San Diego. She’d been on a date with a man she’d met online, and at the end of the night, he’d pinned her in the back of his car and scooped out her eyes with a pocket knife before raping her and slitting her throat. She lived for two weeks as he hadn’t cut her carotid artery. The doctors thought she might make a recovery, but one day her heart just stopped. They explained it as sudden death from excessive trauma, but Stanton knew that wasn’t what it was. She hadn’t wanted to live anymore. If the mind wills it, the body will follow.

  He moved aside as the waitress began cleaning up the mess.

  “On second thought, I’m just going to go,” he said.

  He stumbled toward the door of the restaurant. The few people inside stared at him, and their faces were somehow amplified, taking up his entire field of vision. He had to close his eyes and lean against the wall for a moment before he was able to go outside and get into his jeep.

  As he drove, he thought about how the city clung to him sometimes; it almost had a smell, mugginess from the mass of humanity that inhabited it like animals caged too tightly together. Stanton wondered if other people smelled it or if it was just in his head. He couldn’t tell anymore.

  When he got home, he went inside and upstairs. Julie was lying in the bed reading. She turned to him, and he sat on the edge of the bed without a word as she began to rub his back.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “Fine. Just tired.” He turned and looked at her. “I feel like I haven’t spent any time with you lately. How about we grab lunch?”

  “I can’t. I have that investor coming over—Gary. You met him once at the party we went to for Wendy and Jesse.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “You’d recognize him. He was one of the first investors in my company. Sometimes, he just likes to make sure his money’s not being flushed down the toilet and demands to have me take him through the books. I swear, investors are worse than customers.”

  Stanton nodded, not even sure exactly what she had said. He rose without a word and stripped off his clothes before climbing into the shower. He let the water run over him and knew he was too tired to use soap or shampoo. He rested his forehead against the tile and closed his eyes. An image of an eyeless white face refused to leave his mind.

  18

  When Stanton woke, it was past noon. He had managed to get in an hour and a half nap. He rolled out of bed to Hanny sitting by him on the floor. The dog usually sat outside the bedroom like a centurion. It was rare for him to come inside, and Stanton wondered if he could sense something was wrong with him, something slowly breaking.

  Stanton sat on the floor and let the dog come onto his lap. He slowly rubbed his neck and behind the ears before going down to the belly and back up to the head. Hanny closed his eyes and almost fell asleep. He put his head on Stanton’s arm, and the two sat there like lumps of clay.

  When Stanton finally got the strength to move, he dressed in jeans and a leather jacket and went downstairs. Julie was in the kitchen and kissed him. She was making chicken ranch wraps, so he knew it wasn’t for him. He just poured a glass of orange juice and sipped it while he leaned against the counter.

  “Who are the wraps for?”

  “Gary. Remember? He’s coming over to go through the books.”

  “Here?”

  “He lives like eight blocks away, and I thought it’d be nice to go out onto your patio instead of my house. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “You’re snapping at me.”

  “That wasn’t snapping at you. If I snapped at you you’d know it because you’d of course start crying like you always do.”

  She stood quietly and stared at him, and he exhaled loudly and set the juice down. “I’m sorry. I’m not myself right now. I didn’t mean any of that.”

  She nodded. “You need to stop working, Jon.”

  “Let’s leave the island.”

  “When?”

  “Right now. Not just today, right now. Let’s just go to the airport and get on the first plane going anywhere out of the country.”

  She chuckled. “I wish I could do that. But I can’t leave my biggest investor knocking on my door with no one home. And what happened to your case?”

  She was right. Stanton had forgotten the video that had just come into his possession. He needed to get it to a tech as quickly as possible.

  “Yeah,” he said. “You’re right. Sorry, dumb idea.”

  “No, it wasn’t dumb.” She put her arms around his neck. “How about a rain check?”

  She kissed him, and Stanton closed his eyes. Her lips were soft, and the scent of her body wash reminded him of a field of flowers he’d walked through once in the pastures of Maine during the summer. He wanted to have that smell always with him, to never forget it.

  “I’ll make you a nice dinner,” she said, pulling away from him.

  Stanton kissed her one more time on the cheek and took another sip of juice before leaving the house.

  On the way into the station, he saw a man at an intersection with a sign asking for money. Stanton took out a ten-dollar bill and gave it to him. “God bless,” the man said.

  Stanton didn’t respond. He had little energy to even think, much less speak and interact. His thoughts felt like they had to be pulled out of quicksand to even come into his consciousness.

  At the station, he went to the IT department and found Stephanie. He laid the tape on her desk.

  “What is this?” she said.

  “Surveillance tape. I’ll email you the case number and info. I need the license plate on the car and van, and if you can clear up the faces at all so we can make them out, I’ll bring you a Coke.”

  “Kinda backed up here, Jon.”

