Stanton felt pain in his chest. It was so pronounced, so sudden, that he could’ve sworn it was a physical pain, although he knew it wasn’t.
“Mel, it’s okay if he doesn’t want to. You don’t need to force him.”
“It’s just that he’s going over to Rhett’s house, and they need to get ready for their Little League practice and-”
“It’s okay. You don’t need to spare my feelings. What eleven-year-old wants to spend time talking to his old man? I’ll call back tomorrow.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Oh, I almost forgot-the reason I was calling was because I need the child support check early this month. We’re going on a trip, and I’ll need some extra cash.”
“That’s not what the check’s for, Mel.”
“They’re coming with me. We’re going on a cruise for seven days. They’ll have a blast.”
“What about school?”
“It’s just a week. They’ll be fine. I’ll get their homework before we leave, and we can do it on the boat.” There was a long pause, and Stanton could tell she was walking into another room. “This hasn’t been easy on them, Jon. They’re really confused. Matt’s old enough that he can read the newspapers. Kids at school tease him. There was an article in the Trib saying you’ve had more shootings than any detective at the police department. Matt remembers Noah, too-or Eli or whatever the hell that thing’s name really was. He still calls him Uncle Noah, and the other day, he asked why he hurt all those girls. What do I tell them, Jon? Do you even have the faintest clue what your job does to them?”
“I work the worst of the worst, Mel. The ones nobody else wants.”
“I know that better than anyone. I’m just telling you when kids tell the boys that their uncle who came over every week and took them to baseball games is a murderer, they don’t know how to respond.”
Stanton could feel the frustration and anger as he spewed out, “I see things people aren’t meant to see. Crackheads who stick their babies in the microwave ’cause they won’t stop crying. Pedophiles who rape one-year-olds in the aisles of grocery stores. I see that every day, and everybody I see on the street tells me that the government has too much power, that I’m intruding in their lives. And when the junkie who’s been up for a week on a meth binge comes breaking into their home in the middle of the night, suddenly, I’m a hero. I’m the knight in shining armor only to be forgotten as soon as the memory fades.”
“I don’t feel bad for you, Jon. I’ve told you to quit a thousand times. You broke up our family because of that job. I hate that job.” She hesitated. “And I’m learning not to care about you. I know I’m going to get the call from the department telling me you’re lying in the morgue, and they need me to come identify you. I’m preparing for that. I’m treating you as if that’s already happened. I’m sorry, but I don’t know any other way to do it.” A man’s voice spoke to her, sounding as if it came from another room. “I gotta go. Call tomorrow in the afternoon.”
There was a click, and she was gone. Stanton hung up the phone. The migraine had returned, and he lay back down, staring blankly up at the ceiling as drums rumbled to life outside his window from a street show.
30
Cal Robertson walked slowly on the treadmill, watching a presidential debate on CNN. He flipped through the channels for a few seconds as he wiped his face with a towel, then he turned off the television. The country club gym was nearly empty at ten o’clock at night. That was his favorite time to be there.
He walked over to a rack of weights. He took the five-pound barbells and did a few lateral raises to work his shoulders. He had recently had rotator cuff surgery, and the physical therapy was going slowly. Still, he had to admit, it was staggering how far medicine had come. He remembered accompanying his father during his father’s doctor appointments in the 1950s. A cigarette dangling from his mouth, the doctor would feel around for a couple of minutes then prescribe pain pills. The doctor had missed his father’s cancer for ten years, and by the time the doctors did catch the cancer, it was too late. Cal’s father passed away in a filthy bed at a free clinic, unable to afford an extended stay in a hospital because his family didn’t have health insurance.
It was then that Cal understood the importance of money. People who denied that were deceiving themselves, or they had never been poor enough that their lack of money put their life at risk.
He finished three sets and headed to the showers. Another man, a banker named Damien Woodward, was already there. Cal said hello to him as he undressed and went to the shower next to him.
“How’s the gambling business?” Woodward asked.
“Maybe I should be asking you that.”
Woodward laughed and went on to describe the sex he’d had that weekend with his twenty-four-year-old girlfriend, despite being well into his late sixties. Cal listened politely as he washed up. Sex interested him only to a certain degree. He didn’t let it run his life. It was sloppy and awkward as far as he was concerned. What was a few moments’ pleasure during sex compared to the thrill of making money or buying a rival company? In comparison, sex was fleeting and a waste of strength. He had read recently that it took a full steak and two eggs’ worth of protein to make up for one ejaculation. Still, he loved the young women who flocked to him. In bed with the lights off, he felt twenty years old. That was the real power of sex-feeling young again.
Cal dressed in a sweatsuit with a white stripe down each leg and put on his new sneakers. He left the gym, nodding goodbye to the teenaged girl behind the counter, and climbed into his Lincoln Town Car that was parked near the front entrance. He pulled out onto Desert Foothills Drive, heading back into the city. Frankie Valli was on the radio, and he turned it up.
His home was twenty minutes away, and he rolled down the windows for the drive. He pulled into a gated community and drove up a winding driveway. He scanned an access card at another gate, which opened with a loud, sustained creak. He would have to make sure to have that fixed.
His home was situated on two acres of lush grass and red rocks. Occasionally, he saw ducks and geese in the small pond in front of the house, the geese driving away the ducks with their larger girth.
The attached three-door garage held his prized automobiles, each imported and specifically tailored to his tastes. He pressed the button on his visor, and one of the doors began to rise. Then he heard the first pop.
A sound like a buzzing bee whizzed past his ears. At first, he looked around to make sure an actual bee hadn’t made its way into his car. The clinks against the frame of the car drew his attention to the right, where he saw small flashes in the darkness. He still wasn’t sure what was happening until a slug smashed through the passenger window and punctured the car seat.
He screamed as shards of glass flew over him. Cal unlocked the driver’s side door and fell out as another slug hit the tire, releasing a loud hiss. His hands were bloody, and he felt the sting of glass embedded in his face. He began to crawl toward the open garage. He waited a moment at the hood of his car then got up on his knees. He ducked his head underneath the car and saw a pair of legs in jeans running toward him. Adrenaline and fear coursed through him. His hands were trembling as he rose and ran for the garage.
A burning sensation in his shoulder preceded an impact that knocked him off his feet. He felt no pain at first, and he managed to rise and get into the garage. He ran to the steps leading inside and pressed the button to lower the garage door. It began its slow, ponderous closing, and he saw the legs pick up speed as they sprinted towards him.
The legs were close, no more than a few dozen feet away, and the garage door had another couple of feet to lower. He couldn’t make out a face, but he saw the man raise his weapon and fire. The slug dented the thick garage door.