But something about Zoe Kelly’s case didn’t sit right with him. He had spoken to Brian and didn’t get a good feeling. He was too flippant about it, too calm. He asked too many questions and they all involved him: What do I have to do if she doesn’t turn up? What will I have to fill out if she’s missing? — questions that revolved around him and showed little concern for her. Though he wasn’t a suspect, Garcia decided to keep his mind open and go take a look at the car while it was still in the mall parking lot.
His air conditioner didn’t work well and it was spewing warm, dusty air in his face. He turned it off and rolled down all his windows as he got onto the Interstate. It was a scorching day and the sunglasses that had been sitting on the passenger seat were too hot to put on. He had to squint as sunlight reflected off the windows and metal emblems of the cars in front of him.
He got off the exit and drove down a palm tree lined road to the mall. He had to circle around to find the Macy’s and he slowly went up and down the rows of cars. On the third one over, parked next to a motorcycle and a truck, was a green Prius with the license plate number he had pulled from the DMV.
He parked behind it and got out. The car was new and the interior looked clean and polished. Hanging from the rearview was a picture of Zoe and some of her friends hugging on the beach. On the passenger seat was a small CD carrying case and on the backseat were a pair of sunglasses and white flip-flops next to a make-up bag and some items of clothing.
Garcia made his way around the car and checked the doors and the trunk. He should’ve asked her mother for a copy of the key or for her to meet him down here.
He checked underneath the car and didn’t see anything. As he was about to stand, he saw a small discoloration on the pavement. He bent down and looked at it a minute longer before going back to his car and retrieving a q-tip from a little container he kept in the glove-box. He went back to the stain and dabbed at it with the q-tip. Though it was dry from the heat, he could see the particles of black that were entwined in the cotton. It could be blood. It could also be tomato or prune juice.
He went back to his car and looked at the photo again. He had been debating whether to send an email and it was still unclear to him whether he should. He opened the car’s built in laptop and reread the email Assistant Chief Anderson had sent to the Missing Persons Unit:
Report any and all missing young women ages twenty to twenty-nine with blond hair directly to the Homicide Unit.
Garcia typed up the email, and sent it.
58
Stanton saw Tami Jacobs. She was lying on her bed, tears streaming down her face as she begged for her life. Blood was everywhere. It wasn’t the red, ketchupy look like in the movies. Blood, fresh blood from a body, was black. The walls and bed and floor were coated in black and they were closing in on him. But he couldn’t think because she was screaming.
And he saw Pamela Dallas. She was crying and choking but couldn’t really speak. Finally, through the tears, there was just one word that came out: help.
Stanton jumped awake in his bed with a gasp. Cold sweat stuck to him and his sheets were soaked. He took off his shirt and undergarment boxers and got into the shower. He let the water run over his head and cover his ears so that he heard nothing but the rushing droplets hitting his flesh. The bathroom became filled with steam and it helped him breathe and made him sweat.
He stayed in the shower until the water went cold and then got out and changed. He knew there would be no sleeping again and instead he decided to go for a walk in the moonlight. He slipped on shorts and sandals and headed outside. After he had already locked the door, he unlocked it and went back inside and took his firearm and holster and tucked it into his shorts.
It was hot tonight and the heat came off the pavement and mingled with the salty ocean air. It smelled like New Orleans.
Stanton had been there almost a year. A vacation after completion of his doctorate turned into an indefinite stay. There was something to the city that was not found elsewhere in the states. It was magical and deadly and depraved in equal doses.
He had met a girl there one night after a bout of heavy drinking in a rundown bar off the French Quarter. He’d taken her into the bathroom and they had had sex. But it wasn’t joyful or pleasurable for either of them. It was a test, to see how much they could degrade each other. At the time, Stanton was not active in his church and had no desire to be. In a city full of cemeteries and ghosts, church didn’t sound appealing.
The apartment he had been staying in was known for the excellent marijuana sold by Stanton’s roommate on the fifth floor and for a murder that had occurred there the year prior. Stanton’s roommate, whose official position was as a drug dealer, had rented the room to him on one condition: never, ever, no matter what, call the cops.
The year Stanton lived with him he attempted to pay taxes until Stanton explained to him that a drug dealer didn’t have to pay taxes. Though incredibly slow, he was, in his own way, charming and polite. He had never once raised his voice to anyone Stanton had seen. But their relationship didn’t last long. After a long night of drinking, his roommate fell asleep on the couch and let his friend and girlfriend sleep in his bed. In the middle of the night, the girlfriend crawled into the living room and they had sex. In the morning she cried rape and he, shocked, explained that it was consensual. The jury disagreed with him, and he was locked away for six to life.
After that Stanton went and lived in a ten dollar a week hostel rented primarily to European and Southern American tourists. There was one bathroom for the entire hostel and it was always occupied. At night, there was nothing but the patter of cockroaches and the wail of sirens outside. But on the upside it had a constant influx of new, young women looking to meet American men and as long as he watched how much he ate and drank, he could live comfortably on a hundred dollars a month.
Though he was miserable, there was an enjoyment in it. No, enjoyment wasn’t the word he thought of when he looked back to those times. Comfort maybe. A soothing calmness found in the sadness. Predictability.
He wasn’t sure why he had left New Orleans. He had fallen into a relaxed pattern of degradation. But something told him he had to leave, to get out, and to never return.
As he walked along the beach he came to a convenience store and went inside. The lighting hurt his eyes and the bright tile of the floor was aggravating. He saw a man behind the counter reading a Hustler and it made him sick. He bought a Sprite and some Tums and left and went back to the safety of the beach.
He sat and buried his feet underneath the sand. The moon was a bright crescent in the sky and he stared at it a long time. In the distance he could hear a whale, or at least what he thought was a whale, and it delighted him for a reason he couldn’t name.
He took out his cell phone and dialed Melissa’s number. She picked up on the fourth ring.
“Jon, what are you doing? Do you know what time it is?”
“Yeah, sorry. I figured you might be up.”
“No, I took an Ambien. Hold on a sec.” He could hear sheets rustling and then footsteps as she went to a different room. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to talk to you. How are the boys?”
“They’re good. They miss you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. You’re too hard on yourself, Jon. They love you. They just don’t understand what’s going on.”
“How’s Lance?”
“You don’t want to hear about him.”
“No, I don’t. I don’t know why I said that.”
“Because you want to accuse me of something but you don’t want to say it. So just say it, Jon. I already know you’re thinking it.”
“I never would’ve brought someone else in to raise our kids.”