It was nearly six in the evening when Lieutenant Daniel Childs walked into Jonathan Stanton’s office and leaned against the doorframe. He had found conversations with his detectives went a lot faster and saved him more time when he didn’t sit down or come in.
Stanton sat at his desk, busy at work on his computer. Childs watched him a long time. He was researching something about homosexual sadists; a study that, from what Childs could tell, was conducted almost fifty years ago.
“You’re the only detective I know that researches the way you research.”
“Most crimes are solved by snitching. The type I specialize in aren’t. Some of the time they don’t even know they’re doing it.” He turned and faced him, putting his feet up on the desk. “Gotta take every advantage I have.”
Childs took a few steps in the room so he could read the screen. “Schizo-Affective Disorders in Homosexual Psychopathy. I prefer Sports Illustrated myself.”
“This study was conducted in the sixties and it’s spooky how accurate they are. These people, like the one I think we’re looking for in Cisneros, are incapable of happiness. They want to impose their own misery on everybody else. This guy we’re after, he has a family. I bet to everyone in the community they seem like the perfect family but at home he’s probably a Vlad Dracula. I wouldn’t be surprised if he tortures his children as a form of discipline.”
“You one dark mutherfucker, Jon. You need to bowl or play tennis or whatever white people do to clear your head.”
“I’m all right.”
“How’s the dating situation goin’?”
“I’m okay, really, Danny, you don’t need to worry about me. I was actually just debating whether to call somebody I met for a date.”
“Oh yeah?” Childs said, sitting down. “Who is she?”
“She’s the arson investigator we hired.”
“Well call her.”
“Maybe later.”
“No, no, this is a direct order, man. Call her right now while I listen and ask her to dinner and a movie or whatever the hell Mormons do for fun. Ice cream, whatever.”
“I really don’t think-”
“I ain’t kiddin’. Direct order. Come on, call her.”
“All right, fine. Hang on.” He pulled out his phone and pulled her up in his contacts.
“Ew, she in your contacts already? This is serious.”
Stanton smiled as the phone rang. Emma answered on the third ring.
“This is Emma.”
“Hey, Emma, it’s Jon. Stanton. From the SDPD. We worked-”
“Of course I remember you, Jon. What’s up?”
“Hey, um, I was just wondering if-”
“You’re probably calling about the samples. They’re not done yet. The labs that I trust take about-”
“No I wasn’t calling about that. I was calling about something else. Um.” He looked to Childs, who made a motion of sticking his finger in a hole. Stanton had to suppress a laugh. “I was just wondering if, um, you’d like to grab dinner some time? With me. Grab dinner with me.”
“Oh, well…yeah, why not?”
“Okay, how about Friday.”
“Friday’s no good. I got a symposium on ion-selective electrodes.”
Childs whispered, “Oh, man, beaten out by an electrode.”
“Well,” Stanton said, “how about Saturday?”
“Let me check…yeah, that should be fine. Should I come pick you up? Or, well, I don’t know. Do you want to come pick me up?”
“Sure. Just text me your address and I’ll swing by around seven.”
“Sounds good. See you then.”
“See you then.”
Childs busted up laughing. “Oh, man. Nothing better than two nerds trying to flirt.”
“She’s not one of your strippers, that’s for sure.”
“My strippers are top-quality American beef, Brother Stanton. You should try one sometime. Might loosen you up a bit and get you to stop thinking about homosexual schizophrenic-whatevers torturing their kids.” He stood up. “Much respect, Jon. That took balls, I know.”
“Thanks.”
As Childs left, Stanton looked at his phone. He calendared his date using Siri, an iPhone personal assistant application, and smiled as he saw it appear on his calendar.
CHAPTER 18
Jesse Brichard finished his shift and found his sedan in the airport parking lot. He sat in the car for a moment and then took out the silver flask that was in the glove compartment and threw back a few drinks, spilling some drops on his pilot’s uniform.
He remembered why he’d wanted to be a pilot: the idea of freedom. The bastards could take your house and car, your money…but they couldn’t take the sky from you. His father had been a pilot and his father before him. It was a family tradition. But with each successive generation the pay and benefits shrunk to the point that he now worked a second full-time job just to support his family. It’d gotten so he could make more managing a fast-food restaurant than he could making sure three hundred people landed safely and got home to their families. Ah, to hell with it, he thought. Maybe they would just replace him outright with robots?
He started the car and pulled away and before long was on Interstate 5 heading home to his family in Claremont. The air was warm as evening was falling and it was a salty ocean air that sat well on his tongue. He turned on the oldies station and Moody Blues’ Nights in White Satin was playing.
He got home and pulled into his garage. His wife’s truck was already there and he took another swig of the beer in his hand and headed inside. His two boys, Hank and Dover, sprinted past him, Dover yelling something about Hank stealing the last orange juice.
“Hello to you too, boys,” Jesse said.
His wife was standing in the kitchen, stirring a bowl of fruit and whipped cream for the topping on an angel food cake. Jesse came over and stuck his finger in the bowl and came away with a big gob that he promptly stuck in his mouth.
“Wait till it’s done,” his wife said.
“What? No hello from you either?”
She leaned in and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. “How was your day?”
“Shit, but what’re you gonna do?” he said, going to the fridge and getting out a bottle of beer.
“Jess, I’ve told you about that language in front of the boys.”
“Sorry, sorry. It’s just Molly. She won’t let up. Today she told me, me, that my uniforms are too wrinkled and if I want to keep flying her planes I need to look professional. She’s like twenty and she’s my boss ‘cause she has some fucking degree?”
“Jess, the language.”
“I’m sorry, but I get excited about this.” He popped open the beer and took a long swig. “What’d you guys do today?”
“Nothing much. When the boys came home from school I took a nap and they played video games.”
“Those damn games. You didn’t have those when I was kid and you actually had to go out and play with other kids.”
She shrugged and went to the oven.
Jesse went into the living room and lay down as his boys ran up the stairs. He turned on the television and watched a random show on HBO as night fell outside.
Jesse Brichard had a dreamless sleep so it was odd when he heard voices. There was a male voice, calm and rusty, almost like it had a grain to it. His wife was crying and begging and the man was speaking to her softly. He’d heard this conversation before. His own father was a boozer: beer with breakfast and lunch and hard liquor for dinner. Sometimes on top of coming home drunk from the bar. He remembered nights of his mother crying and him in the next room listening, hoping that they would stop fighting long enough to remember that they loved each other.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood and Jesse was awakened by the impression that someone was watching him.
He opened his eyes.
Above him stood a man; bald and wearing a nicely cut Italian suit. He was handsome, or at least what would be considered handsome, except for the fact that his skin looked greasy and he had a thick forest of stubble on his cheeks and chin. The man smiled and tilted his head, like a dog observing something amusing.