The White Angel Murder (21 page)

“
No, the Taurus is fine.”

They did an even trade, no paperwork, no questions, and Stanton drove out of the parking lot with a 2001 Ford Taurus registered to someone halfway around the country that didn’t know their name was being used to register cars in Southern California. As he pulled away he saw Louis’ team begin work on his Honda. Even though they had Stanton’s permission and he would have gladly signed over the title, they would change the VIN number, repaint it, change the tires and any other parts with serial numbers, and then sell the car through Craigslist or the Autotrader. Louis was known for making cars disappear.

Stanton drove for nearly three hours out of the city and ended up just outside Santa Barbara. He found a motel near a liquor store and a small convenience store and pulled in. The lobby was two old chairs and a rug with cigarette burns and the cashier sat behind a desk with a large sign that said, “NO CHECKS.”

He rented one room on the third floor and made his way up the stairs. The room was small and the bed was hidden away in the wall in what appeared to be a large closet. The furniture consisted of one 1960’s couch, a small coffee table and a 19 inch color television. He pulled the bed down and could smell that the sheets had not been changed since the last occupant. He sat down on the couch and dialed Jessica on his phone.

“
Hey, Jon.”

“
Hey. Any word?”

“
Nothing much. Imperial County Sheriff’s are taking point and they made a big fuss that we came down too. They think it’s going to get a lot of media attention and they want to be the ones in front of the cameras.”

“
Doesn’t matter. They don’t want to be the ones doing the work.”

“
Yeah, I have no doubt. But nothing’s really happened yet. Someone called and left a message for the chief about it but he hasn’t called back. How are you doing?”

“
As good as can be I guess.”

“
Do you have a plan?”

“
You sound worried about me.”

“
Well, yeah, it’s just … I’ve put up with a lot of bullshit in my life but this is something I can’t really deal with. I’m thinking of quitting.”

“
You shouldn’t do that. There needs to be good cops to counter people like Mike.”

“
I just can’t believe what he’s doing to you. And that he’s probably going to get away with it. I just have this kinda sick feeling with me whenever I see my badge.”

“
People like him, somewhere down the line, something will happen. It always does. You can’t be that crooked and get away with it for too long.”

She exhaled loudly and Stanton heard some glasses clink.

“
I guess,” she said.

“
Look, don’t quit. That’s not the right move and that’s not what I want. Stick with it just a little longer.”

“
Jon, do you think the chief killed Hernandez? Is he that crazy?”

“
I don’t know. If he had done it I don’t think he would’ve been as brazen as leaving his body out and blaming another cop. I think it was gangland. But something else is going on. Something’s overlapping with whatever happened to Tami Jacobs but I don’t know what it is. I’m getting closer to it, but it’s just not there yet.”

“
I … just be careful.”

“
I will.”

“
I’ll call you tomorrow if there’s anything.”

“
Okay. Good night.”

“
Night.”

Stanton hung up and put his feet up on the coffee table. Down the hall, he could hear a couple arguing and then a slap before a woman started crying.

44

Stanton jolted awake. He had slept on the couch and his lower back and neck screamed with pain. Rolling his neck, he sat up and grabbed his cell phone off the table. The alarm had gone off though he didn’t remember setting it.

For a moment, he thought about taking a shower and changing clothes and then the weight of his situation fell on him and he remembered where he was and what he was doing. There were no other clothes, and a shower, usually relaxing, would not bring him any comfort now.

He walked to the lone window in the room overlooking the street. An old truck coated in rust with a cracked windshield sat on the curb, parking tickets piling up underneath the wipers. Across the street a Hispanic man rode a bicycle down the sidewalk and said a few words to some friends sitting on their porch drinking beer.

He wasn’t used to this; the inability to act. Normally he would be hassling the Medical Examiner’s Office or the forensics unit or the state toxicology lab to move quicker and put his case on priority status, though it probably didn’t merit it. He had always had an ability to motivate people to do things for him and he wasn’t sure he even did it consciously.

But there were no techs or ME’s or lab assistants to hassle now. He was an outcast, no more respected than the person he was chasing.

Last night, in the lonely hours before morning, he had thought about turning himself in and hiring a good lawyer. Perhaps it was better to fight this in court than out on the streets? But he knew that wasn’t true. He had seen many people, innocent people, suffer through a court system that neither cared for or respected them. They were human refuse to be pushed through a grinder in large quantities and plop out the other side. The court system, no matter how good his lawyer, would not vindicate him.

As he contemplated what to do next, his phone buzzed; it was Jessica.

“
Hey,” he said.

“
You need to get down here, now.”

“
Where?”

“
The Admin Offices. Harlow called me this morning. The charges against you have been dropped and the warrant’s been recalled.”

“
How?”

“
George Young recanted and the DA dropped the case. He said that he had actually seen someone else and when he did a photo lineup realized it wasn’t you. They dropped the case, Jon!”

Stanton kept his excitement in check. With the chief, there were always other angles and ones usually not seen or considered.

“
What else did Mike say?”

“
He said he knew that I had kept in contact with you but that he wasn’t upset. He just wanted you to come in and talk with him. But I checked the state-wide just now; it’s for real. The case is dismissed.”

“
Give me an hour and then I’ll call you back.”

“
Okay. Hurry up.”

Stanton hung up the phone and immediately called Melissa. She answered on the second ring.

“
What did you do?” he said by way of greeting.

“
What’re you talking about?”

“
Cases don’t get dropped like that. Did you see him?”

“
Maybe.”

