The Perfect Woman

by James Andrus

  Larry, the manager, said, “Ma’am, I can’t think of nothin’ as important as catching this Bag Man. We’ll help all we can and I won’t say a word, I swear.”

  Patty flashed him that perfect smile and squeezed his arm to let him know he was part of the team. It was important to make people feel like they are working with the police instead of working for the police. Mazzetti didn’t know if this guy cared about the investigation that much, but he wasn’t about to let a little hottie like Patty be disappointed. The manager scrambled to find a sheet of paper so even the stupid cops could figure out how the process worked.

  “Each store now,” he started in a voice too high for his frame, “gets in a shipment of ten to fifty bags depending on how many the store sold in the previous month.”

  Mazzetti marveled at how much effort the man put into his impromptu lecture on the finer points of decorative sand distribution. He wished he had that kind of power over people, where they helped for reasons other than necessity. He just hoped avenues of investigation like this were kept quiet so the investigation could proceed unhindered.

  He listened to more details about buying with credit cards or cash and how Patty could find out how many bags were sold and when. She really wanted to know who bought the sand.

  “Only way to tell is if they used a credit card. Even then it’d take a good long while,” said the manager. The he added, “Could be talking about a lot of people if we count all the stores in the area and go back a few months.”

  Mazzetti started trying to figure an answer for that. This was a piece of the puzzle that might yet fall into place.

  John Stallings had never been comfortable in gatherings like this. Even though the concept of dinner meetings made sense, he didn’t like missing meals with his family. But a squad dinner at the Law and Order Pub, less than a mile from the PMB, was a tradition most units kept, even if it was just the occasional meal to boost morale.

  Tonight nine detectives and no management were spread along a long table in the rear of the pub that was generally frequented by cops. Right now the bar held only identified Sheriff’s Office personnel so they could speak somewhat freely as each detective caught everyone else up to date on their aspect of the serial killer investigation.

  Patty had explained how they might be able to track the purchasers of the sand found on two of the victims. She’d spent the afternoon at a Home Depot, and now, with her natural intelligence and inquisitiveness, she sounded like an expert on how products moved through the giant retailer.

  Mazzetti looked down the table from his position at the end and said, “The question now is whether this is a good use of resources.”

  Stallings considered the reasonable question as all the other detectives looked to assess the pros and cons as well.

  Luis Martinez, always one to move forward, shook his head. “Hell, no, we need to be banging our snitches’ heads. Someone has seen something and is talking about it.”

  Mazzetti said, “That’s a good point, Luis, and that’s why we’ll be offering a reward of fifty grand for info starting tonight.”

  Someone down the table whistled.

  “This Home Depot lead is just another route.” He was about to say something else when he noticed someone standing by the bathroom a few feet from the other end of the table. He recognized him. “Hey, Sarge, what’s up?”

  The big man in a blue plaid shirt gave a quick wave and said, “Didn’t mean to interrupt. I was gonna say hey to Stall.”

  Stallings smiled at his friend Rick Ellis’s reluctance to approach the table. He spoke up and said, “Just a dinner meeting, Rick.”

  “I know y’all are busy so I’ll move along. You guys gotta catch this asshole before the whole city gets spooked.”

  Mazzetti said, “I’m working on it.”

  Stallings wanted to correct him and say “we” were working on it but that was just Mazzetti. As much as he hated to admit it, the guy had run a decent case and kept everyone on task.

  Mazzetti told everyone about Trina Ester working at the Wendy’s, making the whole lead sound like something he developed, not that Stallings had seen her there.

  Luis Martinez asked, “Why didn’t they report her as missing?”

  Mazzetti said, “Wendy’s isn’t like the S.O. The manager just thought she quit and didn’t tell him. Happens more than half the time.”

  Martinez said, “So she didn’t leave with anyone Saturday?”

  “Nope. I even talked to a couple of the counter people who worked the same shift. She ate there and checked out around nine. No fanfare, just, ‘good-bye, I’ll see you tomorrow.’”

