He stood still, watching dust swirl in beams of light. The house was quiet and empty. Richard wasn’t here. In the bathroom, Stanton took a seat on the edge of the tub. Beginning in one corner, he ran his eyes along the baseboards and up the walls, all the way to the bathtub behind him.
The spatters of blood were still on the carpet. SIS had determined that someone was backing out of the closet after being injured. But injured with what? No weapon had been found. He rose and went through the closest, checking anything that could cause a person’s nose to bleed from impact. Shoes, belts, and even a heavy watch could do it. But nothing seemed out of place. He stepped into the bathroom again.
Stanton looked up at the ceiling and down the shower to the rod. On the corner farthest away from him was a blemish. Balancing on the edge of the tub, he inspected the blemish on the curtain rod. A black stain over a dent. He took out his cell phone, focused the camera on the dent, then enhanced the image five times.
The shower rod had a nick in it, as though it had made an impact with something. The rod itself was just a little off center on the corners. A bit of mildew poked out as if the rod had been taken off and replaced in not quite the exact spot it’d been in before.
He twisted the rod slowly but didn’t see any blood. Lifting it up, he could see the indentation and nick clearly from the top. But who would replace it? An intruder who’d been struck hard enough to bleed certainly wouldn’t take the time to replace the rod. Someone did it after.
He took a few photos of the rod then put it back. Someone had replaced the rod after coming upon the scene but hadn’t cleaned up the blood. This person had wanted the police to find the blood and the ski mask but not the misplaced rod. Or perhaps someone had simply put the rod back in its place without thinking it was part of the crime scene because the dent was small enough to miss.
Stanton had a guess as to who that person was.
22
Stanton arrived at the offices of Strain, Klep & Barnum a little after one o’clock. On the way, he’d grabbed a puka dog—a hot dog drowning in various fruit juices—and a Diet Coke for lunch. He was sipping his drink as he approached the receptionist and smiled.
“Hi, Richard Miller, please.”
“May I tell him who’s here to see him?”
“Jon Stanton.” He took a seat in the waiting area. The office was all glass, chrome, and white carpets—the type of place corporations came to hire an attorney. Few individuals, he figured, could afford the hourly rate the place charged. And the name seemed familiar… Klep. That was Sharon Miller’s maiden name. Sharon Klep.
Richard came out to meet him, dressed in what Stanton guessed was a suit and watch that cost more than his Jeep. Richard’s hair was perfectly neat, and his nails appeared freshly manicured.
“Did you get a manicure?” Stanton asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Your nails are glossy. Did you get a manicure?”
He cleared his throat. “No. Who would do that when his wife and child are missing?”
“Some people would surprise you.”
“Yeah, I guess they would. What can I do for you, Detective? I’m a very busy man.”
“I’m sure. I didn’t want to take up much of your time. I just wanted to ask you if you moved anything in your home before calling the police.”
“Like what?”
“A shower rod, for example.”
Richard hesitated. “No. I saw the blood and called you guys immediately.”
“Did anyone else move the rod?”
“No, and what the hell is this about? You should be out there looking for who kidnapped my wife, and instead, you’re here asking me about shower rods.”
Stanton grinned as if he were embarrassed. “Of course. I shouldn’t waste your time with such trivial things.”
“Thank you. Now please let me know if there are any updates.”
“I will.” Stanton turned away. “Oh, one thing—you never mentioned that one of your wife’s parents was a founding partner of this firm.”
“Her father. Does it matter?”
“No, not unless you two were to divorce, right? Because I don’t think any father-in-law would keep around an ex-husband. But if something that wasn’t your fault happened to your wife, that might be a different story.”
Stanton hadn’t initially wanted to reveal his hand by letting Richard know that he was the target of his investigation. But Richard was so anxious, so on edge and ready to explode, that Stanton needed to push him over that edge. Anger and panic were the two worst emotions human beings could feel. They crowded out all other emotions, and people who were angry or panicked made mistakes. Their rational thinking couldn’t function properly.
“Just what the hell are you saying?” Richard said loudly. “That I had something to do with my wife’s disappearance?”
“Did you?”
Richard’s face flushed red. “I think it’s time for you to get the hell outta my office. And don’t come back here.”
Stanton nodded. “Of course, I meant no insult. I’ll call you with any updates, Mr. Miller.”
“You better.”
Stanton marched to the elevator and took out his cell phone. He marked the time: 1:27 p.m. He called Laka.
“Hey, I was just going to call you,” she said.
“We need a warrant on Richard Miller’s phone.”
“Wow, that was quick. What’s the PC?”
Stanton hesitated. He wondered if he was crossing a line, but a young girl was out there in the hands of people who clearly didn’t value human life. He didn’t see that he had a choice. “That’s the thing. I don’t think I have probable cause, not really. We need a judge that is happy with ambiguous.”
“I think I know the judge from my days in Vice. Text me over the probable cause statement, and I’ll see what I can do.”
