“Fallujah. For two tours.” He cleared his throat. “I’d like to talk about you, Jon. I checked out your record. You got more arrests than any other detective in Homicide over there in San Diego. That’s pretty fucking impressive. How do you do it?”
“Same as everyone else.”
“That’s not true. There was a note in the file-and excuse me for looking at this-but there was a note from the precinct shrink after you took out some dirtbag, saying that you had a photographic memory and-what was the term he used? Unhealthy? Yeah, he said you had an unhealthy amount of empathy. That you can slip into other people’s shoes, and sometimes, you can’t even stop yourself.”
“I follow the same procedures every detective in every city does. I’ve gotten lucky a few times.”
Parr looked down at the burn scar on his neck. “And you’ve gotten unlucky a few times, too, haven’t you?”
Stanton sat quietly for a few moments then said, “Did you get divorced because of the war? Excuse me for looking, but I can see a slight indentation on your ring finger. You still wear the ring at night when no one’s around, don’t you?”
Parr said, “I want to know what happened to you when you were abducted.”
“If you were standing behind the mirror, you already know. This is about something else, and you don’t want me to know what. Just be straight with me. It’ll save us both time.”
Parr exhaled loudly. His rhythm felt out of sync, and frustration was growing in his belly. The mention of the ring had thrown him off. He would have to stop wearing it at night.
He took the photo out from under the notepad and laid it in front of Stanton. It was a body that had been cooked to the driver’s seat of a car. The figure was absolutely unidentifiable, and his toothless mouth was agape, the gums charred black.
“What about it?” Stanton asked.
“Do you know anything about it?”
“No. When did it happen?”
“Four days before you flew into Vegas.”
“If it happened before I got here, how am I supposed to know about it?”
“You tell me.”
Stanton leaned back in the chair. “I’m guessing you’re the one who put the tail on me.”
“Jon, I’m gonna be straight with you, like you said. I don’t give a rat’s ass about this piece o’ shit. He was probably some dope-head, pedophile, or who the shit knows what. But I do care about Marty Scheffield. I’m sure you wouldn’t do that to another cop, so you’re not a suspect. You don’t need to worry about that. But this piece o’ shit here, I don’t care about. You tell me you did it, and I say, ‘Good.’ I need to close this case and make sure it had nothing to do with Marty. You can clear that up for me right now.”
“I’m not a dope fiend off the street, thinking you’re my friend, Alma. I can see the hatred in your eyes when you look at me. Your smile can’t hide it.”
Parr chuckled. “I’m just trying to help you. One cop to another.”
“Am I the only suspect for this?”
“Whaddya mean?”
“Is there anyone else you’re looking at for this crime?”
“Maybe.”
“How did my name come up?”
“You were identified by a witness.”
“At the scene?”
“None of your damned business.”
Stanton pushed the photo toward Parr. “I had nothing to do with this. Whoever told you I did is lying to you. Should I be asking for a lawyer, or are you going to let me go?”
Parr glanced at the camera and jumped to his feet suddenly, knocking back his chair. He grabbed Stanton by the throat and squeezed, staring into his eyes, looking for the fear he was accustomed to seeing, but Stanton didn’t respond. His passive gaze never wavered or broke eye contact. Parr let go and chuckled.
“Just kidding with you, Jon.” Parr took the photo and held it inches from Stanton’s face. “But I’m not going to let you get away with it. You’re gonna fry for this. This ain’t hippie-dippie California.”
He turned and left, letting the door slam behind him.
29
Nearly an hour passed before Stanton heard footsteps in the corridor and the door opened.
Orson Hall stepped in and stood by the doorway. “Let’s go, Jon.”
Stanton stood and followed him outside to a police cruiser with a uniform in the driver’s seat.
They stood on the sidewalk as Hall lit a cigarette and offered one to Stanton, who turned it down.
After three puffs, Hall spoke. “You’re leaving right now, Jon. This has gone too far. I can’t have fucking detectives associated with my department kidnapped. Can you imagine how that’s going to look in the papers?”
“I’m sorry. It was stupid of me to go in there without any backup.”
“Backup nothing, Jon. You’re not a cop out here. You put lives in danger by pulling that shit.”
Stanton turned away and watched the traffic as the lunch crowd headed back to work, their cars seeming lethargic.
“What happened at the house?” Stanton asked.
“SWAT went in. They didn’t find anything. They did get the ropes in the basement. Kept your hand locks, too. We’ll send ’em to the lab. Other than that, there was some furniture in a bedroom, and that’s it.”
“Who’s the owner?”
He blew a long stream of smoke through his nose. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
“Orson, who’s the owner?”
“Daniel and Emily Steed. It was a vacant rental property.”
Stanton glanced away, processing the information. “I’m close. I can feel it. He didn’t mean to take me there. He panicked and didn’t know what else to do. He didn’t kill me when he had the chance. He’s losing his grip.”
“I doubt that. I’m starting to accept that we’re not going to catch this fucker. He’ll slip away and be picked up now and again for petty crimes. We’ll have him in our jail and not even know it.”
“It doesn’t need to be that way. Give me a week.”
“To do what?”
“Just follow up. You brought me out here for a reason. I’m too close. You can’t cut me off now, Orson. He’ll see it as a win if I leave. You can expect more from him.”
“What do you mean ‘cut you off’? You’re too involved in this, Jon. It’s just another case. You’ll have a hundred more like it.”
“No, something’s different. I don’t know how to explain it, but something’s different about this guy. If you don’t help me, I’ll stay here on my own. You know how stubborn I am.”
Hall threw the cigarette butt down on the sidewalk and stepped on it. “One week. I’m booking your flight home now. That’s all you get.”
With a massive pounding headache, Stanton went back to his hotel. He went to the gift shop to pick up extra-strength ibuprofen and a Diet Coke before returning to his room. It had been cleaned well, and there were creases in the sheets from a recent wash and folding. He slipped off his shoes, turned off his phone, and got into bed without taking off his clothes.
When he woke three hours later, the headache had turned into a migraine. His vision was filled with colored dots, and the pain came in waves that emanated down his neck and into his back. He suffered from migraines since he was a child. He had been to every specialist his parents could find-one even suggested that a hyperactive spleen might have been responsible for the migraines-but in the end, no one could find anything wrong with him.
He lay in bed almost an hour, his eyes closed and the blinds drawn. He calmed his breathing and pretended that a cooling relief was washing over him, starting with his head. Slowly, the migraine began to fade then went away.
Stanton rose from the bed and turned his phone back on. He had two messages from Mindi, one from his ex, and one hang-up. He dialed his ex.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hey.”
“I called a while ago. Where you been?”
“Busy. How are the boys?”
“They’re good. Matt’s here. Do you want to talk to him?”
“Yes.” Stanton heard shuffling, followed by the unmistakable voice of his oldest son. His mother asked him to speak to his father, and he asked, “Do I have to?”