The Perfect Woman

by James Andrus

  “That’s it.”

  “Thanks, Maggie, I’ll go over and check myself.”

  “I knew you were the right person to call.”

  Forty-nine

  The Shand’s Jacksonville Medical Center was oddly slow tonight even with the reporters crowding the visitors’ lounge hoping to get some kind of scoop from the survivors of the Bag Man. Tony Mazzetti had been here on a Saturday night when there was a full moon and the place looked more like a zoo than a hospital.

  Now, in one of the small cubicles off the emergency room, he stood next to Patty Levine, holding her small hand while a nurse came in to check on her. They wanted to admit her for observation, but Patty insisted on spending the night in her own home. He couldn’t blame her after what she’d been through.

  Patty hadn’t said much, but she didn’t let go of his hand either, so he knew he was doing the right thing. He just followed wherever they wheeled her, and she seemed happy he was there. He still wondered what was happening with the search for William Dremmel, who he now knew was the Bag Man, and had given him the slip for longer than he cared to admit. Now some rookie road patrol guy would pull over the killer on a fucking traffic violation and be a hero. Shit.

  Then his phone rang. He had ignored most calls tonight, because he knew it was just some stupid command staff member wanting an update. This time he saw it was Stallings on the line, so he answered.

  Mazzetti said, “Whaddya got, Stall?”

  “Tony, I have a reliable tip that he’s out on U.S. 1 at a hotel. Why don’t you meet me there and we’ll see if we can scoop this asshole up.”

  “You really think he’s there?”

  “One of my old runaways ran into him and gave him a motel that’s safe to stay in.”

  Mazzetti’s heart skipped as he considered his chance to really make a splash. If he could catch this guy after being the lead on the case, every news station in town would want to talk to him. A smile broke across his face as he considered the possibilities.

  Stallings said, “I’m heading to the J-Ville Motel.”

  Mazzetti was about to say he’d be there, then he looked down at Patty and saw the fear in her eyes at the thought of his leaving. She squeezed his hand tighter, and that kept him from answering.

  Over the phone Stallings said, “Tony, you gonna meet me?”

  Then Mazzetti surprised himself. “No, Stall, Patty needs someone here.”

  There was a brief silence, then Stallings said, “Goddamn, Tony, you might be human after all.”

  For the first time Mazzetti smiled at something Stallings said.

  Before he called in reinforcements, Stallings planned on checking out the small motel. He drove past it slowly twice but only saw an old Ford pickup and a semitractor with no trailer sitting in the lot of the J-Ville Inn. The motel had two wings jutting out from the office in the center.

  Stallings drove past one last time and parked around the corner in the lot of a self-storage place. He pulled his shirt over his gun and badge, then approached from the road, walking along the covered walkway next to the first six rooms. He noticed a light on inside the farthest room marked with a number 6 as he crept toward the office. The rooms on either side of the office also had lights on. One had the pickup truck parked in front of it, and the other had the semitractor at a funny angle in front of it.

  Stallings was in the glass door and standing quietly before the clerk looked up from an old TV with a half-blown speaker. Craig Ferguson’s Scottish accent seemed to rattle the torn speaker fragment even more.

  The clerk had the dark scowl of a pissed-off redneck. Longish greasy hair combed straight back with loose strands spiraling out around his ear. His dark eyes studied Stallings as he made him for a cop immediately.

  The clerk said, “What are you doin’ here?”

  Stallings showed his badge just so there was no question who he was.

  The clerk said, “I know, I could tell the second I looked up. What’s the po-po need here in this shithole?”

  Stallings held up a photo of William Dremmel. “You seen this guy tonight?”

  The man didn’t hesitate to shake his head. “Naw, been real slow here tonight.”

  “Let me see your registrations.”

  “You got a warrant?”

  “No, but you’ll have one on you if you don’t show me your registrations right now.”

  The man was surprised at the aggression. He was apparently used to dealing with the younger, more polite police officers of the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office. Stallings stepped behind the half counter where the TV sat.

  “Okay, okay, hang on.” The clerk handed him a book with the list of occupants for the night.

  Stallings snatched it from the man’s hand, keeping his eyes on him as he set it on the counter and looked down to see two names, Bob Ura in room one and Dennis Bustle in room seven. Stallings flipped back a few pages to see how names had been entered the last few days. They had nine customers yesterday and six the day before. He looked up at the clerk, who still held a defiant look.

  Stallings said, “You only have these two tonight?”

  “Yep.”

  “So you have ten rooms empty?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why was there a light on in room 6 at the end?”

  The man hesitated and eyed the phone at the same time as Stallings.

  Fifty

  John Stallings was stuck. He knew he couldn’t leave this asshole clerk alone or he’d warn Dremmel in room 6. He called the sheriff’s office to send by a marked unit but knew he couldn’t wait. He grabbed the ring with room keys and pulled the reluctant clerk from the office and had him follow down the walkway as they approached room 6.

  Stallings turned and asked, “There’s no back door?”

