The Perfect Woman (18 page)

Patty Levine felt like a weight had been lifted from her as the last of the unmarked cars pulled away from the Law and Order Pub, leaving just her and Tony Mazzetti in the parking lot. They both knew that any attraction they felt for each other had to be kept low key for now. An office romance meant scrutiny, gossip, and sometimes jealousy. She didn’t have time for any of that.

She looked up at Mazzetti now that they were alone in the lot. Still a little old-fashioned, she was waiting for him to make a move. If that failed, then she knew what to do.

He looked across the hood of her car and said, “You busy?”

Did he have an investigative task or was it a come-on? She had no idea how to read him, and that made it all the more exciting. She felt anxiety but no need to reach for Xanax. She liked this feeling and just smiled.

Tony Mazzetti said, “I was wondering if you might like to have a private drink with me?”

“Off duty?”

“Off duty.”

“No police talk?”

“Not unless you’re into that kind of thing.”

She nodded and then, without any idea it would come out of her, “How about my condo? I have a bottle of wine that’s been collecting dust for three years.”

“Will you actually drink with me?” His eyes twinkled in the streetlights. She liked his cute expression. It was the opposite of his persona around the Sheriff’s Office.

Patty considered the possibility of a drink. She’d taken her last Xanax on her way home from UF after the geologist came on to her. She hadn’t felt anxious, but with habit, took one of the peach-colored pills about the same time she did every day. That was more than eight hours ago. Her back or hip didn’t hurt, which meant there was no need for a pain pill. That left only Ambien. She needed her sleeping pill if she wanted any hope of dozing off. Based on her careful analysis, she finally answered him, “Sure, I’ll have a glass of wine.”

A grin slid across Tony Mazzetti’s handsome face, lighting up his brown eyes. She liked the brash New Yorker and realized most everything he did for show was just an act. He was a history buff who liked to write. That was more like the real him. She was sure of it. Regardless, she was ready for some quiet time with him based on two important facts: he was really well built, and she hadn’t slept with a man in almost a year. She needed a shot of confidence as well as a chance to get to know this guy better.

Mazzetti said, “I’ll follow you.”

She thought, I hope so.

William Dremmel had to commit himself to acting quickly. He already had his knife open and in his hand. He popped the automatic locks of the minivan and took a deep breath. This was something he’d never done before. He was about to assault the old man and planned to jab the knife into his abdomen and his throat, then shove him into the van and dump him God knew where.

The man’s little dog yipped behind the van and that made Dremmel freeze for a second. What would he do with the dog? If he left it, the cops would know the owner was gone faster than if he took it. That was one more clue that could potentially point to him. Either option was unacceptable.

He thought about it and decided he couldn’t kill the dog. Not with the knife anyhow. But maybe there was a way he could use the little dog in his research. It was a different metabolism than what he’d been working with. Unlike the girls or even Mr. Whiskers, the original or II and III, the little dog would present new opportunities.

Dremmel processed the decision, yanked the door handle, and slipped out onto the asphalt road. He turned and hurried to the rear of the van, ready to strike without warning. He couldn’t afford to allow the man to scream.

As he cleared the rear bumper, the knife in his hand, but held low, he saw the man’s face clearly in the light of the dim bulb suspended on the rough wooden pole. He froze and the man turned to look in his direction.

“Hello,” said the man.

“Um, hello,” answered Dremmel, now frozen in place a few feet from the elderly dog walker.

“Am I blocking you?” The man touched his dark glasses. “I know my way around but sometimes get in front of cars waiting to pull out. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, I’m fine.” Dremmel now realized the cane was not a walking aid but an indicator that the man was blind.

“I’m afraid Pico here is not much of a guide dog. But he’s a good friend.”

Dremmel squatted down and let the little Chihuahua scurry to him and sniff his hand. He patted the white dog, then reached under him to get a feel for his weight. “This is one tiny dog, mister.”

“My daughter gave me little Pico Sanchez about three years ago, and I couldn’t live without him now.”

Dremmel made the snap decision that the man had no info he could give the cops and, reluctantly, that the dog was too small to provide any reliable or transferable research results.

He stood up and said, “Have a nice night.”