Stanton sat at the bullpen until the evening, catching up on paperwork from several other cases he had been neglecting. One involved the body of a man found in a swimming pool one morning by the occupants of the home after a party the night before. The autopsy report had just come back. The man had enormously high levels of opiates in his system. He had likely stumbled into the pool and drowned.
It was well past six o’clock when Laka stepped into the precinct detectives’ offices. She strode straight over to Stanton and laid a document across his keyboard. It was a warrant for Richard Miller’s phone records.
“Wow,” he said. “I’m impressed.”
“I’m impressed you wanted to get his records with so little.”
He shrugged. “He had something to do with this. But he’s in over his head and doesn’t know what to do next. I get the impression of a rat lost in a maze when I see him.”
“What’re you looking for in the phone records?”
“I want to see who he called after I left. I pushed him, and I bet he panicked. Just a guess. I could be wrong, so I hope you didn’t burn any bridges getting this warrant.”
“Not at all. Judge Anderson loves me.”
“Well,” Stanton said, stretching his arms over his head, “let’s get this to the phone company.”
23
Dark and filled with smoke, the bar was the type of place a man like Richard Miller wouldn’t be caught in a million years. The dance floor was in back, and a mirror hung over the bar, one of the bars anyway. Another one was on the second floor. The acute lack of women was noticeable. The clientele wanted to get drunk, not pick up girls. Richard only went there late at night, and he dressed so that no one he knew would recognize him.
But at that moment, he didn’t care if anyone noticed him. He was wearing his two-thousand-dollar suit with the pocket square, his hair was just perfect, and his shoes were so shiny he could see his reflection in them. He sat at the bar on the second level, staring at the dance floor.
The beer he’d been nursing for the past half hour was nearly gone, and he motioned to the bartender for another. The bartender, a well-
built man with a sleeveless shirt, slid the beer over to him and leaned forward.
“You’re usually happy to see me, Rich.”
“I’m just not feeling it today. One of those days, I guess.”
“What happened? Mrs. Miller again?”
“Yeah, basically. You ever felt like the world was a tuxedo, and you were a brown pair of shoes, David? ’Cause that’s what I’m feeling right about now.”
“Well, cheer up. Tomorrow’s always another day.”
“Yeah, there’s that, I suppose.” He swigged a few gulps of his new beer. “Were you ever married, David?”
“Nope,” he said, wiping the counter with a fresh rag. “Never saw the point. You don’t eat the same breakfast cereal every morning. Why would you want to wake up next to the same person every morning?”
“Makes sense, I guess.”
David put his elbows on the bar and looked Richard in the eyes. “You really love her, don’t you?”
He nodded. “Despite everything I feel and all the terrible things that happened, deep down, I love her.”
“Then what are you doing in here? Go be with her.”
He swallowed. “I did something terrible, David.”
His brow furrowed. “Like what?”
“I—”
Richard felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket and took it out. The call was from a number he didn’t recognize, so he let it go to voicemail.
“Sorry,” he said.
“No worries. So what did you do?”
He downed some beer. Before he could answer, he received a text message. All it said was, “You want to talk to me about Sharon. Call me.”
“Sorry, David. I better take this.”
“Sure, we can talk later.”
When David was out of earshot, Richard called the number. It rang twice before a man with a high-pitched voice answered.
“This Richard Miller?”
“Yes. Who am I speaking with?” Richard had to plug his other ear with his finger to hear.
“You don’t know me, but I know you. I know Tate, too. And the thing with your wife. I got your number from his phone.”
Richard’s heart dropped into his stomach. “What do you want?”
“Tate isn’t going to kill her, man. He went out and bought a bunch of fake blood an’ shit to send you a pic.”
“Well, what’s he gonna do?”
“He’s gonna sell ’em. Both of ’em.”
“What do you mean sell them? To who?”
“To some pimp, man. He’s gonna turn your wife and daughter out. Then they get shuffled around from city to city for a while. If they fine enough, they get moved overseas. Arab countries and shit. Them camel jockeys love white girls.”
Though no one else could hear the conversation, Richard glanced around. Everyone was busy in their own groups, not paying any attention to him. “What are you talking about?”
“I told you, man. He’s gonna sell your wife and daughter. We’re talkin’ slavery, man.”
“How do you know this?”
“’Cause I’m right here with him. But you know, it’s the true man that takes that extra step to make somethin’ of himself. You know?”
“I don’t understand. If you’re with him, why are you calling me?”
The man sighed. “You as stupid as a rock, ain’t you? I want money. All of it. Everything you were payin’ Tate to me. And I get your daughter back for you. I don’t think you give a shit about your wife.”
“Well, no, no, I want them both back. Get them both back for me, and I’ll get you your money. Every penny.”
“You hired us to—”
“I know what I hired you for, but I want them both back now. Unharmed.”
