The Perfect Woman js-1

by James Andrus

  Stacey Hines cried softly, sitting at the flimsy folding table she used in her “dining room,” which was actually the corner of her living room with the kitchen occupying the opposite corner. She had a decent-sized bedroom, but now it held an empty bed.

  She missed her roommate a lot more than she thought she would. By now Marcie was back in Ohio, but she hadn’t called Stacey. The tiny apartment held only a turtle in an old aquarium with a few rocks, an inch of water, and a mound of mud for the turtle to rest on. She had found the turtle on the edge of a creek that ran off the St. Johns one Sunday afternoon when she and Marcie were exploring the area and stopped at a wooded park to hike. The heat had been refreshing back then. She still liked it and the fact that the beach was nice in the autumn as well as the summer.

  Stacey hadn’t called home yet this week, because she knew that if she talked to her folks they could probably convince her to come back. The way she felt right now, she might go on home anyway. She’d have to take a bus, because there was no way her car would ever make it and being stranded in Atlanta sounded ten times more scary than just lonely in Jacksonville.

  She blew her nose into a paper towel, looked into the aquarium, and said, “Don’t worry, Sidney. I’ll set you free at the exact spot I found you if I go back.” At the time Stacey found the turtle, she’d been worried for its safety, but in the three months she had kept him and fed him raw hamburger and turtle food from Walmart he had seemed to double in size. She didn’t know what kind of turtle he was, but right now she felt like he was the only one who hadn’t deserted her.

  She did have a couple of friends at work. Don, the cook, had fixed her car this evening when it wouldn’t start. He seemed concerned that the wires would be messed up for no reason, but she told him it was fine and drove back home. He was nice to her at work but not someone she could hang out with.

  Tank, the bartender, was fair to her, but he was also the manager and didn’t have any favorites. She doubted he even knew where she lived or if she lived alone. Then there was the nice guy who’d been in to eat a couple of times the last few days. Today he had a pretty, younger black girl with him but said she was just a coworker. That wasn’t the vibe Stacey got from the woman, but he was clear about it. She liked him and wondered if he might ask her out.

  She thought about William and how he was a little older than her but had a job, seemed nice, and took coworkers out to lunch. She hoped he’d come by the restaurant again soon.

  John Stallings sat upright in front of the computer in the den at his house. The light of the Web site was all he used to navigate the keyboard. He’d been on three sites he visited regularly in an effort to calm his racing mind that he had covered everything that could be related to Jeanie for this month. It’d been his talk with Lauren that got him thinking, and once he got something in his head he knew he’d never sleep or eat or do anything useful until he had accomplished his goal. In this case, making sure there were no new unidentified bodies or unidentified medical patients that could, somehow, be his Jeanie.

  He knew Tony Mazzetti had hit a dead end at the Wendy’s where the last victim had worked. There was still more follow-up to do, but no one at the restaurant knew who she hung out with, and no one even realized she was such a heavy drug user. At least no one admitted knowing it.

  Stallings couldn’t just sit still, even this late at night. He usually went through official channels at work, but he had the addresses to several databases and knew how to find information even from his home computer.

  The National Center for Missing and Exploited Children had the best resource dedicated exclusively to finding missing kids. Most children who were taken by an adult were taken by a noncustodial parent; the public tended to regard this as a lesser crime, but the parent who earned custody legally often didn’t get a chance to see the child for years. Stallings felt for them.

  The Web site had galleries of photos of teenagers who had either run away or been lured away and, sadly, either way they were gone. The parents were left without answers, frustrated with law enforcement, and felt a void that nothing else could fill in their lives. He’d experienced it all. Even with the support of the Sheriff’s Office he felt like there had to be more they could’ve done.

  Then there was the accusation that Stallings had hidden Jeanie’s disappearance. That he had concealed vital information. He had, and he knew it. His actions didn’t affect the search for her and protected what little he had left at the time.

  His mind buzzed with the decisions he’d made on that lonely Friday night three years ago. Images of Charlie, too young to understand what was really going on, and Lauren, scared and looking for someone to cling to, and Maria. By that time Maria had already started to check out. And Jeanie’s disappearance was a blow that knocked her into an abyss.

  Stallings continued to click through galleries of missing kids, recognizing many from fliers or leads he had run over the years. He felt connected to all of them. Then he came to a screen and found his eyes frozen on a photo of a girl from Cleveland who’d been gone less than a year. Her dark hair was long and she wore cute rimless glasses. It was a yearbook shot, he could tell, provided by some family member while their world was crumbling.

  The bright smile on her face gave no indication of fear or loneliness or any of the other things that might push a kid to listen to a stranger about the wonders of a far-off city. It was hard to tell in the photo, but she looked small. The description listed her height as 61 inches. Five foot one. Then it all clicked.

  This was the victim they had just found in the park.

  Twenty

  Stallings didn’t know why they were meeting in the lieutenant’s office. He felt that the information he’d gotten from the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children needed to get out to the whole task force. Instead, he, Mazzetti, Lieutenant Hester, and the temporary homicide sergeant were sitting around Rita Hester’s elegant dark oak conference table.

