The Perfect Prey (12 page)

He smiled, then laughed when he saw the normally dapper Ronald Bell pad out of the elevator dressed uncharacteristically
in jeans and a T-shirt. He was the best possible IA detective to annoy.

“Hey, Ron,” said Stallings, not bothering to conceal his delight.

Bell just glared at him. Usually he corrected people because he liked to be called Ronald.

“You look like a bear that was just stirred out of hibernation.”

“When I heard it was you who needed to get into records I wondered if you somehow figured out I was the duty detective. I guess I don’t even have to ask if this could’ve waited until the morning.”

Stallings just stood silently as Bell unlocked the solid wooden door, then led Stallings through two more until they reached a long, narrow room crammed with file cabinets and cardboard boxes of paper jammed on top of every one.

Bell gave him a tired sigh and said, “Who are we looking for?”

“A motorman named Gary Lauer.”

Bell didn’t move, his poker face giving away a slight twitch.

“You know him?” Stallings had a personal dislike for Ronald Bell that went back three years, but he knew the creep well enough to listen.

The IA detective said, “I shouldn’t say anything.”

“C’mon, Ron, this has to do with a girl’s OD.”

“You think Lauer gave her the drugs?”

“I didn’t. He was just a witness. Why, what do you know?”

The older, red-faced detective took in a breath, then sighed. “He’s had a few IA cases. The usual bullshit about use of force we had to clear. No problem there.”

“But?”

“He had a domestic that was a little ugly.”

“What happened to him?”

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean ‘nothing'?”

“I mean his girlfriend at the time clammed up, then changed her story. There were other factors, so we had to shit-can the investigation.”

“But you remember this guy from that?”

He leveled his brown, bloodshot eyes at Stallings and said, “Stall, think about it. If I remember this guy, the incident was ugly.”

He felt his erection stiffen as Holly wiggled in his lap, kissing him and nibbling his ear. The flashlight cast an errant beam against a bare wall. He was as excited at the prospect of what he was going to do to claim his kill as he was by the sexual activity. The longer this went on, the more he considered using the knife just as he had in New Orleans a few years ago. This time he decided he wanted to face her, looking into the beautiful blue eyes when he jammed the blade into her soft neck. He wondered if her eyes would pop open or slam shut when he did it. But first he had to slip his dick into her.

He twisted and laid her down on the couch, so he could be on top of her. He slid one hand under her blouse and felt her small breast with an erect nipple in the palm of his hand.

Holly giggled and slid away from him, then sat up on the arm of the couch. “You’ve got naughty thoughts.” Her smile was broad and inviting.

He said, “You have no idea.” His eyes kept staring at the nose stud he wanted for his souvenir case. The tiny, clear stone picking up the beam of the flashlight.

Holly said, “Oh, yeah? What do you want to do to me?”

“Get wild. What about you? What do you want to do to me?”

She paused, placed her small hand on his sleeve, and said, “You know what I’d really like to do?”

“No, what?” He felt for the knife in his pocket.

“I would love to eat you.” Then she let out a laugh, jumped up, and darted to the far side of the room. “But first you have to catch me.”

He started to stand, wondering if he might try killing her first.

Holly said, “Count to three, then chase me. But my advantage is that I know this old house a lot better than you.”

He said, “One, two, three,” in a blur, then sprang up after her as she sprinted off in a wild fit of laughter. She had no idea how short her future was.

It was time to take the evening up a notch. In the blink of an eye, Holly shed her bookworm persona and decided it was time to be a stripper. In her mind she felt like a superhero as she whipped off her glasses and shook out her hair. She added a subtle, sexy sway to her walk and then slid into his lap like a stripper getting paid for a lap dance. She immediately felt his reaction and transferred it to her as excitement. It was like electricity, and she couldn’t keep from kissing him deep and hard. She felt her tongue up against his and let it explore his mouth. It was almost as if she was tasting his essence from the outside.

