The White Angel Murder Page 7

  “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 f
or 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.