Walk in Darkness - A Thriller (Jon Stanton Mysteries) (3 page)

7

Stanton stopped at police headquarters on his way home. The building made him uncomfortable and he sat in his car for a moment
to orient himself. He glanced to the three red file folders on the passenger seat and then stepped out.

When he walked in he was struck by how little of it he remembered, even though he had worked out of th
e building for some time. He walked to the elevators and went to the fifth floor. A chill went down his back when he stepped off and turned down the hallway to the secured door that used to lead to the Cold Case Unit. He waited for a uniform to input the code for him and he walked in.

He thought the floor looked about the same. There were several plush offices with glass desks and a large conference room with a flat screen up at the front. On the farthest wall from him was a giant map of the world. In bold lettering across the top it said, WHERE IN THE WORLD IS
ELI SHERMAN. Pushpins were put into places the former detective had been sighted. After his escape from a hospital following a feigned suicide attempt. The newest one was Sao Paulo, Brazil. 

Stanton remembered the night he had discovered Sherman was responsible for the deaths of at least two women and possibly as many as twelve, and the pain as two slugs from Sherman’s gun entered his body and flung him over the stairwell
in his home.

“Jon?”

He turned to see Assistant Chief Chin Ho standing behind him, a smile over his face. He thrust out his hand and they shook.

“How are
ya, Chin?”

“Doing well. How are you holding up?”

“Doing okay.”

“Were you told that IAD cleared you?”

“Yeah, actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Sure,” he said folding his arms, “what about it?”

“I’ve never heard of a clearance this quickly after the death of a suspect. They didn’t even interview me.”

“They had your statements. I talked to them personally and they said everything looked fine. Even sent forensics up to the roof and everything appeared like you said it did.”

Stanton noticed a slight body sway. It was only for a few seconds and then Ho realized he was doing it and stopped, but it was enough. He was hiding something.

“As long as everything’s on the up and up.”

“Jon,” he said slapping his shoulder, “Harlow’s locked up. That day and age is over with. You need to relax more. Look, I gotta dinner date but call me anytime. All right?”

“All right. Thanks, Chin.”

As Ho turned and left Stanton stood still in the office a long time. He turned to the board and stared at the pushpin in Sao Paulo before leaving.

Stanton came out of the parking lot and headed for the freeway entrance. The daylight was fading and the clock on his dash said 6:27 P.M. He pulled over to the side of the road and watched the cars pass him. There was an old building across the street that resembled a shack. A soda shop, run down and empty; a
For Lease
sign up in one of the broken windows.

When he was a kid
, soda shops were just at the point where they were dying out, relics from some age that didn’t exist anymore except in memories. People had a tendency to elevate the past and degrade the present, and Stanton remembered his father talking about the wholesome nature of soda shops and how it was a blow to American culture to have them die out, even though he had rarely gone to them as a child.

Stanton looked to the files sitting next to him and picked up the one marked YR. He looked at the address
; the home was only twenty minutes away. He flipped his car around and headed south.

8

The home was a good rambler with a yellowed lawn and a 1980s Cadillac out front. The car was gleaming in the fading sunlight from a recent wax and he could see a sticker on the back window for Mothers Against Drunk Driving.

He parked at the curb and walked to the front door, ringing the doorbell once and then waiting a long time before someone answered.

A woman in her fifties opened the door, wiping her hands with a dishcloth. “Detective Stanton?”

Stanton instantly saw the look of horror in her eyes. She had been hanging on for so long that Yvette was still alive somewhere that she had convinced herself that her death was an impossibility.

“I don’t have any news, Shawna,” he quickly said, “I just wanted to check in and see how you’re doing.”

“I’m doing . . . I’m getting along. Please, come in.”

The interior of the house was decorated with plants and a few pieces of religious art
; the virgin up over the fireplace. Stanton saw that a candle was burning underneath the painting. He sat down on the sofa and Shawna Reynolds sat next to him.

“Would you like anything?”

“I’m fine, thank you. How is everything?”

“It’s quiet. Sometimes I turn on the television just to have some noise. Philip works all day so I’m by myself. My sister comes over a lot now. I have two nieces and . . .” She stopped and looked down to the couch.

“It’s okay, Shawna.”

“I’m sorry. I just can’t think about anything else. It’s been almost fourteen months now and I can’t think of anything else. I just see her somewhere, Detective. Living on the streets, or locked up in some house. I see her in a ditch in my dreams and she’s crying out to me.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks and she reached for a tissue from a box that was on the coffee table. Stanton saw that the box was nearly empty.

“I’m sorry to bring all this up. I shouldn’t have come.”

“No,” she said, wiping at her eyes, “no, I’m so glad you did. It helps me to see you. To know someone’s still looking for my Yvette.” She leaned her head back and took in a deep breath, closed her eyes, and whispered something to herself that Stanton couldn’t make out.

He wondered why she hadn’t asked about Putnam and then realized the reason. “You haven’t seen me in the news, have you?”

“No. I rarely watch television. What were you in the news for?”