She felt his erection grow, as well as the pace of his petting and rubbing. The intensity of his kisses grew as he used his tongue to taste her as well. She had to be
careful or this would be over too soon. She didn’t want to put the brakes on too hard and break the mood. She liked the effect she was having and decided to add the role of stripper to her repertoire. It was certainly a lot more fun than the bookworm. She’d never been to a strip club and only seen the idealized versions of dancers in movies where they all had big boobs and rhythm and aspired to be showgirls in Las Vegas. She suspected that was a lie. The strip clubs she saw in Jacksonville were not nearly as glamorous and the girls not nearly as talented. Still it wouldn’t hurt to go to one and hone her own ability. That would give her five distinct personalities she could use: bookworm, stupid barista, stripper, underage babysitter, and track star at the University of North Florida. She had the body for it and was fast for short distances. She doubted anyone would ever test her beyond that.

As much fun as grinding on his lap was that she had to put an end to this and find another way to keep him interested. Then she thought of the rabbit and the fox. She’d run and see if he could chase her. The only question was who was the rabbit and who was the fox?

Tony Mazzetti felt his body sag as a breeze kicked in from the eastern part of the county. The quieter zone, closer to the ocean. Right now he was near the stadium outside a small house with three bodies and about fifty bullet holes in it. He and his partner, Christina Hogrebe, had been called out an hour ago when reports of gunfire started rolling into the communications center and responding patrol officers found the bodies. It took Mazzetti about thirty seconds to figure out it was a drug rip. The three bodies were all members
of a street gang called Street Cred that dealt crack in this area of the city. Someone had entered the house, shot them each in the head, then sprayed the house with nine-millimeter bullets on the way out. The way the victims were close together and didn’t defend themselves made it seem as if they knew the killer.

Now the trick would be finding whom they owed money to, had crossed in a deal, or were fighting for territory. Not the most complicated whodunit in the world, but certainly one he’d be able to clear to keep his record looking good. In these drug rip-offs someone always bragged about it and wanted people to know who did it so they would get the message and no one else would have to be killed. The problem with that theory was that the cops found out at the same time. With snitches in every neighborhood and rewards coaxing residents out of silence, nothing said on the street stayed quiet for very long. Not in Jacksonville or any other city in the country.

A teenage girl had been in the house at the time of the shooting. The mother and another daughter were only a couple of houses away, visiting a family member. One of the victims was her twenty-two-year-old son. The older daughter, Tosha, had seen a car drive by, but she had already changed her story from black males to Hispanic males. He didn’t know if she was naturally a little flaky or stoned, but she was a mess. No one would admit there were guns in the house. He made a quick search and couldn’t find any. But the three victims were all known dealers and all had a history of gun violence. Had the killers taken the guns?

He finished up some notes on who needed to be interviewed immediately when the new sergeant, Yvonne Zuni, strolled over from the edge of the scene.

She said, “You gonna need some extra detectives?”

“I think me and Hoagie can handle it.”

“What about your other cases?”

“We’re still waiting on the lab results on the suicide and the girl that overdosed on X, Allie Marsh. The files are on my desk, and they can sit till we sort this shit out.”

The sergeant shook her head. “We’ll leave Marsh open. There are other considerations there. I’ll let Stall and Patty run with it. They’re already trying to find who gave her the X.”

Normally Mazzetti would’ve raised hell about losing one of his cases to anyone, especially Stallings. But this shooting would be all over the news and a major case. No one but her mother cared much about the Marsh girl.

The sergeant focused those beautiful eyes on him and said, “I want this solved with arrests as soon as possible. Am I understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He could see where she got the nickname Yvonne the Terrible. She’d just scared the crap out of him.

He watched as Holly scampered up the old, creaky, wooden stairs and smiled as he followed at a slower pace. He liked her little game because the longer it went on, the more excited he became. Like a drug, he had found he needed more stimuli to reach the same level of satisfaction. That was one of the reasons he’d picked up the pace of his hunts recently.

