“So what’dya need?”
“The night she disappeared, you said she ran out to her car in the parking lot.”
“Yeah.”
“Could you see her from where you were?”
“No, I was inside the mall.”
“How long did you wait for her?”
“I dunno, like five or ten minutes maybe.”
“And I think you said you were in a hurry to get to a friend’s house.”
“Yeah, we was way late and she was taking forever. So I went out there.”
“Did you go to her car?”
“Yeah, I didn’t see nothin’ though.”
“Well was there anything or anyone around her car? Or nearby; maybe farther down the parking lot?”
“Nope. There wasn’t nothin’. I thought maybe she’d gone back inside.”
“Where was her car parked?”
“Near a light in the back’a Macy’s.”
“Were there any cars around hers?”
“Yeah, like some blue van and a-”
“Where was the van?”
“Um, like right next to her car.”
Stanton took out his notepad and began to write. “What kind of van was it?”
“Blue. Had like rust all over it. Looked like a piece.”
“Did you see anyone in it or anyone that got into it later?”
“No.”
“Did you see the license plate?”
“No I wasn’t really lookin’ ya know?”
“Were the windows tinted?”
“Yeah, yeah I think so.”
“Brian, this is really important, do you remember anything else about the van that could help me identify it if I saw it?”
“Um, no. No I don’t think so.”
“All right.” He asked for a card from Jessica and gave it to him. “If you think of anything else, you call this number and ask for Jon or Jessica, okay?”
“Okay.”
When they had left and were back on the road Stanton called Chin Ho. He answered on the second ring and sounded out of breath.
“What’s up, Jon?”
“You at the office?”
“Yeah, yeah just took the stairs. What’s going on?”
“I need you to log in to the State-wide and check on a car for me.”
“Okay, one sec … all right, whose car?”
“Our boy’s mother.”
“Okay, you know her name?”
“Debra Rattigan. She’d have a birthday in the sixties.”
“All right, hang tight a sec … okay, three Debra Rattigan’s, one with a birthday of August eleven, sixty eight. Same address as our boy.”
“That’s it. What kind of car?”
“She has a Chevy Express cargo van.”
“What color?”
“Ah … blue.”
62
It was six o’clock when Stanton pulled to a stop in front of Hunter Royal’s house. He had been released on $50,000 bail and went straight home. Within hours, his mug shot and the probable cause statement for his case was online on six blogs and a local paper. He had a lot of competition that was excited to see him go.
Stanton knew he wasn’t stupid and would not drift silently away. He was, in fact, extremely clever. One of the cleverest people Stanton had ever known. People underestimated him because of the industry he had chosen as a profession, but he could easily have been behind a surgeon’s scalpel or at a lectern lecturing about medieval philosophy.
Stanton walked to the door and rang the doorbell. Royal answered in shorts and a t-shirt. He hadn’t shaved and had dark, patchy stubble covering his face.
“What is it?” he said.
“Can I come in?”
He opened the door and began walking back to the couch. Stanton walked inside and shut it behind him.
The house was messy and there were plates covered in dried food on the counter. Though his maids hadn’t come in awhile, his cook looked to be a frequent visitor.
“I didn’t think you would take it this hard,” Stanton said.
“I’m going to be a registered sex offender, Jon. How am I supposed to take that?”
“I thought you would use your notoriety. Make it a part of your persona.”
“If I had robbed a bank, yeah. But people with my preferences aren’t treated that way. I may actually have to move out of this house once the neighbors find out what happened. They got kids.”
Stanton sat down in the tan leather Ottoman. “Is that what you think it is? A preference?”
“What do you think it is?”
“Do you really want my opinion?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think you would. But anyway, I need your help.”
“For what? I gave you all I got.”
“Your lawyer told the ADA that you threw away all the letters.”
“I did.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Search my fucking house then if you don’t believe me.”
“You wouldn’t throw them away, Hunter. We both know that. Which means either you still have them, or you’re lying about them.”
He turned his attention to the television that was turned low. “Fuck off. I gave you all I got. Now get outta my house or arrest me.”
“Do you believe in evil, Hunter?” He didn’t wait for a response. “I do. I think there’s real evil in the world. People, for some reason, even people that don’t believe in God, still believe in a devil. Why do you think that is?”
“Am I supposed to give a shit?”
“They believe in him because what they see for most of their life is evil. Good is far rarer and most people only get glimpses of it. But evil is all around us. Everywhere. You’re evil, Hunter.”
“Fuck you, Jon.”
“You may not want to say it out loud but I know you think it. Especially when you’re alone. At night in those moments before you go to bed and the cocaine and the booze have worn off and the woman you slept with isn’t there; I know.”
“What’d you want from me? I don’t have anything left.”
“That’s not true. You have your soul, Hunter. Even someone as evil as you still has their soul and you can redeem it. Not all the way, but a little. Help me catch this guy. Give me everything you’ve got. Don’t bullshit me, we’re past that. Just give me what you got. It’ll stay between us. Besides, if you’re telling the truth, he tried to blame you. You don’t owe any loyalty to him. Your reporter’s integrity will stay intact.”
He sat silently, staring at the television. Stanton thought he looked like someone that was just settling in to a long illness. His skin was pale and he had dark circles under his eyes.
“He would email me,” he finally said. “I got the emails. He was following you. That’s how he got that note into Francisco’s apartment. He said he went in after the esays popped him and he dragged the body into the living room and tried to clean up cause he didn’t want anyone else to find the note. I don’t know how he knows who you are, but he does.”
“Can I have the emails?”
“Yeah.” He stood up and walked out of the room and then came back with a stack of pages. They were printed copies of emails dating back nearly two years ago. “He wanted to be featured in some stories but with his name taken out. I did one piece when Tami was killed but that was it. But he didn’t stop emailing me.”
“I need you to email him.”
“And say what?”
“I’ll draft it,” he said as he rose.
They walked to the bedroom. The floor was covered in empty beer bottles and the nightstand was an assortment of imported liquors. There was a half-eaten jar of peanuts next to the bed and many of them had spilled over the covers and pillows.
Royal sat down at the desk in the corner and punched up his email account.
“I thought they got a warrant to search your email?”
“They did. But I got other accounts. Got one through an offshore IP address. The President couldn’t get to it if he wanted to,” he said proudly. He stood up and sat on the edge of the bed. “All yours.”
Stanton sat in the chair and began to type:
Police have something. Need to talk to you right away. Don’t call from your number. Call me from a payphone. I want one interview. Call me tonight as soon as possible. I’ll be home at seven.