He was silent a beat. “Okay, but none of this escrow shit. I want a bag with cash, and we do a trade.”
“Okay, fine, whatever.”
“Gimme some time, and I’ll call you back when I got ’em.”
The line went silent. Richard stared at the screen. He quickly programmed the number into his contacts. Then he sighed and placed the phone down on the bar, staring at it. “David, better get me a vodka and cranberry juice. Don’t think I’m going home for a while.”
24
Evening fell over the island, and the sun began its descent into the ocean as Stanton watched from a window at the phone company. The manager was in the middle of dinner with his family, and he did not seem pleased to get the call to come in for the records.
The manager stomped by them then glanced back. “You the cops?”
“Yes.”
“Be out in a minute,” he groaned.
Forty-five minutes later, they were still waiting. Stanton guessed the manager could’ve retrieved the information a lot faster, but he wanted to make them wait as punishment for missing dinner. Laka had been occupied by her phone the entire time.
“You don’t have to stay, you know,” he said.
“I’m your partner. That’s what partners do, right?”
He grinned. “Did you have a partner in Vice?”
“No, we worked in teams, so there really wasn’t any need. We’d set up underage drinking stings, prostitution, stuff like that. Kai told me you’ve never worked Vice. You didn’t really strike me as the type.”
“And what type would that be?”
“Those guys are crazy. Some of them get blowjobs from the hookers before we bust them, get drunk at parties when they’re there to make a collar, stuff like that.” She glanced up at him and put down her phone. “I can tell by the way you’re looking at me that you don’t approve.”
“I tell everybody that I bust that if you keep clear of trouble, trouble will keep clear of you. Think of it as a law of nature, I guess. That works on this side of the law, too. Eventually, people will find out how they behave. There’ll be investigations, Vice will be disbanded and spread to other units, and every case they have ever worked will be under suspicion. I’ve seen it before.”
“With Barlow.”
He nodded. “His corruption ran deep. He used the police force as his personal army. But it’s the same principle. The only way to avoid bad things happening to you is to avoid the situations that bring those things about.”
“I’m not sure they see it that way. I think they see it as harmless fun.”
“We have the authority to arrest and even kill civilians. We have to take that seriously. Fun shouldn’t be part of it.”
The manager opened his office door. He grumbled something under his breath and handed Stanton a USB drive along with a stack of documents. “All his phone records for the past two months.”
“I appreciate it. Thank you.”
The manager stormed out without saying anything further. He waited for them by the door, holding it open.
“I think he’s gonna lock us in if we don’t leave,” Laka said.
They rose, and Stanton flipped through the papers as they rode the elevator down in silence, listening to the soft music.
Laka checked her phone and grinned at Stanton. “Looks like you hurt someone’s feelings,” she said.
“Who?”
“Debbie. She said you were going to go out with them and never showed up.”
“I completely forgot about that. I thought it was just kind of a pity invite.”
“No, definitely not. She’s into you.”
Stanton, despite himself, thought he was blushing. The manager looked to him and rolled his eyes.
Once they were in his Jeep, Stanton immediately flipped to the phone records for the current day and searched all the calls Richard made after they’d spoken at one o’clock.
At 1:29, two minutes after Stanton had visited Richard, he’d placed a call to a local number. Stanton called into the precinct and asked for Records.
“Records,” Harold Finks mumbled.
“Harold, this is Jon Stanton. I need a number run if you have the time, please.”
He exhaled loudly. “Fine, what’s the nu
mber?”
Stanton read it to him. He heard keys being pressed on a keyboard, then Harold said, “It’s registered to a Tate Reynolds. Residence here on the island. Looks like he had an address in Los Angeles before that.”
“Can you text me the address, Harold? And any relatives that pop up?”
“You want a criminal history to save you a Spillman search?”
“I would. Thank you.”
“I’ll send that over.”
“I really appreciate it.”
“Well, you’ve always said please.”
Stanton placed the phone down on the center console. He looked at Laka. “He called a number after I left him. Tate Reynolds. Harold’s getting me his address and criminal history.”
She finished sending a text. “Well, I’m starving. Can we get some dinner while we wait?”
Stanton parked at the curb in front of Sushi Gaku on King Street. He hopped out of the Jeep and met Laka at the back. A group of young men walking by on the sidewalk stared at her as they passed, impressed by her figure, her tight shirt, or the gold badge clipped to her waistband. Power was an aphrodisiac for men, too.
The restaurant was busy, but he and Laka didn’t have to wait long. They sat at a window booth, and Stanton turned his phone on vibrate then placed it in his pocket. Laka set hers on the table. They were from different generations. Stanton hadn’t grown up with cell phones, and she had.
“Can I ask you something?” she said.
“Sure.”
“You have a PhD in psychology, right?”
“I do.”
“Why in the hell are you a cop?”
“I think I always knew I would be going into law enforcement of some kind. I thought the doctorate would help me in that.”
Run Away Page 10