“Shawna, the man that we think, or we thought, was responsible for kidnapping Yvette, his name was Darrell Putnam and he died. He flung himself off of a building trying to get away from me.”

She didn’t respond but he noticed she had stopped breathing.

“I’m sorry, I should have called you. I figured you’d see it on the news and call me.”

“Did he say . . . did he say anything about her?”

“No. We searched his house and didn’t find anything either. Everyone believed he was responsible for Yvette and two other girls, but I’m not so sure now. I need to go through this all again and see what we missed.”

“So you’re saying you think the man that took her is still alive?”

“Yes.”

“What do you need?”

“There’s a connection between the three girls. We thought it was Putnam, but there’s something else. Something we missed. I need to go through Yvette’s things again.”

“Her room hasn’t been touched. I don’t let anyone in there and Philip stays away from it.”

“Is there anything you have of hers or anything else you can think of that we haven’t already gone over? Friends you haven’t told me about, teachers or doctors or any other adults she’d had contact with that we haven’t spoken to, anything like that?”

“Not that I can think of. I mean, I must’ve sent you a hundred emails already. I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t be. I asked for them.” He rose. “I’d like to go through her room by myself with your permission.”

“Of course. You know where it is.”

Stanton walked to the stairs leading to the basement. He walked slowly, building up an image of the room in his mind. He remembered the bed next to the door, a dresser drawer near the closet, posters of Justin
Bieber and Miley Cyrus on the walls. It had a faint smell of her body wash, something fruity, something a child would pick thinking it made them seem older.

He turned left at the bottom of the stairwell and saw her door. Her name was spelled out in little block lettering. When he opened the door it creaked and he pushed it all the way against the wall and waited a few moments before going in.

The room hadn’t been changed in the slightest. He went to the center and began looking around. The dresser had children’s jewelry next to some of Yvette’s softball trophies. A photo of her in a uniform holding a small bat was leaned against the wall on top of the dresser. Converse sneakers were sticking out from under the bed, the laces adorned with sparkly stickers.

Stanton opened the closet and saw her clothing. There was nothing here.
Everything in this room had been catalogued by him and forensics. But he wasn’t here for that. Childs had once told him, uncomfortably but truthfully, that he was like a hound, and hounds couldn’t chase without a scent.

He noticed that the aroma of
bodywash was gone. Replaced instead by the scent of dust and stale air in a room that had no ventilation.

He walked out and shut the door behind him.

9

Darkness had fallen over the city
by the time Stanton pulled into his parking stall. The stall was covered parking underground; far nicer and more secure than anything he had ever had before; far nicer than a cop could afford. He wondered how much of a discount the condo owner had really given him on the rent.

He took the elevator to the lobby and waved to the security guard
as he got on another elevator. The interior of the elevator consisted of mirrors and he caught a glimpse of himself as he pressed the button for the eleventh floor. The door jarred open as a young woman in a skirt and high-heels ran through at the last second. She smiled and turned around, staring up at the numbers above the door before pressing the button to the sixth floor. Another man got on and smiled to her. He stood behind her and Stanton could see him staring at her behind. She stepped off on the sixth floor and his eyes followed her until the doors closed.

“Fuck, I could hit that all night.” He looked to Stanton
, who didn’t respond. The man got off on the tenth floor and looked back at him once before heading to his condo.

Stanton got off on his floor and checked his mailbox next to the vending machines. There was a letter reminding him that his student loan payment was due and he looked at the projected payoff date on the back of the let
ter: May 5, 2019. Though his PhD had been paid for through a tuition waiver, he had to maximize his loans for his undergraduate and master’s degrees.

The apartment was warm and he turned on the air conditioner before changing into shorts and going out onto his balcony. Two small bonfires
were on the beach, a signal from the night-surfers that everybody should begin coming down. Stanton got his board off the balcony and threw on sandals before heading out.

This section of beach near Ocean Park was filled with tourists and families during the day, but in the evenings and at night the hardcore surfers came out. Newport Avenue, the primary business district of Ocean Beach, wasn’t far
, but they were all independent stores; the community had not allowed chain stores to open on their property. The result was that the locals knew to throw the tourists out when the sun began going down; night was the province of the people who lived here.

Stanton walked down the beach and several of the surfers heading down shout
ed hellos or
alohas
. He was known as an Ace, a person who preferred to be in a solitary state of mind and connect with the ocean without distractions. A fifteen year old surfer had told him that and he was impressed at the insight of the expression. A bunch of beach bums had been able to perfectly sum up his view of the ocean and his place with it.

Teddy came up to him, his blond hair covering his eyes. He was shirtless and his tattoos appeared animated in the light of the bonfire.

“Total ankle snappers today, brah,” he said to Stanton.

“I know. I was just
gonna sit out there a while.”

“Forget that.
There’s some serious Barbies out here. You should hit up the party at Vanessa’s house.”

“I might stop by. I’m just
gonna chill for a bit.”

“All right
, brother, see you there.”

