“He just stood there?”
“Until the orderlies arrived, yeah.” She cleared her throat. “To be honest, he’s quite a charming young man. He’s very helpful in the kitchen. He always has any assignments that are due finished early. I don’t see a need to keep him here. In therapy, he’s shown remarkable insight into his behaviors. I think he’s ready to go home and transfer to outpatient.”
Reynolds read through the rest of the file and said, “What kind of name is Nehor anyway?”
“Haven’t looked up the etymology but he comes from an interesting background. His father was the leader of a small cult in the deserts of Nevada. His mother escaped with him when he was young and brought him out to California. He doesn’t remember his father at all. But, Nate, I think he’s ready to go. We can give that bed to someone that really needs it.”
“Well, he came in when he was twelve and he’s twenty-three now. Unless somebody’s got some reason why we should keep him, I’m inclined to let him go.”
Nobody said anything and Reynolds waited another moment or two and said, “Released,” for the record. He stamped the file and passed it back to Cynthia. “Who we got next?”
CHAPTER 2
Detective Jonathan Stanton looked through the binoculars from the attic of the old house. The window wasn’t bigger than a couple of feet and it was dirty, but it was enough to see inside the bay windows of the house next door. He lowered the binoculars and took a deep breath before checking his watch. It was past midnight.
The door swung open and his partner, Stephen Gunn, stepped inside the room with a pizza and two beers. He placed them down on the small table they had in front of the old futon and opened the beers.
“Beer?” he said.
“No thanks.”
“Not thirsty?”
“I don’t drink, Stephen. But thanks.”
“No shit? Recoverin’ alcki?”
“Something like that.” He turned and walked over to the futon, sitting next to him. They’d brought up a television and it was playing an episode of the Honeymooners. He took a slice of pizza and folded it in half before taking a bite.
“So,” Gunn said, “I’m not complainin’ or anythin’, but you have any idea why they paired us up?”
“No. I came in last week and the board was changed. Your name was next to mine. I usually work alone so I asked Danny about it. He said they wanted all homicide detectives in new pairs now. Policy implemented by the chief.”
“Hm. Probably because of that bullshit with Weeks. You hear about that?”
“No.”
“Weeks was bangin’ an informant for the Salano crew. Turns out the informant was gettin’ intel from him and feedin’ it back to the crew.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Nope,” he said, shaking his head. “You seen Weeks around lately?”
“No.”
“’Cause he got knocked down to writin’ parkin’ tickets.”
“Poor guy. I always liked him. Struck me as a little lonely, though.”
“Who isn’t lonely?”
A noisy engine signaled that a car pulled up outside. Stanton jumped to his feet and grabbed the binoculars. He saw a red Ford pull to a stop in the driveway. Two men got out, Hispanic, and walked to the side door of the house. They knocked and a female in a black tube top answered and let them in.
“Looks like Maria has company.”
“Who?”
“Not sure. Two Gs. They had tats on the backs of their necks.”
“Spiderwebs?”
“Think so. Hard to tell from here.”
“That’s the Aztec Kings. Street gang up from West Hollywood.”
“What’re gangsters from West Hol doing in San Diego?”
“Nothing good.”
Stanton exhaled and put the binoculars down. “We’ve been up here three days, Stephen. This is a waste of time.”
“Body’s supposed to be cut up at this house, man. That’s the word.”
“From your snitch who has twenty drug cases against her?”
“From my snitch who’ll do anythin’ for me to keep her ass outta the can.” He slapped his knee. “Sit tight, man. It’ll happen.” He guzzled half his beer, let out a loud belch, and then leaned back on the futon. “You haven’t done too many stakeouts, have you?”
“No.”
“That’s ‘cause you came from Sex Crimes. I got to Homicide through Narcs. That’s all I fuckin’ did was stakeouts. I was up in this shitty bar once in El Cajon for three weeks. I’d come in at nine in the mornin’ when they opened and leave at two in the mornin’ when they closed. One of the worst times of my life except for when I was in Iraq for three tours. Got some pussy, though. Those biker chicks are crazy.”
Stanton sat back down and put his feet up on the table. “I’ve seen this episode,” he said.
Stanton was awakened by a car door slamming. He looked around and saw that he had fallen asleep on the futon. Gunn was on the floor, a pillow underneath his head and a quilt over him though the temperature was easily eighty degrees.
Stanton stood up and walked to the window, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. A digital recorder was up on the window sill and they were supposed to record the date, time, and their name and badge numbers before each entry of activity they logged. He reached for it when he noticed the car. It was a Chrysler that had pulled next to the Ford. A skinny Hispanic male stepped out and ran to the door and pounded on it with his fist. He was looking around nervously. He looked back to the house and Stanton stepped to the side of the window.
When he looked back, the two males from earlier stepped out. The three of them then ran down to the Chrysler and opened the trunk. Inside was a heavy, large object covered in black plastic. They began to lift it out of the trunk.
“Stephen.”
“What?”
“Get up here.”
Gunn rolled off the floor and came up. Stanton gave him the binoculars and he looked out of them for a bit before saying, “Holy shit. This is it.”
“We gotta get ‘em in the house. If we go down while they’re outside, they’ll run.”
“I’ll place the call for the units.”
As Gunn put in a call for additional backup, Stanton took his Desert Eagle off the nightstand and placed the holster on. A mirror was up over the futon and he caught a glimpse of himself and the deep scarring on his neck from second-degree burns. He pulled up his collar and headed out the door.
He was down by the front door and waited a few moments until Gunn came down. All the lights in the house were off and Stanton had to feel around for the doorknob. When he found it, they slipped outside into the warm night.
The neighbor’s driveway was gravel and they took their steps slowly. Coming around the Chrysler, they looked inside. Hanging on the rearview mirror was a figurine of Jesus, crucified on a white cross.
Walking to the side door, Stanton looked inside. The backup units would take at least fifteen minutes to get here. He looked back to Gunn and, as if reading his thoughts, Gunn whispered, “Fuck it. Let’s go in.”
Stanton tried the door. It was locked. There was a window just off to the side and before he could look through it Gunn was already up past him and climbing inside. Stanton watched as he went in and landed softly on his feet like a cat. He walked over to the door and unlocked it for him.
The interior smelled like cooking meat and tomatoes that had been burnt. Stanton quietly shut the door behind him and they stood in the kitchen a while, listening to the sounds of the house. Gunn shrugged and they made their way to the hallway.
The television was on in the living room, turned to an all-Spanish channel. One of the men, the one that had driven up in the Chrysler, was already asleep on the couch. A bathroom was off to the side in the hallway and Gunn stepped in and came back out with a small hand towel. He walked behind the man and motioned for Stanton to stand in front of him.