“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Jessica said. It sounded flat and unconvincing. Harold didn’t seem to notice. “She was probably killed three to five days ago. Did you see her around that time or notice she was gone?”
“No. She would come and go as she pleased. She was in Las Vegas for over a month one time and didn’t even call us. I ain’t seen her for at least a couple a weeks. I know her mama ain’t seen her for even longer than that.”
“Did she call or email or anything?”
“No.”
“Could you get us a list of her friends,” Stanton said, “particularly her male friends? And any boyfriends you may know about. If you know her daily schedule or routine, that would help too.”
“I’ll see what we can put together for you. Her mama would be the one to know. I’ll get it from her and drop it by.”
Jessica rose to leave and pulled out her card, placing it on top of the magazine. “If you think of anything else that may be helpful, please let us know.”
Stanton rose as well and said, “Does she have a room here I could take a look at?”
“Yeah, upstairs to the right.”
He turned to Jessica. “I’ll be out in a sec.”
Stanton walked up the stairs and looked at the photos hung on the wall. They were family portraits taken at beaches and camp grounds and fishing boats. None of them were of Pamela.
To the right hand side of the hallway on the second floor were two doors. One led to a small bathroom, stockings slung over the shower rod. Feminine products and make-up were on the sink and on top of the toilet tank and an empty waist bin sat next to the shower. The other door led to a room.
The carpet was brown and the wallpaper was polka-dot; red and blue and yellow. Something a child might choose. The room slanted at an odd angle and he could tell it wasn’t originally meant to be a room but storage. The ceiling sloped down from left to right and the two windows were different sizes. There was a bed with sheets decorated the same pattern of polka-dots and a small nightstand.
Stanton walked to the nightstand and opened the first drawer. It was filled with change and a belt, an old paperback novel, a few ID cards and receipts. The second drawer had a small black three-ring binder and Stanton opened it. There were names and phone numbers scribbled on the pages. He pulled out his cell phone and snapped photos of all the writings before putting it back in the drawer.
There was a closet on the other side of the room and he went to it and slid open the right side. It was cluttered and filled with clothing and shoes from top to bottom. Boxes were stacked on the floor and he opened some of them. They held socks and underwear and jewelry. The box farthest from him was the largest, pink with white trim. He opened it and found a couple of wigs and some high-heels, a few pieces of lingerie and some make-up. He pulled the box out of the closet and took photos of all the contents.
The room had no photos, no keepsakes or memorabilia. It was like a hotel room and Stanton suddenly felt sorry for Pamela Dallas. Not just for her death, but for the life that led her to this soulless room.
He left, and shut the door behind him.
47
Stanton finished the day by speaking to Jessica for a few minutes and then headed to his car. He got in and turned the key in the ignition and was about to put it in drive when it hit him he wasn’t sure where home was. The SWAT team was not known to be gentle and his apartment might be unlivable right now. But he had nowhere else.
He drove to his complex and parked in his usual spot. The sun was setting and he walked to the beach and sat in the sand and watched the last surfers and bathers pack up for home. A young couple was near him, lying on towels and whispering softly in each other’s ears. Their hands exploring their skin before interlacing fingers and kissing.
When the sun was swallowed by the ocean and the moon began to shine in the sky, gray-black clouds gently drifting across it, Stanton rose and went to his apartment. Suzie was out on her balcony and was sipping a hard lemonade and smoking her Marlboros.
“Where ya been, hon?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“All manner a cops came to my house askin’ about ya.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that, Suzie.”
“That’s okay. I told ‘em to self-fornicate. That’s what I said too, I didn’t want to be crass.”
“I’m sure they appreciated that.”
“You know, I was married to a cop back in the day.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” she said, ashing onto a plate set on a side table. “Some damn near twenty years ago. His name was Archie Haines. He was a bear. Won all sorts of state championships in wrestling when he was young. Archie told me, he said, that every cop gets their house searched by other cops. That they all get suspected of somethin’ sometime.”
“That’s probably true.”
She inhaled the smoke deeply into her lungs from her last puff and then put the cigarette out. “Well, if you ever wanna talk about it you know where I am.”
“Thanks, Suzie. I think I just want to get to bed and try and forget about it now.”
“Well, have a good night.”
“You too.”
He walked up the stairs to his apartment and opened the door. The entire space was trashed and looked as if someone had thrown a massive party. The coffee table was kicked over, the couch was torn apart, and one of the cupboard doors was off its hinges. His television was on the floor, its screen a spider-web of cracks. He had been suspected of cop-killing, they would not spare him any courtesy.
The bedroom was a little better; the bed at least had not been demolished. He kicked off his shoes and lay down, asleep before he could remember to get out of his clothes.
*****
When morning came, he woke with a migraine. He had not slept that long since he could remember but it was a restless sleep. Filled with nightmares of the dead watching him, calling to him. He saw the killer too, a shadow cast upon a wall. Stanton told him to hang on, to fight as hard as he could. That he was coming and that he would stop him. The shadow replied that he was trying to stop but couldn’t.
Stanton knew it was true. Many psychologists believed the notes killers sent to police were taunting, showing their superiority and disgust for the people and organization they considered beneath themselves. In some cases, this was true. But that wasn’t what this was. There was no condescension or hatred in the messages he sent Stanton. In fact, they were helpful and leading to more evidence. He wanted desperately to stop, but needed Stanton to do it for him. There was a part of him that was still human.
After a shower he checked the fridge and saw that it was empty. He left his apartment and stopped at a Subway, grabbing an egg and cheese sandwich and some orange juice before heading into the office.
As he was about to get on the elevator, George Young stepped off. He stood and looked into his eyes a long while and then walked away without saying a word. Stanton got onto the elevator and noticed that a few uniforms waited for the next one.
He walked into the Cold Case Unit and received a few glances, but the shock had worn off. Nathan nodded to him and Philip waved hello and said it was good to have him back.
He settled into his office and flipped on his computer. He heard Harlow in the conference room speaking with somebody. His phone buzzed and Tommy asked him to come in.
Stanton walked into the conference room but stood at the doorway. He didn’t notice Harlow or Tommy or the two federal marshals standing by. He didn’t notice the breakfast spread or Jessica sitting with her arms folded quietly listening to Harlow speak. The only thing he noticed was Noah Sherman, sitting with his back to him.