“He already said no.”
“Well then the answer’s no.”
“It’s one of the original detectives on the case. His report isn’t complete. There’s information missing and I need to know why.”
“Look, Jon, I’d love to help you, you know I would. But if I were to come down on one of my captains like this, not even to mention if he found out you went over his head, there’d be a shit-storm. He’d never trust me again and he’d keep me outta the loop on things I need to be in on.”
Stanton grew angry until he admitted to himself that Harlow was right. The chief, no matter how well liked, was seen as an administrator by the rank and file. If he overrode a captain who’s right there in the field making calls, it would hurt morale and less information would be kicked up the chain of command.
“This isn’t how it’s supposed to work, Mike.”
“It is what it is. Hey, we’ll talk more about this later. I’m in the middle of something.”
“Sure.”
A homeless man came up and asked for change. Stanton, as a policy, didn’t give to the homeless as he knew from his time in uniform that most of them were scam artists. But there was something desperate about him, something so pitiful that it tugged at him and he pulled out a five and gave it to him. The homeless man had a little pad with him. He sketched a quick drawing of Stanton sitting in the sand. It was actually good. The man ripped the white top off the pad and a yellow carbon copy was underneath. He gave the top copy to Stanton and then walked away.
Stanton stared at the drawing and wondered when in the hell he had gotten so old.
He turned back to the ocean and was about to put his phone away when a thought hit him. It was clear that the police weren’t going to help him. But maybe there was someone else that would. Stanton Googled Maverick “Hunter” Royal and came up with bios and pieces he’d written, but no phone numbers. He called Tommy and asked him to search records and get it for him. He was about to hang up, thinking he would get a call back in ten or fifteen minutes, but Tommy told him to wait. He had it up in thirty seconds.
“Since when can we do that?” Stanton said.
“Since this year. PD’s connected to the DMV, FBI, California DOJ and the DOC records. We can do a search from any computer here.”
“Consider me impressed.”
“Considered. What’d you wanna talk to this guy for anyway? I saw that piece he did.”
“Just want to tear him a new one.”
“Gotcha. Here’s the number, I’ll text it to you.”
Stanton put the number into his contacts and then dialed. Hunter answered himself and there was a hint of confusion in his voice. Stanton knew this was his personal cell number.
He and Hunter had had a good relationship before the shooting and he frequently leaked tidbits to him that didn’t impact an investigation. Perception was everything, and Hunter helped create that perception. Most people in the SDPD saw him as a pariah and refused to cooperate with him. But Stanton knew, pariah or not, he was an important part of the job.
“Hunter. It’s Jon Stanton.”
“Johnny baby. What’dya know, what’dya you say?”
“How you been?”
“Same. How you adjusting to badge life again? Tin’s not too heavy I hope.”
“No, not yet anyway.”
“Hey, Johnny, I uh, I’m sorry about that thing in the paper. You were always one of my favorites, you know that, but it was a hack job on the unit. I had to go for the jugular.”
“We both got a job to do. I don’t hold it against you. But throwing in the stuff about my gun was a little low.”
“Yeah, as soon as I read that I regretted it. It just made for such good print.”
“Well, you owe me one then. And I want to collect.”
“What’dya need?”
“Vice detective is undercover with the Sureños. I need to know where he is.”
“Whew, dangerous stuff, Johnny boy. That’s not gonna be cheap to find out.”
“How much?”
“Four thousand, easy. Maybe even five.”
“I’ll see what I can do. His name’s Francisco Hernandez. He was with Robbery/Homicide until a year ago.”
“Okay, got it. Hey, when you gonna come out drinkin’ with us?”
“When you start coming to church with me.”
“Ha, message received. Talk to you later.”
“Later.”
18
“You want how much!”
Stanton thought Tommy looked like he was either about to pass out or start yelling.
Tommy was technically a police officer rank two, just underneath a detective. But he had never shown any initiative for taking the next step up the ladder. After Harlow picked him as his personal assistant, Tommy never looked to working a regular beat again. He was young and full of bravado; sometimes he was the only one in the entire force that had the guts to stand up to Harlow. But he was overly loyal. Stanton knew if Harlow needed something done that wasn’t on the up and up, Tommy would do it.
“It’s necessary,” Stanton said, sitting across from Tommy in the office next to Harlow’s. It was the second largest office on the floor, larger than the Executive Assistant Chief under Harlow.
“The only thing that could justify that much scratch is a drug buy. No way I can approve that, Jon.”
“Mike said we would get anything we need.”
“Yeah, but within reason. Five grand in cash without you being able to tell me what it’s for is not reasonable.”
“You can take it out of my salary, over time. I just don’t have that much on me.”
“Over your … are you crazy? You want to pay five G’s of your own money on this stupid case?”
Stanton got a look at how everybody viewed the homicide of Tami Jacobs. It was something they didn’t want to speak about. Cases that were deemed unsolvable were often treated that way. They were a mark of failure, of madness that showed itself and disappeared. It was an uncomfortable reminder for even the most hardened detectives that even the really crazy ones sometimes got away.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Tommy said. “It’s just, five G’s is a lot to not have a reason.”
“I’m paying someone to reveal a source. A good source that is absolutely necessary for me to do my job.”
Tommy was quiet; looking Stanton in the face like it could reveal something to him. He turned to his computer and pulled up a disbursement sheet. “Fine, you’ll have it in an hour. But if this doesn’t go anywhere, I can’t authorize anymore spending.”
“Deal.”
*****
The restaurant Stanton had chosen specialized in Nepalese cuisine but still considered itself an Indian establishment for marketing purposes. It was decorated in posters of Mt. Everest, cloth tapestry with small jewels sewn in, bowls from Nepal, and paintings of every day scenes from the Himalayas. Stanton pulled Jessica’s chair out as they were sat near the windows and then ordered two strawberry lassis.
“Do you come here a lot?” she asked.
“I used to. After a shift me and my partner would come here for a late night dinner.”
“You can say his name, Jon. I’m not a child.”
“I didn’t mean to patronize you. I just don’t like talking about him.”
The lassis came and she dipped her straw in it and pulled it out, sucking the fruit bits off the tip. “Did you read the paper? The piece about our unit?”
“Yeah.”
“They made me seem like a nut-job.”
“It wasn’t as bad as everyone’s making it out and people will forget about it in a few weeks. There’s always a new story, a new person to attack.”
They ordered their meal and some naan and mango chutney was brought out for them. They ate in silence and Stanton wished he hadn’t brought up Sherman. He had found himself, over the past two years, speaking about him at times that weren’t appropriate.
“I had a sister that was in 5 North for about three weeks.”
“Really?” Stanton said, unsure what else to say.
She nodded. “She committed suicide a little later. When she got out. They can fix ‘em while they’re there but they can’t do shit when they get out.”