As Teddy ran off
, Stanton felt embarrassed for using the word “chill.” He was now thirty-four years old and hanging out with twenty-five year olds and trying to use their language. But that wasn’t what bothered him the most. He tried his best not to adapt to their speech, not to use their cadences or expressions, but he found he couldn’t do it. His mind melded to whatever group he was in, whether he wanted it to or not.

He ran into the water, the sprint exhilarating
him and making the blood flow. He dove into the ocean when he was far enough out and began to paddle. It must’ve been five minutes before he stopped paddling and looked back to shore, watching the fires flicker in the darkness. What little light remained from the day had disappeared and night was fully descended. The moon lit the ocean a faint white and he sat up on his board. He’d purposely not worn a wetsuit; he preferred the feel of the water directly against his skin. Even when he started shivering, there was something cathartic about it, like he was shaking away the stresses he’d accumulated during the day.

Something rubbed his leg.

His heart jumped into his throat and he pulled his legs out of the water. There had been two shark attacks in this section of beach the year before, one of them fatal. He’d never been concerned with sharks until he had witnessed an attack off the coast of Florida.

The shark had nearly torn off a surfer’s leg not thirty feet out from the beach. Stanton and two other men
swam out and pulled the man toward shore. He’d just felt sand under his feet and had begun to walk up the beach when he was suddenly stopped, unable to move any further. Turning around, Stanton saw that the shark had returned and had bitten down on the surfer’s other leg.

Stanton and the two men
had held onto the surfer, digging their heels into the sand. Sharks were sometimes pulled all the way up to shore, unwilling to let go of their prey, but this time they stumbled back as the shark let go, and waited just a few feet away. The animal was waiting for the man to bleed to death.

Adrenaline had covered up Stanton’s fear to that point, but it
hadn’t protected him from that. Stanton had looked the shark in the eyes as it waited patiently for the man to die. The patience had been the most frightening thing; no frenzy of attack … just calmness, a peace with death.

Stanton began paddling back toward the bonfires on shore. There were no waves. He would come back early in the morning and hope to catch some then.

When he reached the shore he looked down the beach and saw the lights on at Vanessa’s house, a party just gearing up. He turned the other way toward his building and began to walk.

After showering he sat on the balcony with his cell phone and dialed Melissa’s number. She answered on the second ring.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey. I missed your call yesterday
. Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay. I saw the news. Are you all right?”

“As good as can be.”

“He deserved it, Jon. If anybody did, he did.”

“He was evil, but I’m having my doubts that we were up there for the right reasons.”

“Why?”

“Honestly, I don’t even know. Just a gut hunch I guess.”

“Your gut hunches are always right. I would go with it.”

He smiled. That was all he needed to hear. The loss of focus, the confusion, the constant nausea he felt in his gut all went away with a few of his ex-wife’s words. There had been few moments after the divorce where he missed being married as much as he did right now.

“How are the boys?” was all he managed to say.

“They’re good. They’re at a sleepover right now.”

“What? How could you—
”

“Relax, I know your policy on sleepovers. But it’s a sleepover with my parents.”

“Oh, sorry. It’s um—”

“You don’t need to explain. I know why.  I would be a wreck seeing the things you see.” There was a pause in the conversation and she added, “That came out wrong.”

“It’s okay. I know what you meant.” He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly before speaking again. “I miss you. And the boys. I miss you lying next to me at night and rubbing my back. The way you smell in the morning when I wake you up with a kiss on your neck.”

“I do too.”

“Then why can’t we be together? I just don’t get it, Mel. I know you love me.”

“Of course I love you. That’s not it, Jon. It’s the not knowing. I send you off every day for fifteen hours and I have no idea whether you’re going to come back
to me or whether someone’s showing up at my door with an apology and a medal. And you’re gone and I’m supposed to be the strong wife with the two kids just getting by. Well I’m not that, Jon. I can’t be that.”

“This is the only thing I’m good at. I do so much good here, Mel. More than any politician or doctor or lawyer, I do good.”

“I know you do, sweetheart. I know. But that’s not you talking; that’s Michael Harlow. You’re a good father, a good husband, a good professor. You still have your counseling license and you’ve never even tried that. I bet you would be a great counselor too. Let somebody else do good for a while.”

“What do you want me to do? Just quit and dump my cases on someone else?”

“That’s exactly what I want you to do. Right now. Take your badge and throw it out the window right now, Jon. Then pack your things and come home to your family. We can figure out everything else as we go.”

He looked back and saw his badge on the coffee table. “I . . .”

“I know, Jon. I know.” She sighed. “Call me tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay.”

She hung up and he put the cell phone down, not taking his eyes off his badge. He walked to it and picked it up, running his fingers across the lettering. He walked to the balcony and held it over the edge. He looked down to the pavement below and then back at the badge. The ocean was out in front of him and he saw that the two bonfires had died out and the party at Vanessa’s beach house was now packed with guests, cars lining the road around the house.

He went back inside and looked at his badge before throwing it on the couch. He shut his balcony door and went to bed.