  The printout of the newest victim from the National Center lay in the middle of the table. Her name was Trina Ester. She’d run away from home in Ohio ten months earlier and had made no contact with her family. She’d been a good student, involved in school, then, around the midway point of her junior year, she showed signs of drug use: lethargy, disconnection with her family, mood swings, slipping grades. Her mother’s efforts to help her were met with defiance, and she made a choice to run for greener pastures. Stallings sadly knew that there was no such thing.

  Mazzetti shook his head, “Can you believe this guy’s fucking luck?”

  The lieutenant scowled at him, then turned back to Stallings. “You did a great job identifying her, Stall. The analysts were going to start scouring the country today. We had them pretty bogged down with local leads from the community college yesterday. The media doesn’t have the first clue about our resources and passes on that ignorance to the general public. They think we can snap our fingers for DNA or have enough people to cover every lead in a few minutes.” She shook her head. “I wish we were allowed to punch those assholes at Channel Eleven.”

  Stallings just nodded, but sensed something else was going on in the room. They weren’t just here because of his ID of the victim.

  The lieutenant sighed and said, “Stall, you got any idea how the media knew we were at the community college?”

  He shook his head and said, “My guess is someone out there called it in.”

  “That would be my guess too except that you were mentioned as the lead on this case. You by name.” Her voice took a slight rise in volume at the end.

  “What are you implying?”

  “I’m not implying anything. I’m asking. Detective Stallings, did you have any contact with the media in reference to this case?”

  “No.” He knew not to elaborate. Just as he knew Rita Hester’s code for him to keep his mouth shut was to start a sentence with his title. On the street she used to say, “Officer Stallings, did we take a two-hour lunch?” in front of a sergeant
and he knew not to fess up. There were times to admit things and times to keep your mouth shut. Right now he had nothing to admit to but knew this inquiry was serious.

  Mazzetti slapped the table. “Bullshit. This has your name written all over it.”

  Stallings ignored the excited detective and turned toward the lieutenant. “Is that all you needed me for?”

  “You got any new leads?”

  “I’m looking for a prescription drug dealer named Ernie.”

  “You’ll keep Detective Mazzetti fully informed?”

  “I have so far, haven’t I, Tony?” He contained a smile.

  “I guess.”

  The lieutenant said, “Can we support you in any way?” She gave him a slight smile to tell him she was enjoying torturing Tony Mazzetti a little.

  “Yes, ma’am. Can I take Patty with me?”

  Mazzetti sprang to his feet. “No, you fucking can’t.” His voice had more of an edge than usual.

  The lieutenant said, “What Mazzetti means is that she’s on another assignment. She’s on her way to Gainesville to discuss some forensic aspects of the case.”

  Stallings nodded, not asking for another partner. If he couldn’t have Patty he preferred to be left alone.

  Patty Levine had driven her county-issued Ford Freestyle down 301 from I-10 to Gainesville earlier in the morning, saving a few extra minutes to have coffee with her gymnastics coach from her days on the team ten years ago. Unlike academic advisers in other areas, gymnastics coaches were never too disappointed you didn’t find a job in the field. Any occupation where you always peak before your twentieth birthday is a dead end anyway. Coaches are usually happy to see their former athletes healthy and happy and in this case she would’ve liked Patty to be married and having children by now, but she hid the disappointment about as well as Patty’s mother. It showed, but didn’t hurt their relationship.

  Patty was a success in a field where it could be hard for a woman to excel. That success gave her a satisfaction most people missed in life. She knew what her mom and others expected, but she’d start a family when she was ready. Right now she liked how she could focus on an investigation and make a name for herself at the S.O. When the time was right she’d focus on her personal life, and she knew she’d be just as good of a mother as she was a cop.

  For a change Patty didn’t openly flinch at the line of questions about her love life. She’d been on a date last night for the first time in months. She ate real food at a real restaurant. She’d even kissed a man she found attractive. There was some regret at ending the evening right there and sending the puppy dog-faced Tony Mazzetti home after a five-minute-long good-night kiss. He obviously wanted to stay but had been a gentleman and took a gracious exit. Patty noted that he hadn’t called her yet today. His tough luck.

  The chat with her former coach had brought up enough unpleasant memories of competitions that she took a Xanax with her second cup of coffee. The way things were going at work and at night, she didn’t even think about weaning herself from the pills just now. She realized it took more and more Ambien to knock her out at night, and that concerned her, but she felt as if she had a handle on everything else.

  After wandering around the campus she had known so well, she found Williamson Hall across Stadium Road from Florida Field, known as the “Swamp” to every college football fan in the country. She’d spent many Saturday nights in the Swamp, her mood tied to the football team, like every other student caught up in the fall exercise in futility. No matter how much she cheered, win or lose, she discovered the Gators football record had very little impact on her life.

  After asking several receptionists and students, Patty found the office of Jonas Fuller, one of the foremost experts on particles and commercial geological issues. Or as the detectives back at the office called him, “The sand guy.” Now she sat across from him with the two vials containing a few specks of sand each that had been sent down here as soon as they were collected from the last victim Monday.