  “I would consider it a favor if you could put me on the top of the pile. I’m trying to get off the island for a while, but I can’t leave until I get a collar or this case goes cold.”

  “Oh, one of those.” She let out a sigh. “All right. But you gotta go get me a Diet Coke right now, not after.”

  “You got it.”

  “And none of this can crap. I want a fountain drink with a lot of ice.”

  “No problem. And thank you.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Just get me the Coke. And a donut.”

  Stanton left the station and walked down the street to the nearest convenience store, a 7-Eleven. He got her a Big Gulp with Diet Coke and ice and perused the donuts before selecting a chocolate one. The young girl behind the counter immediately ran her fingers down her hair and smiled at him. He smiled back.

  “You’re Jon, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah, I remember. You used to come in here all the time. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

  It was true. Stanton used to come here for drinks and a quick snack. As he thought about it, he realized he hadn’t been eating more than once a day.

  “Just busy,” he said.

  “Um, that’ll be two eighty-seven.”

  He gave her a five and
got his change. She said, “I hope you come around more.”

  After dropping off the drink and donut, Stanton went back to the bullpen at the Homicide table. He sat at his cubicle, went to open his email, but couldn’t do it. He couldn’t concentrate on anything. He leaned his head against the wall of the cubicle and stared blankly at his computer screen.

  19

  The van left the interstate and went up a winding road to an old house. Rachel kept her eyes glued outside, trying to memorize anything that would stand out in anticipation of leading the police back here. Of course, if she did survive, involving the police might not be the best thing for her.

  They looped around a gravel road up to the house and parked in front. She couldn’t see any other houses nearby.

  The home sat at the edge of a cliff looking down onto jagged rocks. There was no beach down there, just gravel touching the ocean, and as far as she could tell, no one was around for miles. She couldn’t even guess how much a place like this cost on an island that was slowly strangling people with overcrowding.

  The men hopped out of the van, and Bobby, the one who hadn’t opened his eyes the entire drive, slid out and held his hand out to help her. She hesitated before taking it, and he helped her out of the van and took her arm.

  “Where we going?” she asked.

  “Inside.”

  He took out a knife, and her stomach dropped before he reached down and cut the duct tape off her ankles and her wrists.

  He led her up the dirt path and to the front porch. The house was old but looked like a cabin you might see in Montana or Wyoming: brown logs, carved wooden chairs out front. The place looked like it should be in the middle of the forest instead of on the edge of a cliff overlooking the Pacific.

  She stopped at the front door, which was now open. Her body told her to fight, and she couldn’t bring herself to go inside.

  “I can’t,” she said.

  “If you don’t go in,” Bobby said calmly, “I would have to make you. You don’t want me to make you. Just go inside. No one’s going to hurt you.”

  She swallowed and tried to build up the courage, but she couldn’t. Instead, she ripped from his hold and dashed away from the house and down the road.

  She didn’t look behind her but could hear his steps. She screamed for help, hoping someone would hear. Panic gripped her, and she felt the heat of suffocation. Her asthma was acting up, and she knew she couldn’t sprint for long.

  With a quick glance behind her, she saw Bobby no more than a few feet away from her. She made a decision then that she never thought she would have to make. She turned toward the cliff and tore into a full sprint.

  Better to risk the fall than whatever lay in that house. The cliff was probably a hundred feet, and she could try to hit the water with her legs straight and her arms down.

  As she neared the edge, she felt an impact like a truck and hit the ground. Dirt kicked up into her mouth, making her cough. Bobby was on top of her. He spun her around and lifted his fist to strike her.

  Dane grabbed his arm.

  “We don’t hit women. Not like this. She needs to be judged.”

  Bobby took a few deep breaths and then rose and stormed away. Dane held out his hand. Rachel didn’t take it but struggled up on her own.

  “He could’ve shot you. Not smart.”

  “Please,” she said, tears coming now. “Please just let me go. I don’t know what you want.”

  “You’re going to be judged, Rachel. Your fate is outta my hands. I’m sorry. Now come inside. I promise you won’t get hurt here.”

  Something in his eyes told her he was serious: she wouldn’t get hurt here. But the fact that he had said “here” meant she would get hurt somewhere else. She decided she would get away or die trying.

  20

  Stanton couldn’t guess how long he sat in his cubicle before his captain, Kai, came up behind him and slapped his shoulder. Kai was huge, an ex-pro football player for the San Diego Chargers. He sat in the chair next to Stanton and said, “How you doin’, hoaloha?”

  “I’m okay. Just waiting on a video.”

  “I known you a long time, Jon. You ain’t doin’ okay.”

  “I just haven’t been sleeping. Tired. I’m good to go, though. You don’t need to worry about me.”

  “You look pale. Like a vampire. I’ve never seen you like this because you’re always out on the ocean. When was the last time you been out there?”