“You too son, you too.”

As Dremmel pulled away from the curb, leaving the old blind man with his useless little dog, he wondered where his Stacey could be and when he’d have her all to himself.

John Stallings had rushed home to make sure he could help both kids with their homework. The problem with that theory was that he’d have to understand their homework.

Charlie’s wasn’t that difficult, but as the TV show
Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?
had taught everyone, there are things you learn that you forget. Most of Charlie’s history quiz on the settling of Plymouth seemed familiar, but there was no way he’d know the facts right off the top of his head. The name Miles Standish and the Puritans were familiar, but reading the little paragraphs taught him more than he thought he ever knew about the settlement in what is now Massachusetts. He never realized they left from Holland or that the entire ship was not filled with people seeking religious freedom. He never knew that the expedition started off with two ships but one never left European waters. Regardless, he made it sound like this was all old news to him as he ran Charlie through the simple fifteen-question quiz over and over.

Lauren’s homework was another story. The algebra didn’t even seem familiar to him, and he couldn’t fake it.

Stallings looked at his thirteen-year-old and said, “Is this the same math they taught when I was in school?”

“You mean back when you used slate tablets to add up the figures?” Her smile did more to lift him than any beer he had ever thought of.

“Yeah, we’d never even heard of calculators.”

She looked at him and knitted her eyebrows but didn’t say anything.

He laughed out loud and said, “Yes we did, I’m not that old.”

The evening continued like that with Maria coming out of the den for a good part of it. He’d noticed the subtle shift in her appearances with the family. From near-hermit status to a quick meal here and there, to spending more time at least in the same room with the family. Stallings would take it. He’d take whatever he could get. This was the woman he’d been crazy in love with almost twenty years ago and through all that they had suffered his feelings for her hadn’t changed. Sure he got frustrated at her repeated stints in rehab and her withdrawal from the family after Jeanie disappeared, but she still had that magic quality to light up a room when she wanted to. He wanted to be around when she wanted to light up rooms again.

After the kids had gone to bed and he’d straightened the kitchen and house, he was surprised when Maria joined him on the couch for the ten o’clock news. She’d told him that she cleaned the kitchen every morning after making the kids breakfast, but he knew she rarely got up with the kids, never made them breakfast, and hadn’t dragged a clean dish towel across any surface in the kitchen in a long time. But his mother had given him a little marital advice when he was young, and the smartest thing she’d said was, “As the husband you can be right or you can be happy, but you can’t be both.” Now he knew it was one of those times to keep his mouth shut. He was rewarded by Maria sitting next to him on the couch.

Of course the first story was about the serial killer. He cringed at the name Bag Man, but even the cops were using it now. Carl Cernick had gained the name “The Phantom” because there were so many false sightings of him. Six different men had been questioned because of the tips. The questioning was at the PMB, and the men were in custody no matter what they were told. Each time homicide was sure it was the right guy. Stallings was in the burglary unit at the time and paid little attention to the case. Until he solved it.

Now the newscaster opened with a line that made him take notice. The pretty young woman said, “Home Depot, the target of a new lead for the Bag Man investigation.”

“How in the hell did that happen?” he muttered.

Maria turned to him. “What?”

“That was a confidential line of investigation. Tony Mazzetti is gonna be pissed.” Stallings knew it was wrong, but he couldn’t help but let a slight smile spread across his face.

Patty Levine lay on top of the sheets naked, computing how big of a dose of Ambien she would take. She took into account the two glasses of pinot noir she’d had a couple of hours earlier and the level of frustration that had risen in her since. She figured one canceled out the other.

She stared straight up into the dark, catching just a hint of streetlights through her blinds. Her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm as she tried to control her anxiety and disappointment. She still had a muscular body and worked on it, but nothing like she did when she competed.

As she was about to get out of bed and pad to the bathroom she felt the whole mattress shift. She turned to face the muscular, naked form of Tony Mazzetti, who said for the ninth time, “I’m sorry. This has never happened before.”

John Stallings took three stairs at a time because he wanted to hear the drama inside the squad bay about the news leaks. Even though there were always leaks and it rarely affected a case, some detectives became irrational in their search for the tipster. It made for a fascinating few minutes after every newscast.

