The address never came. He had to call the station several times, and they had to confirm it with Orson before finally sending it. When it came twenty minutes later, Stanton rose and left the room. As he walked down the hallway, he heard a couple arguing behind closed doors. They were fighting because the man had not been honest about how the woman had looked in a dress she had worn the previous night. Apparently, he’d complimented her the entire night then made a comment the next morning about the dress not fitting well. Stanton grinned, remembering similar fights with his ex. He wished he’d known then what he knew now. It was all so trivial, but in the heat of the moment, it had seemed so important. If he could go back, he would apologize every time, his fault or not, and always have a soft heart with her.
He suddenly remembered that he hadn’t talked to his kids in a few days, and he dialed the number as he rode the elevator down to the lobby.
A man answered. “Hello?”
“Is Melissa there?”
“Who’s this?”
“This is Jon Stanton.”
“Oh. She ain’t here.”
“Are Mathew and-”
The man hung up. Stanton sat on the line a moment then put away his phone. That must have been the football player. Lately, Melissa only dated athletes. If that was her type, he wondered why she had married an intellectual.
Stanton exited the elevators and the hotel without noticing anything around him. The valet brought out the Cadillac. The radio station was tuned to hard rock, and he changed it to an ’80s station playing the Pet Shop Boys’ “West End Girls” before pulling away.
The address was twenty-seven minutes away, according to the GPS, and he made two wrong turns before getting onto the correct freeway. He finally turned onto Flower Avenue and found the three-bedroom rambler belonging to Marty. There was no car parked outside, and the blinds were drawn. He parked in the driveway and went up to the front door. He knocked then rang the doorbell. The other homes in the neighborhood looked almost identical, just different enough to add a bit of variety. Stanton stepped back onto the front yard and looked around. Around back, he peered over the fence. All the blinds were drawn there as well. He was about to leave when he saw someone looking out a slit in the blinds on the front window. As soon as Stanton turned his head to look directly at the window, the slit closed.
He put his hand on his firearm, ensuring that it was there, a habit he had been taught by Sherman. Stanton knew the real reason they did this was for the sense of power that it gave them.
Stanton pounded on the door and shouted, “Police. Open up.”
No response. He went to the garage door and tried to lift it, but it was too heavy. He ran to the front and pushed. The thick door was locked with a deadbolt. He ran around the house and hopped the fence into the backyard. The backdoor was flimsy. He considered ramming through it, but he saw the basement already had a massive chunk missing. He walked over to it and kicked the frame lightly on the side, shattering the glass. He cleared away the jagged edges with his shoe and crawled into the house.
The home was dark and smelled of mildew. It was stagnant, as if no one lived there or whoever did walked on eggshells in order not to disturb anything. Even the carpet had a coating of dust over vacuum cleaner tracks. As he passed a large, antique mirror on the south wall, Stanton glanced in the mirror, almost expecting to see someone else there.
There were three doors: one on the south wall, one on the east, and one on the north. The door to the north was open, leading upstairs. He peered up the stairs. Taking a few steps out, he looked straight up to see if anybody was standing at the railing above. No one was there.
Stanton took each step slowly, almost gingerly, as if he were walking on broken glass. He was halfway up the steps when he heard boots on linoleum and the turning of a lock.
“Police!”
He bolted up the stairs just in time to see the back of someone sprinting out of the house. Stanton ran down the hallway and leapt over the La-Z-Boy recliner. He pulled open the door and saw the figure, who was wearing a ski mask, hop the fence into the neighbor’s yard. Stanton sprinted after him and dove over the fence. The man was heading straight for the back porch and the door that led inside the house.
Stanton considered firing his gun, but he didn’t know if civilians were inside. Instead, he landed hard on his feet from the jump over the fence and began running again. The man tried the backdoor, which was locked. He looked back at Stanton then rushed around the house and over the chain-link fence.
Stanton did the same, following the man down the sidewalk to an office park.He didn’t take his eyes off the man for a second, not even to look at the cars speeding toward him as he crossed the street.
The man was fast, but he was slowing down. He was wearing what looked like work boots, and they didn’t help his endurance. Stanton was at a full sprint now, breathing hard. He tasted bile in his mouth as his wind left him and his side began to ache. The man suddenly bolted right, down an alley, and Stanton trailed him. The man opened a side door to a building and ran inside. Stanton grabbed the handle and pulled before running in.
It was an industrial kitchen. Two massive ovens took up both sides of the room. Between them was an island with a countertop cluttered with dishes, food, and cutlery. He could hear voices in the next room, just past a thick plastic door. Stanton held his firearm low.
He walked slowly around the island, his eyes glued to the door in front of him. He glanced down at the cupboards. They were too small for someone to hide in. To his right was a large metal freezer door with a latch on it. He reached for the latch, then he heard the crash of pots and pans behind him.
Stanton spun around, his eyes fixed in the direction of the sound. Gun first, he began to walk toward it. When he rounded the island, he saw two frying pans on the floor. As he moved toward the pans, boots stomped up behind him. He turned just in time to see a figure swing a pipe at him.
The impact was deafening. His eyes slammed shut and began to water. He tasted blood pouring out of his mouth and nostrils. His lips ached and began to swell. He lifted his gun, but the man tackled him, and they both went down. Stanton tried to lift him enough to free his arm, but the figure struck again with the pipe and nailed him in the ribs, knocking the wind out of him. Stanton was reaching for the backup.38 revolver tucked in a holster at his ankle when he felt another impact across his jaw.
Stanton tried to open his eyes, but only the left one would fully respond. The right eyelid went halfway up and stopped as the flesh above his eye filled with fluid. He realized he was on his back, looking up at a man standing above him with a metal pipe in hand. The man lifted it again and slammed it down onto Stanton’s head. Then everything went black.
20
Alma Parr checked the clock. It was 7:23 pm, time to call it a day. He turned off his computer and rose, stretching the muscles in his neck and back. He glanced at the empty spot on top of a three-foot high pillar in the corner. One of Mike Tyson’s signed boxing gloves was supposed to sit there, but Tyson left Vegas the day before Parr had enough free time to go down to the sporting goods store where he was signing autographs. He would come back. Celebrities past their prime had a natural affinity for this city. They always came back.
He said goodbye to the few people hanging around at that hour and found his Mustang parked in a handicapped spot out front. Parr flipped on his sunglasses as the engine roared to life, then he took off out of the parking lot.
The streets were busy, but he maneuvered expertly through the mass of SUVs, cabs, luxury cars, and family sedans. At a stoplight, he pulled his Browning out of the holster and placed it on the passenger seat. He drove well above eighty miles per hour as darkness blanketed the city and the artificial lights glittered like fallen stars. It was a twenty-minute drive to his house in Paradise Hills.