He pulled away and got onto the Interstate, taking his time to get to the Cleveland/Lincoln Avenue exits. The area was primarily apartment high-rises and low-income tenements. It was segregated into three different districts: white, Mexican, and Russian. He remembered a case he had out here. A wife had shot her husband after she found a receipt from an escort agency in his pants.
The Boca Del Ray was a square, cream colored building with a large front porch and a keypad entry. Two young Mexicans were on the porch smoking. They saw him and Stanton could tell from the looks on their faces they made him for police before his car even came to a stop in front of the building.
He got out and looked around. In heavily populated gang turf there were scouts everywhere. Their job was to alert the street’s enforcer; the person in charge of protection from rival gangs and the police. They had grown sophisticated over the past two decades, choosing to take to sniping from rooftops rather than face-to-face combat. A lot of officers were shot because they weren’t aware of what they were up against. Newbies would act tough, thinking they would win by dog psychology, and set off flags from the scouts that this officer wasn’t going away.
“Smells like bacon, holmes.”
Stanton stepped up onto the porch. It was too late for subtlety so he flashed his badge and crossed his arms; he couldn’t afford to let them see he wasn’t packing a firearm. “Someone called 911.”
“Ain’t no one called 911 from here.”
“Look guys, someone called 911. Female. Said her boyfriend or someone was beating on her. Just let me talk to her and make sure she’s okay and I’ll get outta here.”
The men looked to each other. They mumbled something in Spanish and Stanton made out the words, dumb bitch.
One of the men entered a code on the door. “They in 2-C.”
Stanton walked through without looking at them. It had the feel of a compound and he’d just gotten past the sentinels. Not five miles from here was a police station and a courthouse but there was no law here. He suddenly felt foolish for not carrying his gun with him.
The front lobby was orange carpet and walls with a staircase leading to the second floor. The mailboxes were covered in graffiti and most of them had been pried open. He wondered how the people here got their mail or if they were so disconnected from the rest of society that mail didn’t matter.
He walked up the stairs to apartment 2-C and knocked. A young woman answered.
“Are you okay?” he said.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m the police. Someone called 911 and said there was a domestic disturbance here.”
“Ain’t no domestic disturbance.”
“So you’re saying you don’t need any help?”
“Do I look like I need any fucking help?”
“No, you certainly don’t. Sorry to take your time.”
She slammed the door in his face and he left and went back to the first floor. It was enough. The men out front would think she’d called and when she denied it they would think she was lying. The boyfriend would deny hitting her, but everyone denied that. They wouldn’t think a cop made the whole thing up.
Francisco’s apartment was at the end of the hallway. He made sure the two men on the porch weren’t paying attention before crossing over into that hallway and hurrying across the soiled carpet. Stanton could smell cooking food; pork or beef. A Spanish television station was turned up somewhere and he could hear it through the walls.
Stanton knocked and then stepped to the side of the door. It opened and he saw the tip of a.38 caliber Remington sticking out.
He twisted and grabbed the gun, spinning to his left and tearing it out of the person’s hands. The man was short and bald with a thick goat-t. Stanton stepped back and held the gun firmly pointed at his face.
“Inside,” he said.
Francisco stepped back into the apartment, not raising his arms. They walked down the hall to the living room and stood quietly as Stanton glanced around.
“Is there anyone else here?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
Stanton lowered the gun and held it out for him. “I’m Jon Stanton. I’m with SDPD.” He took out his badge again. He could see fury in Francisco’s eyes.
“Do you know what you’ve-”
“I don’t care about your hooker operation. I need your help.”
“Fuck you.”
He was animated now, his arms beginning to move, his brow furrowed in anger. He grabbed the gun from him and held it pointed to the ground. Stanton had met him once a long time ago and remembered that he spoke perfect English. Now, his speech pattern was of someone whose primary language was Spanish. He’s been under too long, he thought.
“Do you remember the Tami Jacobs case? She was killed in her apartment in La Jolla? I have it now. I have some questions about the investigation.”
Francisco stepped within an inch of his face. “Fuck … you.” He shoved him at the shoulders.
“I just need five minutes and then you’ll never see me again.”
Francisco’s right hand was clinched into a fist and there was only the bare minimum memory that he was a police officer holding him back from smashing it into Jon’s face. Stanton could see there wouldn’t be any conversation tonight.
“I’ll leave.”
When he was outside again he heard the two men on the porch laughing at him as he got into his older model Honda. As he drove away he looked up to the sky and saw a crescent moon hanging over the city; and on the rooftop of a building, a young boy with a rifle slung over his shoulder.
20
Saturday spent at Disneyland flew by in a heartbeat and on Sunday morning Stanton had to return his sons to their mother before heading to church. Their mother had once been Mormon but abandoned the faith before their marriage ended. Now, Stanton was informed by his son, they played on Sunday. Going to barbeques and parks and sailing with Lance’s friends. Melissa objected to the boys being exposed to church and a judge had agreed with her. It pained Stanton deeply that he couldn’t share the Gospel of Jesus Christ with his kids, but it was something he had to learn to live with.
The Gospel was important to him. Stanton read either the Bible or the Book of Mormon every night. It was his foundation. In a world he felt was crumbling around him, there was a shining gem that he could hold on to. It was necessary.
Church began with sacrament and the passing of bread and water symbolizing Christ’s body and blood. Then a young woman rose and spoke about faith. There were no professional clergy in the Mormon Church and sermons were given by members of the congregation.
After sacrament there was Sunday school. The topic was the symbolism found in the Book of Isaiah. Afterward was the priesthood session in which the men and women would separate for another lesson.
After church he went home and made a sandwich. He took it and a bottle of juice to the balcony and sat on the bare cement instead of a chair. The sun was particularly bright today and he went back inside the apartment and put on his sunglasses before coming back out.
Sunday was his day of rest. A commandment had been given to keep the Sabbath day holy and he tried his best not to think about Tami Jacobs. But she wouldn’t get out of his head. He would close his eyes and see her broken and torn body lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling as if calling for help. When he dreamt, it was of her now, or people associated with her. His mind always had difficultly putting up partitions between things in his life. They would become associations and everything would meld until all his thoughts were one compost heap of jumbled ideas and associations. From this heap, he would begin to reassemble what he needed.
Before he could eat his phone rang and he saw that it was a number he didn’t recognize. He answered and heard Jessica speaking with somebody.
“Hello?” he said.
“Hey, Jon. We’re out and about and I was wondering what you’re doing today?”