  They paused in their meeting as the waiter brought over a tray of assorted hamburgers, sandwiches, sodas, and chips. Unlike the old days before Stallings had become a cop, there wasn’t much drinking on duty anymore. He knew that he was headed back out onto the streets for a few hours after dinner and he didn’t need the guilt or effects of a couple of beers.

  He was pleased to see everyone else agreed. As he thought about that and looked down the table at Patty, he realized he’d never seen her drink.

  That was a dedicated cop.

  William Dremmel sat in his silent Nissan Quest with the driver’s window down and the cool Atlantic breeze pushing the majority of bugs right past him. He was only a block from Stacey Hines’s little apartment, which was attached to a larger, single-family house. The space that normally held her Escort was empty, and he was waiting for her to show. His plan this time was a little more direct. Grab her and take off. He had a variation of chloroform, which he had made himself and tested first on Mr. Whiskers IV, then on his mother. Neither knew what had happened and awoke an hour later. The cat looked a little dazed, and his mom complained of a headache until the next day, but he knew the stuff worked.

  The rear of the van was empty except for a moving blanket and some heavy nylon rope, both items he could explain to any cop who might stop him. The tiny bottle of chloroform looked like a commercial nasal spray, which made it easy to spritz onto the washcloth he had to go over Stacey’s lovely, delicate face. He’d prefer to talk to her for a while and interact, but his patience was wearing thin. He couldn’t even concentrate on simple tasks anymore because she had filled up so much of his head.

  Another lesson he’d learned recently had taught him to have a knife handy. His wasn’t a large suspicious knife, just a folding Gerber with a sharp, serrated edge. He even knew the target now if he ever had to do it again: center chest and neck. Somehow he didn’t have the impression that Stacey would ever have the bad manners to act like Trina did before he was forced to deal with her. But he was prepared and flexible. That was the key to success in any endeavor.

  He checked his watch and saw it was just after eight with no sign of her. She wasn’t at the Fountain of Youth either. A pang of jealousy, like any boyfriend might have, popped up in him as he wondered what she might be doing. Did she have another man? Then a much worse thought had hit him—what if she had been lonely and moved back to Ohio?

  Now his main urge was to enter her apartment through the back where no one would see him and see what was left around. He had to know if she had moved. He didn’t think she could do it so quickly, but maybe he didn’t know her like he thought he did. He knew all about her. Her checking account back in Ohio, her power consumption, her rent, and even the grocery store she shopped at, but maybe, just maybe, he didn’t know her that well.

  As he considered hopping out of the van and easing into her apartment he noticed some movement in his rearview mirror. He’d been so preoccupied with what Stacey could be doing that he’d gone soft on being aware of his surroundings. That was another key to avoiding detection. No one should be able to tell the cops they saw his van or give a description.

  Now he saw that an elderly man was standing almost directly behind his van with a pipsqueak dog on a leash. Dremmel froze and waited to see what the man’s movements would be. From the streetlight all he could make out was t
he stoop of age, a light jacket like old men used to play shuffleboard, a cane, and the leash. From his side mirror he saw the dog sniffing near the light pole directly behind his van. The dog had a tiny shirt that covered its chest and two front legs and its movements seemed jittery like all miniature dogs’.

  Dremmel swallowed and consciously held still while the man lingered behind the van. He knew the old man had spotted him and wondered why he was just sitting there. Hell, old people like that, with nothing to do but walk their dogs, might even write down his tag, then he’d have to forget about Stacey. Nothing could happen to her if there was a record of his presence in her neighborhood.

  Give up on Stacey? Not after all he had been through. He reached into his front pocket and felt the weight of his new Gerber knife. He pulled it out and used his thumb to pop open the vicious blade as his eyes cut back up to the mirror and saw the old man in the same spot.

  He knew what he had to do.

  Twenty-three

  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 yea
rs 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.