  The sullen clerk shook his head.

  “You wouldn’t be screwin’ with me again, would you?” He backed it up with a “no bullshit” look.

  “Naw, no back door, and I think he’s in there alone.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that when I asked in the office?”

  “You’re a cop. Never help the cops.”

  “I respect that kind of commitment. Now sit down right here and don’t move.”

  The clerk sat in front of room 4 and crossed his legs. He coughed once, not bothering to cover his mouth. The smoker’s hack sounded toxic already.

  Stallings drew his pistol and continued on toward the last room.

  William Dremmel was almost asleep when he heard a loud, hacking cough outside. The noise made his eyes pop open. He sat up quickly, reaching for the stun gun on the small night table next to the bed. Then he saw the shadow of someone crossing the window in front of his room. There was no back door. His head swiveled to each side, then up and down searching for an egress. His heartbeat picked up as he felt the walls close in. How had he been found? He clutched the stun gun, stood up, and moved toward the bathroom looking for any possible crevice in the bare room in which to hide.

  He swallowed hard as he saw the door handle to the room jiggle.

  John Stallings found the key marked “6” and slid it into the lock, while he said quietly, “Is this the day that changes my life?” He had his Glock in his right hand and turned his head every couple of seconds to make sure the clerk didn’t move. His heart pounded in his chest as he considered what a bonehead move this was, but he had no choice. He couldn’t risk losing Dremmel.

  As soon as he felt the door lock click open, he shoved the door hard and ducked low, out of the doorway, where he knew he’d be silhouetted by the streetlights. He scanned the room once quickly with his pistol out in front of him, trying to control his breathing.

  There was no one here. Stallings rose slowly with his Glock still out in front of him and crept toward the bathroom and closet at the far corner of the room, trying not to give away his position. When he reached the short wall that separated the bedroom from the closet and bathroom he paused, took in a breath, and then dart
ed around the barrier, gun up and ready to fire.

  Still nothing. The small closet was completely bare.

  He could see into the open bathroom and it appeared empty. He stood to one side and used his left hand to push open the door until it clinked with the wall. He flipped on the single light and checked all the way inside, letting his eyes sweep the tub, toilet, and back wall.

  Clear.

  Where could this asshole be? Had Stallings’s luck just run out and he missed Dremmel? Had he gone to eat?

  He had turned to check on the clerk, when he noticed the paneling inside the bare closet. Something didn’t look right.

  William Dremmel had pulled the loose panel back in place, covering him in the hole inside the closet just as the door to the motel room swung open. It was tight and dark, but he could stay in the narrow gap for a while.

  He waited, knowing someone was in the room, then, after a few seconds, sensing the person move past the closet into the bathroom. It had to be a cop.

  He gripped the stun gun up close to his chest and tried to breathe silently, which was harder than he expected when he concentrated on it. There was no hidden tunnel, just a gap in the wall where he pressed up against the drywall of the main part of the motel room. An insect scurried across his face, but he didn’t move or make a sound.

  He heard the light and fan in the bathroom come on. Whoever it was, they were close. A tremor ran through his body as the events of the day caught up to him. He didn’t think his shudder caused any noise as he continued to sulk in his cubbyhole.

  Stallings paused, peering into the closet as well as listening for anything unusual. He could hear the light traffic trickle by on the street and the far-off sound of a boom box as the bass pounded off buildings. Then he noticed it. A slight dip in the design of the wall where the ancient paneling didn’t match up just right.

  Briefly he considered just unloading a few rounds into the wall. Instead, he reached in with his left hand and probed the panel. He stepped into the closet, pistol ready, and started to pull the panel when he saw some movement, heard a familiar clatter, then felt a tremendous jolt of electricity run though his arm.

  The shock threw him back out of the closet as he lost his equilibrium.

  Then he saw Dremmel burst out of the closet, leap over him, and dart toward the door.

  Stallings rolled to one side, and, still disoriented, rose to his knees then onto wobbly legs.

  He heard the buzz of the stun gun again and a scream, raised his pistol, and stumbled around the closet into the motel room.

  Fifty-one

  Dremmel got a partial shock on the arm of the guy in the closet, then didn’t waste any time racing for freedom. He leaped the fallen, stunned man, zoomed through the room, and aimed for the open door. Without breaking stride he passed through the doorway, then slammed into someone coming inside, colliding with terrific force. He didn’t hesitate and brought the stun gun up to the man’s chest and squeezed the trigger.

  The shock sent them in opposite directions. When he landed, Dremmel looked across the cement walkway and realized he had just sent the motel clerk into a violent convulsion on the ground.

  Dremmel had started to rise to his feet when he heard someone from the motel doorway say, “Move and you’re a dead man.”

  William Dremmel looked up into the barrel of a semiautomatic pistol held by a tough-looking man with a badge clipped to his belt.

  Dremmel paused and said, “Who are you?”

  “John Stallings, JSO.”

  Then Dremmel made his last pitch at freedom.