As he reached the second floor he saw Rick Ellis in uniform and ready for duty. Seeing the tall, middle-aged man made Stallings realize the truth behind the saying, “The uniform makes the man.” Ellis looked like authority incarnate—the sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve, the duty belt with a Glock model twenty-two on his hip. He looked like he knew his shit. The man was a cop’s cop and everyone looked up to him, but the uniform made him seem almost superhuman.

Ellis smiled. “On your way to the Land That Time Forgot?”

“Yeah. I like an early start these days.”

“I hear ya. When we were young all we wanted was afternoon shift so we could sleep late, now I can’t sleep past six if I want to.” He slapped Stallings on the back and headed down the stairs. “Gotta get on the road. Speeders are waiting.” Then he stopped at the landing and turned to face the second floor again. “Hey Stall, call me if you guys need something on the Bag Man. You need to be careful out there. It’s not like it used to be.”

“Thanks, Rick, I’ll keep you in mind for backup. I’d feel better with you around.”

Ellis gave him a thumbs-up and then cantered down the remaining stairs.

Stallings hit the detective bureau door and was only a step in when he heard Mazzetti’s voice boom, “Who the fuck keeps leaking our case?”

Stallings ignored him and settled right into his desk. He had leads to sort out and people to talk to. Leaks made no impact on him at all, except for entertainment purposes.

Patty eased over and plopped in a cracked plastic chair next to the desk. She said, “How’s it goin’?”

“Not bad. You look tired. Something keep you up late?”

He noticed her eyes cut across the room to the ranting Mazzetti. That kind of behavior can freak out a newer detective.

Patty looked back to Stallings. “Nothing really kept me awake. I was just distracted and didn’t sleep well. What do you make of the leaks?”

He shrugged. “Nothing new. Someone always has a hook at a TV station.”

“But why?”

“Maybe a favorable story on them later, or meals, or even cash sometimes.”

Patty sighed.

“What’s wrong?”

“I need to go out on an action lead. Following up on suitcases and Home Depots has worn me out. Maybe I can ride with you today. See what we turn up?”

“Okay by me.”

Before they could talk about it further, Lieutenant Hester walked up and said, “Patty, I need you for a while.”

“Sure L.T. What’s up?”

“Someone wants to talk to you about these news leaks.”

“Why?” She thought about it and said, “Who wants to talk to me?”

“Internal Affairs.”

As soon as William Dremmel entered the Fountain of Youth sports bar where Stacey Hines worked, he knew she wasn’t there. A different waitress he hadn’t seen before carried a tray of food to a young family in the area where Stacey usually worked. The waitress was a little older than Stacey, maybe twenty-five, and tall, with large, fake boobs positioned for the best possible tips.

He couldn’t just turn around and leave. The bartender had seen him, and he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. Sliding up to the far side of the bar, he took a stool and ordered a simple burger and Diet Coke. While he waited, he pretended to watch the TV above the bar. A sports show had footage of the University of Florida football team in its orange and blue that so many schools in the area copied. The carpet that led to his office was the same hue of orange. People in Jacksonville were crazy for the Gators.

The bartender brought back his soda and made no indication he remembered Dremmel from any of his previous visits.

After finishing his lunch and drinking three glasses of Diet Coke, Dremmel started to formulate the right question about Stacey without appearing too interested. Then he caught a break. The tall waitress leaned against the corner of the bar near him and asked the bartender, “What time does Stacey get in? I need to pick up Julie from day care by five.”

The heavyset bartender didn’t look up from polishing glasses and said, “She won’t be here till six, but I’ll cover for the hour. It’s slow anyway.”

“Thanks, Tank,” said the waitress. “I could call her and see if she’ll come in an hour early.”

“Nah, it’s no problem. She was going over to the beach, and I doubt she’d be ready in time.”

The waitress nodded and turned to get over to a table.

Dremmel remembered his first conversation with the petite waitress from Ohio. She’d told him she liked Neptune Beach. It was the closest beach to her crappy little apartment.

A smile crept over his face. He knew where he was heading right now, and no one would be able to link him to her.

