The Perfect Woman (6 page)

Mazzetti shook his head in the silence of his brand-new Crown Vic, the royal carriage of police vehicles. No one had any idea how busy a homicide detective was on a big case like this one. Not only would he be investigating leads, but he’d have to manage other detectives, keep the Book, update command staff, be the spokesman for the media (which he actually liked quite a bit), and deal with all the crazies who would wander in with tips that he’d have to follow up so some smart-ass defense attorney couldn’t bring it up in court as a possible defense.

This was a lonely and thankless job. Thank God he’d make a fortune in overtime.

Streetlights came on and TV sets glowed in most windows of the upscale neighborhood off St. John’s Bluff Road, in the eastern patrol zone of JSO, as John Stallings took a few minutes to gather his thoughts. Patrol zone 2 covered Arlington Road all the way to the beach, and even though it had a lot of miles, it wasn’t the busiest zone in the Sheriff’s Office. The acres of slash pines and scrub brush differed from the tall, sturdier looking Southern pines along the interstate. When he’d offered to notify Lee Ann Moffit’s family of her death it was a way to weasel onto the case. Now, with the job at hand, he didn’t like the idea of using the poor dead girl’s family as an excuse to get something he wanted. It bothered him so much that he had sent Patty home for the night, telling her he’d be more comfortable talking to the family alone. Patty had resisted, but he put on his sad puppy face and she relented with a minimum of fuss.

Stallings eased out of his Impala, smoothing his shirt to his chest. This sucked.

On his way up the long driveway he passed a Mercedes convertible with the top down and a Range Rover with a huge gash in the side. The lights inside the house cast a glow onto the entrance that allowed him to dodge a bicycle on its side with a tricycle positioned like a bull over a fallen matador. He hoped the accident wasn’t as bad as it looked. He knew the younger kids belonged to the stepfather who had entered Lee Ann’s life about the time she started running away.

He mashed a lighted doorbell button, then followed it with a double rap on the door. Out of habit he stepped back and to the side, away from the door or anything that could potentially be shot through it.

After a few seconds he could hear a woman’s voice, and the door opened inward. Lee Ann Moffit’s mother, Jackie, swayed as she tried to focus her vision enough to see who the hell was knocking on her door at this hour.

Seeing Stallings, her harsh expression eased, revealing the attractive woman he’d met when Lee Ann ran away. She still had on the dressy blazer that identified her as a major dealer in the real estate market. A cigarette was wedged between her fingers. “Detective John Stallings. What are you doing so far east?” She stepped aside and waved him inside in a long drunken curtsy.

He nodded and said, “How are you, Jackie?”

“I’m here. What about you? How’s your wife holding up?”

Stallings paused, uncertain how to answer the question. He knew he’d disclosed too much of his private life to this pretty woman. The shared circumstances had caused him to let go with Jackie Moffit. Jeanie had not been gone too long, he was new to the missing persons unit, and he’d known the Moffitt family slightly through lacrosse. Now he realized he might have shared too much with Jackie when Lee Ann had run away the first time, explaining how his wife was having a hard time coping with their own situation. At the time, he thought he was helping her. But it was to help him too. Sharing an experience like a missing child helped people feel they weren’t alone and was a major source of comfort for most people. But most people didn’t have a profession like his. Now he knew he had no frame of reference to help this poor woman whom he was about to tell her oldest daughter was dead. All he could do was promise himself he’d do whatever it took to catch the person who killed her.

Suddenly the migraine made him squeeze his eyes shut as flashes of pain shot through his brain. The distracted Jackie didn’t notice as she searched for a place to lay down her cigarette.

When she turned to face him Stallings said, “You better sit down, Jackie. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

Patty Levine picked at a Lean Cuisine lasagna as she watched the late local news. The first story was, of course, the body Stallings had found earlier in the day. Tony Mazzetti stood in front of cameras to explain that the Sheriff’s Office had taken the homicide investigation and managed to talk about very few actual facts of the case. Jacksonville Beach was the official jurisdiction where the body was found, and Patty wondered why the Sheriff’s Office had decided to take on more work, but in the end it wasn’t her concern. Her job was finding missing persons, usually kids, and it was important. And she got to wear a detective’s shield. But two years at the same thing was getting old. It wasn’t like there were a bunch of volunteers to come into the missing persons unit. Pretty much it was her and John Stallings, and it looked like that’s how it was going to stay.