  The fifty-five-year-old professor had the tough, weather-beaten look of a man who had spent his life in the hot tropical sun of some country rich in geologic history. She could almost picture him in an Indiana Jones hat with a bullwhip wrapped in a tight ring on his belt.

  The lean older man smirked and said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a cop that looks like you.”

  “I guess you’ve never been to Jacksonville and crossed my patrol zone.”

  He let out a laugh and stood up, showing his loose shirt and muscular forearms. “I usually do this kind of consulting for free. I like to work out fees in different ways.” He eased to the end of the table. “I can say without a doubt that these two separate sources of the particles are from the same area. It’s an ornamental sand produced in Racine, Wisconsin. I put all the manufacturing information in my report.” He stepped around the corner of the table and crept up next to Patty, who remained silent and still in her chair.

  She could smell his cologne and feel the heat of his body as he leaned his face down parallel to hers. “Now it’s your job to find a way to get the report from me without costing your department a dime. Any ideas?”

  Patty thought about this creep around freshmen coeds and what John Stallings would do to him. It made her shudder a little. She wasn’t Stall and didn’t always agree with his methods. She liked to teach people lessons another way.

  She turned and said, “I’m not sure I catch your meaning, Grandpa. Do you mean like you want me to rub your bunions or help you trim the hair in your ears?” She could feel the heat from his face as it flushed red.

  The professor stood, tried to compose himself, walked stiffly back to his side of the table opposite her, and said, “No, that’s quite all right. Sorry for any misunderstanding.” He slid across a three-page stapled report and added, “My bet would be the sand came from a big distributor like Home Depot or Lowe’s.”

  Patty stood and smiled. “Thanks so much, Professor Fuller.”

  “No, it was my pleasure, really.” He started to run his fingers through his long gray hair, then stopped short, realizing how Patty viewed him.

  She said, “I’ll make sure you’re recognized for your work.”

  “Anything to assist the police.”

  Patty couldn’t help it and started to laugh out loud as she walked through the door to the front of the building. She had another lead.

  William Dremmel tried not to act any differently toward Lori while he sorted bottles of newly arrived pills, but she was clearly uncomfortable around him right now. He had made it through most of the morning when she finally appeared in the back like a ghost. No noise or warning.

  “Have you asked your waitress friend out yet?”

  He played dumb. “Who?”

  “That cute little curvy thing at the sports bar.”

  “Oh, her. I like the food at the bar, but that’s it. Why? Did you think I wanted to go out with her?”

  “Don’t treat me like an idiot, Billy. I can sense that kind of stuff. I always could. I know when people are made for each other. I know when married couples are gonna divorce. And I know you got a thing for Stacey the waitress.”

  “You even remembered her name. Good for you. But I have no intention of asking her out.” He looked up at her and missed her usual smile. “Can you tell when you’ve met the right person?”

  “No, it doesn’t work on me. I’ve made more bad choices than President Bush. But I thought…”

  “What’d you think?”

  She turned. “I got someone at my register. I gotta go.”

  He felt relief at her sudden exit because his life was complicated enough without juggling a relationship with a conscious woman.

  Twenty-one

  Stallings threw a plain, blue Windbreaker on to cover his gun and badge on his hip. He could’ve concealed them better, but he wasn’t undercover, just not advertising that he was a cop. This was where “Ernie” the prescription pusher was supposed to hang out as well as
a good-sized group of street kids. In the light jacket’s pocket he had photographs of the dead girls. This was his specialty: missing girls. He’d turn up something.

  He parked his unmarked county Impala in the vast, crowded lot of the Gateway Shopping Center and started walking over to Carlton Street. Although most of the homeless people didn’t hang out on the actual street, Stallings knew there were a number of camps in the bushes and brush just off the road as well as a couple of houses in the area that attracted street people for different reasons. He knew because he had entered several of them over the past two years looking for runaways.

  A group of eight young people were gathered near the road in front of a house known for its drug traffic and high occupancy. He heard the young man closest to him say, “Look out, it’s a cop.”

  There was some movement, then a female voice said, “Don’t worry, it’s Detective Stall. He’s looking for someone and it’s none of us.”

  Stallings eased up to the crowd and smiled. “Hey, Sallie.”

  “Hey, Stall. Who you looking for?”

  “All I got is a couple of photos.” Some of the others had backed away from him. A tall, wiry youth had eased back to the house. Stallings took a moment to memorize his face and clothing. Anyone moving away from him like that needed a second look. It might even be Ernie, but he didn’t want a dustup out here, so he let the youth leave. He pulled out the photographs of Trina Ester and Lee Ann Moffitt and gave them to Sallie to pass around the crowd. A request to look at the pictures coming from her was more productive than if he had sent them around. All he needed was someone who knew them and saw them get in a car.

  After a few minutes and a decent examination by everyone, Sallie looked back up at him. The leathery skin around her eyes and neck showed how the sun had aged her the last couple of years. He had once thought she was a runaway; now the street dweller looked more like the mother of a runaway.