The White Angel Murder by Victor Methos

in charge of protection from rival gangs and the police. They had grown sophisticated over the past two decades, choosing to take to sniping from rooftops rather than face-to-face combat. A lot of officers were shot because they weren’t aware of what they were up against. Newbies would act tough, thinking they would win by dog psychology, and set off flags from the scouts that this officer wasn’t going away.
    “ Smells like bacon, holmes.”
    Stanton stepped up onto the porch. It was too late for subtlety so he flashed his badge and crossed his arms; he couldn’t afford to let them see he wasn’t packing a firearm. “Someone called 911.”
    “ Ain’t no one called 911 from here.”
    “ Look guys, someone called 911. Female. Said her boyfriend or someone was beating on her. Just let me talk to her and make sure she’s okay and I’ll get outta here.”
    The men looked to each other. They mumbled something in Spanish and Stanton made out the words, dumb bitch .
    One of the men entered a code on the door. “They in 2-C.”
    Stanton walked through without looking at them. It had the feel of a compound and he’d just gotten past the sentinels. Not five miles from here was a police station and a courthouse but there was no law here. He suddenly felt foolish for not carrying his gun with him.
    The front lobby was orange carpet and walls with a staircase leading to the second floor. The mailboxes were covered in graffiti and most of them had been pried open. He wondered how the people here got their mail or if they were so disconnected from the rest of society that mail didn’t matter.
    He walked up the stairs to apartment 2-C and knocked. A young woman answered.
    “ Are you okay?” he said.
    “ Who the fuck are you?”
    “ I’m the police. Someone called 911 and said there was a domestic disturbance here.”
    “ Ain’t no domestic disturbance.”
    “ So you’re saying you don’t need any help?”
    “ Do I look like I need any fucking help?”
    “ No, you certainly don’t. Sorry to take your time.”
    She slammed the door in his face and he left and went back to the first floor. It was enough. The men out front would think she’d called and when she denied it they would think she was lying. The boyfriend would deny hitting her, but everyone denied that. They wouldn’t think a cop made the whole thing up.
    Francisco’s apartment was at the end of the hallway. He made sure the two men on the porch weren’t paying attention before crossing over into that hallway and hurrying across the soiled carpet. Stanton could smell cooking food; pork or beef. A Spanish television station was turned up somewhere and he could hear it through the walls.
    Stanton knocked and then stepped to the side of the door. It opened and he saw the tip of a.38 caliber Remington sticking out.
    He twisted and grabbed the gun, spinning to his left and tearing it out of the person’s hands. The man was short and bald with a thick goat-t. Stanton stepped back and held the gun firmly pointed at his face.
    “ Inside,” he said.
    Francisco stepped back into the apartment, not raising his arms. They walked down the hall to the living room and stood quietly as Stanton glanced around.
    “ Is there anyone else here?”
    “ No.”
    “ You sure?”
    “ Yeah.”
    Stanton lowered the gun and held it out for him. “I’m Jon Stanton. I’m with SDPD.” He took out his badge again. He could see fury in Francisco’s eyes.
    “ Do you know what you’ve—”
    “ I don’t care about your hooker operation. I need your help.”
    “ Fuck you.”
    He was animated now, his arms beginning to move, his brow furrowed in anger. He grabbed the gun from him and held it pointed to the ground. Stanton had met him once a long time ago and remembered that he spoke perfect English. Now, his speech pattern was of someone whose primary language was Spanish. He’s been under too long, he thought.
    “ Do you remember the Tami Jacobs case? She was killed in