  “I don’t know. Couple of months, maybe.”

  “Take the rest of the day off and go surfing. I’ll let you know when we got the video.”

  “Thanks, but I’d rather just wait for it.”

  He shrugged. “Just remember that nothing is worth your health. When I blew out my knees, I was in pain twenty-four seven and regretted the day I ever picked up a football. Better now, but there’s days where the pain just don’t go away. Don’t let anything ruin your health. Not this job, not a family, nothing.”

  He rose with a groan and left. Stanton was about to get up to take a walk when his phone buzzed. It was Stephanie.

  “Tell me you got it.”

  “I got it.”

  “I’m on my way down.”

  Stanton ran down to the audio/visual room where Stephanie had set up shop. She was their only IT forensic tech, but even that had been a major victory. They used to outsource their tech needs, but the results hadn’t been that great. Forensic techs developed sixth senses just like cops did, but the only way to develop it was to constantly work cases, and outsourced firms who only did it part time wouldn’t get enough experience.

  “I got a hit on the plate for the sedan. See, check it out.”

  Stanton looked at the monitor, and the picture from the video looked ten times better. The graininess had been cleared up, and the static lines had disappeared. Stephanie zoomed in on the section of the picture with the sedan, and Stanton could see the plate. He wrote it down. “What about the faces?”

  “Yeah, I got the six coming out of the van and the guy in the trunk.”

  “Let me see the guy in the trunk.”

  Stanton could make out that he probably had black hair and a thin face with a large chin.

  “Not really enough to put on a poster, is it?” Stephanie said.

  “The plate is huge. I owe you one.”

  “Yeah, you do.”

  Stanton ran back up to his computer and the DMV database. The plate got a hit: Thomas Wells. He took down the address and bolted out of the station.

  When Stanton arrived at the home of Thomas Wells, he knew the man was extremely affluent. The home was a mansion in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in Honolulu, where tech billionaires bought their winter homes.

  He parked his jeep at the curb and noticed a woman walking her dog. She gave him a dirty look and kept going. Stanton hopped out and went to the front door of the house. The doors were huge and freshly polished. Not a flower out of place in the flower bed, no blade of grass longer than the others. He rang the doorbell.

  A beautiful blond woman in a yoga outfit came to the door. She had a sheen of sweat, and she tugged her tank top higher to better cover her breasts, which were spilling out. Stanton made sure he kept his eyes on her face.

  “Hi, I’m looking for Thomas Wells.”

  “And who are you?”

  “I’m Detective Jon Stanton with the Honolulu Police Department. I need to speak with him, please.”

  She wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her wrist. “Well, sorry, Detective, but he’s out of the country right now.”

  “Are you his wife?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When did he leave?”

  “Saturday. He’s in Belize for two weeks. Why? What’s going on?”

  A hint of panic had crept into her voice. Stanton hoped that Thomas Wells had only had his car stolen and wasn’t the man in the trunk, but a sinking feeling told him he already knew the answer.

  “Do you mind showing me
a picture of him, please? The photo at the DMV was nearly eight years old.”

  “Um, sure. Hang on.”

  Stanton glanced around the neighborhood as he waited—quiet except for sprinklers going off somewhere down the block. He saw the woman who had been staring at him as he got out of his jeep. She hadn’t moved more than twenty feet and was clearly watching him, either because she was worried about why he was there, or she just wanted some gossip about the neighbors.

  Mrs. Wells came back to the door with her cell phone in her hand. She flipped through a few screens and then opened a photo of Thomas Wells. There was no doubt anymore: he was the man that had been pulled out of the trunk that night. But when everyone had come out of the warehouse, it had been only the three of them with masks and the six who had come with them. No Thomas Wells. If he was beaten to death, they did something with the body. He’d have to go back and find out what it was.

  “Mrs. Wells, when was the last time you spoke to your husband?”

  “Um… I don’t know. Saturday morning, I think. What is this about, exactly?”

  “I think your husband might be missing.”

  “Missing? What do you mean, missing?”

  “I can’t be sure of anything yet,” he said. He didn’t plan on telling her anything until he knew for certain. For all he knew, Thomas Wells was in some hospital bed, alive. “But there’s some indication he may have been kidnapped.”

  “What?” she said with a chuckle. “That’s ridiculous. He’s in Belize.”

  “I… I have evidence that he may have been kidnapped by three men. Do you know exactly where he is, right now?”

  She shook her head and dialed a number on her phone, then put the phone to her ear and stared at Stanton. Sometimes, with nowhere else to vent their pain and anger, victims’ families took it out on the investigators.

  “Tom, this is Joan. Call me back right away. ASAP.”

  She texted him and folded her arms.

  “Was there anyone in his life who was threatening him? Anyone your husband was worried about?”