At the top of the stairs he caught her cute butt, in tight shorts, as it disappeared into a room at the end of a long hallway. The solid wooden door slammed shut
behind her, cutting off a squeal. She was enjoying this as much as he was.

He paused outside the door, confident that there was no other exit and figuring that she intended him to come into this room because it had a bed or maybe a window for some fresh night air. He thought about pulling his knife now, but decided to leave it in his pocket and wait until he had a few more minutes of fun with her before he got down to serious business.

He opened the door and jumped into the room with an exaggerated grunt, then froze.

There were candles already lit around the room, and Holly stood behind a tall bench, still smiling.

The door swung shut behind him, and then he noticed the other people in the room. He scanned and counted six figures besides Holly: five men and one tall, dark-skinned woman.

He said, “What in the hell is this?”

A tall man with broad shoulders next to Holly slowly drew a long knife that reflected the candlelight.

Now he wondered who the hunter really was.

Stallings searched through the bland personnel file and saw that Gary Lauer had been with the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office for six years. He’d been in the motorcycle traffic unit for three years and a member of the department’s SWAT team for two years. He was twenty-nine, very fit, and, based on his evaluations, a good, aggressive cop. There were several complaints of use of force, but that was normal. Anyone who was arrested wanted to cry foul and blame others. Stallings saw a one-page memo that said an allegation of domestic battery had been investigated and dropped due to “lack of evidence and witnesses.” That was a different finding from “unfounded” or “false accusation.”

Ronald Bell waited silently near the door to the file room. Stallings hated to admit it, but the IA detective had provided him valuable information. It was something to keep in mind when Stallings interviewed Lauer in the morning.

Stallings made a few notes and walked past Bell at the door.

The IA detective said, “This something we’re gonna have to take over?”

“I’ll let you know. My new sergeant will make that call.”

“Yvonne the Terrible.”

Stallings nodded, still worried about that nickname.

Bell said, “Ask her about Lauer.”

“Why, what would she know?”

“She had to straighten him out once. You’ll know by the scar on his left eyebrow.”

“How’d you know that?”

“C’mon, Stall, I’m IA. I know everything.”

All Stallings knew was that this guy was still an asshole.

He stared at the knife and the other men standing around him. No one made a move or threatened him, but he knew the situation. It was as if he were a leopard trapped by a herd of water buffalo. Numbers counted for something.

Holly, still cheerful, patted the table and said, “It’d make this so much easier if you climbed up onto the altar for us. Would ya, please?”

He was careful not to telegraph his intentions. “You guys are a cult. I think you might want to try and bag someone else.”

One of the men said, “Holly says you’re exactly who we need. Lean and athletic, your essence will live on in us for years to come. It’s the best way to go.”

He nodded slowly. “I doubt that, and I doubt you’ll be able to succeed tonight.” Then he kicked the man to his right hard in the knee, knocking him back and making him howl at the same time. He didn’t hesitate to
grab the doorknob and yank, striking the man on his left with the edge of the wooden door. He turned and threw an elbow into the man’s face for good measure and darted out the door as he heard confusion erupt in the room.

Instead of fleeing down the stairs he paused outside the room and struck the first man out in the face with a solid back fist. That made the rest hesitate.

He ran as quietly as possible down the stairs, through the kitchen, and out to his car. He had his own knife out for defense as he backed the car out quickly, hoping one of these morons would wander out the door behind him.

No one did.

His tires squealed briefly as he tore away from the house, wondering how he would get his revenge, but certain he would.

John Stallings stood between his and Patty’s cars outside the Police Memorial Building. She seemed tired to him, but he fought his big-brother urge to tell her to get some sleep. Instead he tried to be subtle.

“Don’t screw up your personal life like I did. As much as I hate to say it, you have a boyfriend now.”

She smiled. “Why do you hate to say it?”

“I’m glad you have a boyfriend, but your choice in men is not exactly comforting to me.”

“C’mon, John, Tony is a good guy. No one gives him a chance.”

“Because they’re usually pissed off at him.”