The White Angel Murder

17

Stanton drove down to Mission Beach and sat in the sand, watching the waves roll in to shore and crackle and foam before being pulled back into the vast sea again. A heron dipped underneath the water and came out glistening in the noonday sun.

He took off his shoes and pushed his feet into the sand until they were covered.

There was something about the beach that always calmed him. Most locals took the ocean for granted. Eventually they grew so accustomed to it being there they hardly ever came, unless they were there for a specific reason; like picking up women or surfing. That’s why he preferred watching the tourists. They were there just to be in the presence of the ocean.

He took out his cell phone and called Chief Harlow. He picked up on the third ring.

“What’s up, Jon?”

“I have something to ask you: how badly do you want me to solve this case?”

“What? What kinda question is that?”

“I need access to an undercover in Vice.”

There was a long silence and then he said, “Talk to Young, he’ll get you-”

“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.”