“
Mel, I didn’t want you involved in this.”

“
Well you know what, Jon? I am involved. Like it or not you’re the father of my kids and everything you do affects us.”

“
I know. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to upset you. I really appreciate whatever it is you did.”

“
I didn’t do it for you. I did it for them.”

“
Well, thanks.”

“
You’re welcome.”

Stanton hung up and looked out the window again, watching the sunlight reflect off a BMW driving by. Harlow would be prepared. He would have ammunition and an agenda. Stanton wasn’t sure if he just got kicked out of the frying pan and into the fire and was about to be kicked onto the floor.

*****

Stanton walked into the San Diego Police Headquarters and Administrative Offices. The place seemed odd; like a relative’s house he was no longer welcome in. The security personnel eyed him but said nothing. A few uniforms attempted to stare him down and one shoulder-checked him, but Stanton ignored them. He was far too relieved to hold any animosity, even to Harlow. After all, the man was corrupt and wicked, but he had just been looking out for himself and his family. Stanton, despite himself, forgave him.

He made his way to the Cold Case Unit and had to be let in. Harlow was at his desk, going through some paperwork, and he looked up but didn’t motion for Stanton to sit.

“
Hey,” was all Harlow said.

“
Hey.”

“
Shut the door, please.”

Stanton shut the heavy door and sat down in one of the chairs. He crossed his legs and folded his hands and decided he would not be the first to speak.

“
So,” the chief said, “heard any good gossip lately?”

Stanton smiled. “I heard the Chief of Police is an SOB.”

“
Yeah, well, I guess he is.”

“
Did you get George to lie or did he volunteer?”

“
He wanted to do something. He blamed you for Francisco’s death. But it was my idea. I had the warrant drawn up and got the DA to get on board. Jon, I can’t even begin to say I’m sorry. I panicked. You said you were going to IAD and I thought about what would happen. Do you have any idea what they would do to me? I would go to prison for some of the shit we’ve pulled. The number of people I’ve put in there, the enemies I’ve made, I’d be dead in a week.”

“
Did you kill him, Mike?”

“
Who Francisco? Fuck no. How could you even ask me that? That just happened and fell into our lap. No we’re gonna catch the sons a bitches that did that. It was just an opportunity and I seized it. I’m sorry, Jon.”

“
Let’s just move on.”

“
I’m glad to hear you say that. I want you back in the unit, working the Tami Jacobs case. Don’t know if Jessica told you, but there’s been another homicide that matches the pattern.”

“
She mentioned it.”

“
Imperial County’s got it but they don’t know what to do with it. There’s still some saber rattling but they’ll eventually give it up to us.”

Stanton hesitated. “Are you going to IAD?”

“
Jon, come on.”

“
You’re lost, Mike. The line between us and them doesn’t apply to you. You don’t have the right to run this organization anymore. I know you’ve probably already greased a bunch of palms at IAD. But I know you haven’t at the Feds. They hate you’re guts and would arrest you as soon as you offered it. I’m asking you, please, resign. Don’t make me go to them.”

“
You do what you gotta do. But I ain’t going anywhere.”

Stanton nodded and stood up. “Fine. I’ll come back, Mike. I need the resources here. But after this case is closed, I’m done for good.”

“
Fine.”

Stanton walked out of the office and down the hall. He waited until he was on the elevator by himself to turn off the digital recorder that was in his pocket.

45

Noah Sherman lay quietly on a cot in his cell. There was never enough room and today he felt as if there weren’t even enough for him to think properly. The cell was nine foot by eight foot, shared by two inmates. There was a steel toilet, a steel sink, a bunk bed, a small mirror, and a stand with a television. Despite the surroundings, the cell was immaculately clean, Sherman insisting that his cellie clean whenever he couldn’t get the chance.

His cellie, Tucker Matheson, was a decent man by his estimation. An African-American that had been raised in Louisiana, he had a Southern drawl and deep-set eyes that always seemed to be bloodshot.

He had been charged with murder, pled to voluntary manslaughter, and was on the eighth year of a twelve year sentence. His wife had taken the kids and moved in with another man while they were still married. The other man lived for six hours with his new family before Tucker got into a fist-fight and ended up beating him to death.

Sherman guessed it was later in the evening but it was hard to tell. There was no clock and they had to guess the time by the television shows that were playing. He jumped off the top bunk, glancing once at Tucker who was asleep. Sherman remembered the first time they had met. It was in the yard and two of the Mexicans had decided to jump Sherman while he was working out. Payback for a fellow gang member he had put away for life when he was a young detective in the Gang Unit. Tucker intervened, slamming a forty-five pound weight into one of the gangsters’ face and shattering his jaw and cheek bones. A few of Tucker’s crew stood by, keeping anyone else from helping. The Mexicans were growing in number every year and soon they would overtake the prison. But for now, it was owned by the blacks.

He had never explained why he had helped Sherman other than the fact that they shared a cell. But Sherman had grown to like the man. He couldn’t read or write and had only a fifth grade education so Sherman took it upon himself to teach him. In six months time, he was reading children’s books and in a year was reading novels. His favorite novel was an old copy of
Huckleberry Finn
he had checked out from the prison library nearly a dozen times.

Sherman stripped down to his boxers and stood in front of the mirror. He had grown old in two years. His hair, once jet black, was now peppered gray. Wrinkles surrounded his eyes and the skin on his neck appeared looser. The numerous tattoos he had received while inside he wore like badges of honor. The most prominent were the ones he had on his knuckles spelling
hell
on both hands.