She looked across the room at her kitchen counter, where she had six prescription bottles lined up in a row, then glanced at the clock in her DVR to see if it was time to throw down a few Ambien. She’d taken the last Xanax about four in the afternoon and didn’t like the drug effects to overlap too strongly. Luckily, she hadn’t needed any Percocet this evening for her chronic hip pain. The years of gymnastics had taken their toll on her young body. When someone commented that she’d been a cheerleader, Patty dropped into her speech about the rigors of gymnastics, one of the toughest sports in the world and recognized by the Olympic committee. She only gave the speech to someone one time; the second time they faced physical confrontation. Cheerleading was fun and games, gymnastics was a sport, which was why she needed the drugs to mask any physical problems. Everyone knew she was as tough as any male cop, and she didn’t intend to let a little hip pain slow her down. No one at the office realized she often had a throbbing ache in her hip or that she was a serious insomniac or that she felt anxious for no reason. And no one ever would. She liked her image.

Right now she needed sleep, and Ambien was the only thing that gave her any chance at that. She exceeded the dosage because the twelve milligrams just didn’t cut it anymore.

Her cat, Cornelia, butted a hard, furry head against her leg, then jumped up onto the low couch. Patty, still looking at the TV, said to Cornelia, “That Tony Mazzetti is a sharp dresser. He looks good on the tube.”

She tossed the plastic container of her dinner and rinsed off the fork; this routine had kept her from using her dishwasher for the last three months. Ready to watch something lighter with Cornelia, she paused at the counter and threw down two Ambien, way more than the usual dosage, knowing the onset would be more than twenty minutes, if at all. Her cell phone, next to the parade of pills, started to ring. She recognized the number as one from the sheriff’s main office.

She flipped it open. “Patty Levine.”

A sharp, fast male’s voice said, “Report to homicide at oh eight hundred. Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it. Who’s this?” But the phone went dead before she got an answer. A wave of excitement swept through her. She had just gotten called to the major leagues.

William Dremmel felt the familiar rush as he learned more about the lovely young waitress, Stacey Hines. He had casually strolled behind the restaurant where she worked and found a beat-up Ford Escort with Ohio tags. From there it was an easy step to access a hacker’s Web site he knew and run the tag through the Ohio motor vehicles bureau and come up with Stacey’s full name and date of birth. Now he’d find out everything about her before he visited her again next week. It made him feel like an all-knowing god.

The hacker’s site he was on was set up by one of his former students who appreciated his Natural Science professor’s ability to see things other than academics. He’d bonded with the little group of social misfits who felt out of place at the community college. They had the grades to go to any state school, but not the drive or, in some cases, the money. They reminded him of himself at that age: lonely, smart, awkward. He enjoyed showing them ways to beat the system. Dremmel had used his knowledge of computers to show the young man how to tap into a number of different computer data banks and then the hacker took it the rest of the way. Now Dremmel used this site as a way to search things quickly and quietly. No one could trace any of his queries back to him.

The Toshiba notebook computer sat on the small oak desk that had been in his bedroom as a child, in this same one-story redbrick house in Grove Park. The quiet neighborhood on the west side of the city was the perfect place for his experiments. The houses had a little space between them, most of the residents were too old to be nosy, and he could be on the interstate or heading east in a matter of minutes.

One-third of the house had been constructed as a “mother-in-law” suite with a large bedroom, sitting room, and its own bathroom. A small, covered courtyard separated the two sections of the house. His grandmother had lived in that side of the house until he was seven, about the time of the accident. That part of the house had level floors, even with the kitchen both sides shared. His father had never bothered to change the odd, multilevel floor of this part of the house, and now Dremmel was glad he didn’t. Those little five-inch steps made it almost impossible for anyone in a wheelchair to get around. Thank God.