Stallings didn’t think the news leaks were as humorous now that he’d spent an hour in I.A. answering questions about it. Everyone on the task force had been pulled up to the Internal Affairs office and grilled about their friends in the media and if they’d been talking about the case. The S.O. was serious about the security of the leads. The main thing that bothered Stallings was the amount of time taken away from the case to answer the questions. He wanted to be out stirring things up, and instead he’d been on the fourth floor talking to two young sergeants he hardly even know. He had nothing to hide. They knew his reputation—it was apparent in the deference they showed him.

One of the interrogators had been brand new in the homicide unit when Stallings had captured Cernick, and he mainly had questions about the arrest. Neither asked him any questions about Jeanie. At least they had some manners.

As he was getting ready to leave the I.A. office, he almost bumped into the senior investigator.

The tall, handsome detective with graying hair simply said, “Hey John.”

Stallings didn’t acknowledge him.

The detective said, “Why so rude?”

Stallings stopped, feeling the anger rise in him. “Listen, Ron.”

“It’s Ronald.”

“Sorry, I forgot. Listen, Ronald, this is the second time you’ve held up an investigation that was important to me.”

“I had nothing to do with this one. I told them you and I had history and that I shouldn’t be involved. Besides, media links are small potatoes. Suspicious circumstances of a cop’s missing kid is the kind of stuff I handle.”

Stallings resisted the urge to punch Detective Ronald Bell right in his head. Instead he turned and forced himself to walk calmly out of the office knowing this wouldn’t be the last time he ran into the senior I.A. man.

Ten minutes later, as Stallings sat at his desk, getting ready to leave, he heard a pissed-off Luis Martinez stomp through the squad bay bitching about I.A.

The ex-Marine shook his head and said, “I.A. isn’t anything like the Gestapo. At least you could reason with the Gestapo.”

Christina Hogrebe laughed from her orderly desk in the “original” homicide section of the squad bay. “Did they rough you up, Luis?”

“Shit, you’d have thought one of us robbed a goddamn bank.”

Hoagie said, “They didn’t break you then? You still have your media contacts?” Her smile took any edge off the comments. She had a level head and hadn’t gotten too wrapped up in the drama taking time away from the case. That was the sign of a good detective.

Mazzetti stalked out of the conference room, where he could hear the banter between cops. “You guys think this is funny? We got a traitor among us.”

Hoagie said, “C’mon, Tony, I don’t think anyone here is a traitor.”

“Oh yeah, what do you call a glory hound that uses the media?”

From the rear of the squad bay someone said, “We call him Tony Mazzetti, Prince of Homicide.”

The chorus of laughter made Mazzetti’s face flush red. But before he could say anything, the secretary from the front office leaned in the door and said, “Stall, there’s someone downstairs says they have info on the case and wants to talk to you.”

“Me? Why me?”

“It’s an elderly lady, and she says she’ll only talk to the hero-cop that caught Cernick.” She saw the expression on his face and added, “I swear to God that’s what she said.”

Stallings stood up as Mazzetti marched toward the door. “I’m going too. This is still my fucking case.”

Stallings walked in silence with Mazzetti out of the Land That Time Forgot, down the main stairs, and into the lobby of the Police Memorial Building. He checked with a receptionist and found a small, frail-looking woman, wrapped up against Jacksonville’s occasionally cold winds and frequently cold rain.

“Ma’am,” started Stallings slowly. “I’m John Stallings. Can I help you?”

She turned in her seat, looked up and said, “Oh thank God. I didn’t know who to talk to, but I’ve seen you on TV.”

“What’s the problem, ma’am?” He didn’t want Mazzetti being rude to this lady, so he stepped in front of him as he spoke, then crouched down to eye level with the woman.

She appreciated the manners and looked over her shoulder at Mazzetti to see if he was going to bend down too. When he made no movement, other than one of impatience, she turned her full attention back to Stallings and said, “We have to hurry. He’s got a girl in the house.”

Stallings patted her arm softly and said, “Who has a girl?”

She didn’t seem to hear. “A young girl. I know who he really is.”

“Ma’am, who are you talking about.”

She looked at him, then up to Mazzetti and said, “I know who the Bag Man is.”