The White Angel Murder (17 page)

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 stood outside the door and peered in before flicking on the light. He had bought latex gloves at the store and he pulled them out of his pocket and put them on.

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.

He ran his hands up and down the sides of the mirror, over the door and its hinges, the shower curtain and the small window over the tub. But there was nothing there. The air conditioner clicked on as he leaned against the counter and wiped at the sweat that had formed on his brow. He glanced over to the vent. It was tucked behind the toilet and he watched a piece of lint flutter on it a moment before being blown away.

Stanton knelt down and reached behind the toilet. Even from the ground it was difficult to reach. He lay on his side and stuck one arm back there and pulled off the vent guard. Cool air came rushing out and he held his hand over it and felt the pressure against his skin. The right side was stronger than the left.

He reached into the weaker side of the vent and ran his fingers in a circle. They touched something and he froze.

It felt smooth and had a sharp edge. He squeezed lightly and felt the crinkle of paper. His fingers wrapped around it and he slowly brought it up and out of the vent. It was a scrap of white lined paper neatly folded into a small rectangle. He carefully opened it and his heart jumped into his throat:

wElCoME to ThE gAmE DeTEcTIvE StAntON

MoNtEgo AVEnue abErdeen driVe

37

Jessica heard her phone and hopped out of the shower, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around her body though no one else was in her apartment. She got to it on the third ring and heard a car horn and traffic in the background.

“
Hello?”

“
Jessica, it’s Jon.”

“
Jon, where are you?”

“
I’m here, in town. I need your help.”

“
You need to—”

“
You tipped me off because you believe me. If you believe me then you have to trust me. I need your help and I can prove I didn’t kill Francisco.”

“
Where are you calling from?”

“
Payphone at the 7-11 down the block.”

“
Okay. Come up. I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

It was only a few minutes later before Stanton walked in to her apartment and announced his presence. She was getting dressed and said she would be out in a minute. He sat down on her couch and leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling. Before long she stepped out of the bedroom in pin-striped suit pants and a red sleeveless blouse. She wore her holster and firearm and put on a women’s jacket. He knew the firearm display was for him. Just in case.

“
I found this,” Stanton said, laying the paper on the coffee table. She picked it up and read it.

“
What does it mean?”

“
I don’t know. I googled the two address terms. There’s only one place in the state where streets named Montego and Aberdeen intersect. It’s near the Salton Sea. But what I need from you is to check with Eddie in forensics and see if he checked the vent in the bathroom at Francisco Hernandez’s apartment.”

Jessica instantly knew where he was going.

“
You think it was placed there after the scene was processed?”

“
I don’t know,” he said. “It would be incredibly incompetent for Eddie not to look in the vent and I wouldn’t describe Eddie as incompetent.”

“
Okay. Hang on.”

She pulled out her cell phone and dialed the police switchboard. She asked for Eddie Bowler and was put on hold for two minutes before a gruff voice answered.

“
Yeah?”

“
Eddie, this is Jessica Turner, in Cold Case.”

“
Yeah, what’dya need?”

“
You were the one that processed the Francisco Hernandez scene, right?”

“
Yeah.”

“
Do you remember checking the vent in the bathroom for any foreign material? Specifically a small sheet of paper.”

“
I’m sure I did.”

“
Would you mind checking?” There was a brief silence. “I know it’s a pain in the ass and I’m sorry. But this is really important to the Chief and he’s on me about it.”

“
Yeah, all right. Sit tight.”

Jessica heard keys being punched on a keyboard and the loud exhalations of an annoyed Eddie Bowler. She thought she heard music in the background; Jimi Hendrix.

“
Ok,” he mumbled to himself, “Hernandez, Hernandez … hey that was the detective that was iced. The one undercover.”