A hand reached under the door as it neared the ground. But the door’s descent didn’t slow, and the hand pulled away as the door pressed against the cement. Cal’s heart fell into his stomach, and his knees buckled. He sat on the steps leading to the kitchen door behind him and began to weep. Blood began to pour from his shoulder, though there was no pain. Then he heard the sound of his car door opening, and a moment later, the garage door started to rise.
He jumped up, panicked, and turned the doorknob. He had left it unlocked as he always did. He shut the door behind him and locked it. Past the living room, a staircase led up to the bedrooms. He ran for the stairs, his legs burning, and sprinted up them as quickly as he could. He heard an impact against the kitchen door. The shooter was breaking in.
He made his way to the master bedroom on the right.
His wife looked up from the book she was reading. “Cal? What’s all that noise?”
Without answering, he ran to the closet and flipped on the light. In the back corner was a gun safe, and he put in the combo-the date he had officially made his first million. He took out a Smith amp; Wesson.44 caliber handgun. It was large and heavy; he had bought it immediately after seeing Dirty Harry.
“Cal! What the hell is going on?”
As footsteps ascended the stairs, Cal ducked and pointed the weapon. He had never fired it. He hadn’t even held it since the day he bought it. Now, heavy in his hands, it felt like the best friend he had ever had.
His wife screamed as a figure in a black coat rounded the corner. The man pointed his weapon at Cal’s wife just as a boom echoed through the home, as if a car had collided into the house. Cal flew off his feet, and the gun dropped to the floor.
The man was lying on his back; a spray of blood covered the hallway. Cal managed to get to his feet and pick up the man’s weapon. He held it with both hands as he walked over to the man. He was younger, maybe in his thirties, and the large wound in his chest was making a sucking noise. Cal aimed the barrel at the man’s head as his eyes glazed over and went blank.
He lowered the weapon, exhausted, his whole body in pain. He turned to his wife, who was sitting in shock on the bed.
“Don’t just fucking sit there,” he said. “Call the police.”
31
Alma Parr sat on his balcony, nursing a whiskey and reading news reports about Jon Stanton on his iPad. The newspapers, generally, had treated him neutrally at the beginning of his career, but Parr noticed that a pattern had emerged as time wore on. Certain reporters always treated him well, and certain ones always treated him poorly. Clearly, he had developed a close relationship with some of them. Parr had never been able to accomplish such a feat. Reporters nourished themselves with misery, and it made him sick. He treated them the way they treated everyone else, as a means to an end. On days when he didn’t need a particular end, the reporters went for a rough ride.
There was a knock at his door.
“Come in,” he shouted. He didn’t remember if he had invited Karen over, but he knew she occasionally liked to pop in unannounced. The door opened, and Orson Hall stepped in, a six-pack under his arm.
He walked out onto the balcony and sat in the chair next to Parr.
“You know,” Hall said, “my granddaddy worked in a factory during Prohibition. I sometimes wonder where I’d be now if he’d had the balls to be a bootlegger.”
“My grandfather spent the last ten years of his life in federal prison. I doubt he thought it was worth it.”
Hall nodded at his whiskey. “Mind if I get one of those?”
“Help yourself.”
Hall went inside to the bar. As he fixed himself a drink, he hummed, and Parr could tell he was already drunk.
“Heard you had a meeting with the sheriff about our boy.”
“Jon?”
“Yeah.”
“Sheriff’s nervous. Just trying to cover his ass.” Hall came out and sat back down, holding a glass filled to the brim with whiskey. “You should invite some women over.”
“You sure you up to it?”
He shrugged. “Guess not.”
“Can I ask you somethin’? Why’d you bring Stanton out here, anyway? Jay and Javier are two’a the best we got. Hell, I could’a taken a crack at this case. Seems like you didn’t really wait.”
“It happened over two weeks ago, and we had nothin’. I was getting desperate.”
“Why?”
He waved his hand. “Powerful forces behind this one. And they want it solved yesterday.” He took a gulp of the whiskey. “Fucker’s somethin’ else, though, Al. I’m telling you.”
“He didn’t seem like shit to me.”
“Looks are deceptive. See, you, you’re an open book. What you see is what you get. You wear your heart on your sleeve, and because of that, you think everyone else does, too. That’s not the way it works. Stanton looks like a fucking choirboy on the outside, but inside… I don’t know what he is. A monster, maybe.”
“You sure we’re talking ’bout the same guy?”
“You know how I met him? It was a forensics seminar. One of those bullshit things that you’re gonna have to start goin’ to when you start moving up. There were six speakers, and Jon was the last one. By the time he came in, he could tell we were all half asleep anyway, so he didn’t lecture. He had us show him something, any item we had, like a pen or a badge, and he told us that he would leave the room, and we were supposed to hide it anywhere we wanted. He came back a few minutes later, and damn if he didn’t find it every single time without a word from any one of us.”
“Was it a small room?”
“No, fucking auditorium. We even had one’a the guys sneak out and throw his away-it was a paper cup or something-in a trash bin outside, and he still found it. He said the dust by the door was kicked up, and it wasn’t like that when he left. That’s how he knew. I never saw nothing like it.”
“He’s got a few records over at the SDPD. Most arrests, most convictions, most shootings.”
“He’s somethin’ else.” Hall swallowed a few more gulps. “Follow up on what you got. You can count on the full support of the chief and me. I think he burned that body. I want him in cuffs and behind bars within the week. Can you get it done?”
“All I got is the word of a few cholos right now. I’m sure I can find more.”
“You ever work Narcotics?”
“No.”
“Here’s what you do to bust those assholes: find some piece’a shit who will take fifty bucks to write an affidavit about drug activity in the house, or you go through their trash. Most junkies and dealers throw away the baggies they keep their product in. Supreme Court has said anything in the trash doesn’t have the expectation of privacy or any protections. Most of ’em don’t know that. Get the warrant and do the raid yourself. You and five or six guys you trust. If there’s nothing there, you find something there.”
“You telling me to throw down evidence?”
“Don’t tell me you got a problem with that? You know how many brutality complaints I’ve fielded for you?”
“I’ve never thrown down. Never. If the fuckers didn’t do it, they shouldn’t be arrested. It won’t matter, though. I guarantee some drugs and weapons will turn up.”
“Good. Good. Even better. Arrest the fuckers and hit ’em hard. Have a line up and have ’em identify Stanton. Make sure you show ’em a picture of him first. I want a confession, too. But he’ll never confess to you. Talk to Mindi.”
“About what?”
“Get her to wear a wire around him.”
“She’ll never do it to another cop.”
“You’re her boss-boss her.” He finished his whiskey and pointed his finger at Parr. “I want this fucker. He’s humiliating us. Get him for me, and your career here is going to be a good one.”
Parr didn’t say anything as Hall rose, picked up his six-pack, and left the house.
32
Stanton woke, his hand on the firearm he kept on the nightstand. His eyes were wide open as he listened for the sound that had awakened him. He heard it again: knocking.