In the last few years the oak desk sat in his “darkroom,” which he had quickly converted to a normal room since his last girlfriend had moved out. The small mattress was back in the garage on the top shelf of a storage rack. The eyebolts from the reinforced wall sat on his workbench. Matching end tables perfectly covered the holes where the sturdy eyebolts screwed into the wall and held his girlfriends securely. The photographic equipment and developing chemicals were out of the closet and set up again so if someone were to wander in the room they wouldn’t think it was anything other than an amateur photography studio. That explained the bricked-up windows.

Now he quietly made notes about Stacey Hines, who was twenty-one, five foot two inches tall, had electricity in her name, but not cable TV, and had not yet been listed as an employee of the Fountain of Youth sports bar/restaurant where he had chatted with her earlier in the evening.

The intercom wired to the other section of the house buzzed and he heard his mother. Sound echoed over the terrazzo floors and bare walls like a cave. He could tell by the crackle of the intercom and the volume that she had the intercom right next to her mouth.

“William? Are you home? William.”

He waited, hoping she might drop back into sleep.

“William, I’m hungry.” Her voice was cultured, calm, with a hint of a southern accent she usually put on, especially if she was around people, which he had discouraged for some time now.

He sighed, hit the intercom, and said, “Give me a few minutes, Mom.” He scooted out of the wooden chair and padded toward the kitchen, knowing exactly what would shut her up—a can of Campbell’s chicken gumbo. He let the soup plop into a large green bowl, sprinkled in a little garlic powder, then mashed 50 milligrams of Molindone and stirred it into the soup. He had found that the tranquilizer/antipsychotic had several beneficial effects, but mainly it calmed her down enough that he could deal with her and keep her clean. He added an Ambien to the soup for good measure. It should give his mom enough time to eat before she dozed off until the morning when he left for work. He popped the bowl into the microwave as Mr. Whiskers IV bumped his leg.

He squatted down, his heavily muscled legs straining his jeans, and stroked the black cat. So far he had tested a few pharmaceutical theories on Mr. Whiskers IV, nothing like the ones the original Mr. Whiskers and the two that followed had endured. In the ten years he’d worked at the pharmacy, Dremmel had learned more about drug interaction and sedation than any standard textbook or drug study could ever teach him. He was smarter than any pharmacist. Legitimate drug companies weren’t prepared to do the things he’d done to test the effects of sedatives and narcotics. He had kept Mr. Whiskers II asleep but alive for more than three weeks. That was a good drug trial.

Now his goal was to replicate that kind of effect on something a little larger. His test subjects were all between 100 and 120 pounds, within five years of the same age, and around five feet tall. He had decided on shorter women, because he didn’t know if taller subjects with less fat would metabolize the drugs the same way. He preferred them to be attractive, but that had no scientific bearing.

From the intercom he heard, “William, is my dinner ready?”

He mashed another Ambien, pulled the soup from the microwave ten seconds early, scooped the powder into the bowl, and mixed it as he hurried through the short gap between the sections of the house into the room on the far side of the courtyard. He padded past the sitting room, then down the hallway, and paused at his mother’s open door.

He eased in the room and forced a smile. His mother lay on top of the bedspread, her wheelchair next to the bed. She was in a bright yellow dress that covered most of her thin, discolored legs. From the waist up she was still an attractive, fifty-five-year-old woman with no gray in her brown hair. Looking at her sitting at a dinner table no one would be able to tell what she had been through or what she had put her son through. She was still trim, and her face showed few wrinkles or other signs of age. But her expression was a different story. She looked confused and detached from her surroundings.

The car accident that had killed his father and crippled his mother was a turning point in young William Dremmel’s life. It had certainly changed his relationship with his mother.

She reached out silently with her long fingers for the bowl of soup. Almost the identical meal she had every night.

Dremmel turned to leave, but she said, “Sit down a minute. I haven’t seen you today.”

He plopped into the padded folding chair next to her messy queen-size bed, where half-finished crossword puzzles littered the comforter.

“Are you alone tonight?”

He nodded.

“No date?”

“Lee Ann and I broke up.”

His mother frowned. “I wanted to meet her too.”

“You would’ve liked her.”

“What was she like?”

He couldn’t contain his smile when he answered. “She was real quiet.”