  Stallings had this creep at gunpoint and he’d identified himself. But instead of considering the best way to hold him until backup arrived he found himself assessing his chances of shooting this stinking pile of shit and getting away with it. He edged closer, his pistol still up.

  Dremmel surprised him by driving up on powerful legs like a nose tackle coming into the offensive line. His arms up in front of his face, he struck Stallings hard, shoving him back into the room, knocking the pistol loose.

  Stallings tumbled backward onto the hard floor with Dremmel landing on top of him. He braced for another jolt from the stun gun. Nothing. Just the younger man trying to stabilize himself to land a punch.

  Stallings drove his knee into Dremmel’s groin. He heard the gasp and yelp so familiar to any male ever hit below the belt. He slid away from Dremmel and felt his pistol on the floor as he did. He grabbed it and jumped into a crouch, raising the gun at the same time.

  He yelled, “Don’t move.”

  Dremmel froze, gasping for air.

  Slowly Stallings backed away, giving himself more room and respecting Dremmel’s athletic ability. He stood and looked down at his prisoner.

  Dremmel seemed to recover from the blow to his groin and looked up at Stallings with defiance in his eyes.

  Stallings glanced out the door and saw the clerk was still on the ground, virtually unconscious. This was the exact situation he wanted. Just the two of them, isolated, with no witnesses. He thought about Lee Ann Moffitt, Tawny Wallace, and Trina Ester. That old anger started welling up in him. He let himself wonder about his own daughter as he looked at this predator who had tried to claim two more victims, one of them his own partner, Patty. He thought about her in the hospital, then raised the pistol. He wished it was a revolver so he could cock it and let this asshole think about what was coming. It wasn’t even murder. It was justice.

  Dremmel stared up silently.

  Maybe this is what he wanted? Then Stallings hesitated just long enough to think about Patty and her desire for him to think through his violent tendencies. Now was not the time to be indecisive. He kneeled down so he was the same height as Dremmel. He didn’t want an ambitious crime scene tech to figure out the trajectory of the bullet made it look like an execution. He already had a stun gun burn on his arm and a lump on his head from being knocked back by Dremmel. No one would ask questions unless he got stupid.

  Dremmel’s expression never changed as Stallings went down on his left knee, keeping the front sights of the pistol in the center of the killer’s face.

  Stallings had to ask. “What pushed you to do it?”

  Dremmel shrugged, showing no concern. “You tell me. Looks like we’re not that different.”

  “Yes, we are.”

  Fifty-two

  John Stallings dozed off on the hard wooden bench and instantly started dreaming about falling asleep while on patrol. It was a common dream among cops, but this time it was closer to the truth. He was still on duty even if he hadn’t had a break in more than twenty-four hours. Now he felt the relative quiet of the room and the lack of constant motion catch up to him.

  He’d avoided the crush of media, but he could hear the crowd of reporters in the outer room. He could imagine what the line of huge television cameras looked like ready to snatch any possible footage of him as he left. He just hoped none of them had managed to slide by his house and bother his family.

  A hand on his back made him sit up straight and turn to see Rita Hester smiling. That wasn’t a sight he was used to, at least not since she’d gone into management. She sat next to him, bumping him over on the bench without a word.

  They sat in silence until she said, “You did a great thing, Stall.”

  “Woulda been better if we stopped him a few weeks ago.”

  “You could look at it like that, but we did the best we could. You need to lighten up on yourself. Not everything is your fault. But you’re the one who stopped the Bag Man. That’s something to be proud of.”

  He just nodded then asked, “Is Mazzetti coming?”

  The lieutenant shook her head. “Detective Mazzetti has elected to stay at the hospital with Patty.”

  Stallings smiled for the first time. “Good for him.”

  “If it was Christmas, I’d call it a goddamn miracle.”

  “Mazzetti isn’t so bad.”

  “Let me tell you something no lieutenant should ever
admit about one of her troops.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I think Tony Mazzetti is a complete asshole.”

  “That’s not a secret.”

  “He’s also a top-notch detective, so as a boss I need him around. Just like I need you around.”

  “I wasn’t planning on leaving.”

  “I mean in homicide.”

  Now John Stallings stared at his boss. “I don’t know about that, Rita.”

  “Maybe in a coposition with missing persons. There are a lot of cases that overlap.” She sat quietly for a minute and added, “Just think about it.”

  “All I can think about now is going home.”

  “You’ve earned it.”

  Someone walked past them. Stallings looked up and saw it was Ronald Bell.

  Bell smiled, gave him a thumbs-up, and said, “I knew you’d do it.”

  Stallings didn’t even bother with a response.

  Rita Hester said, “No, you didn’t, Ron. You told me three days ago he wouldn’t be any help on the case.”

  He bowed his head and turned to walk away.

  Rita was about to blast him verbally again when the rear door to the room opened. She snapped her head toward the back of the large room and she nudged Stallings, “There’s your man.”

  He craned his neck to see William Dremmel, in an orange JSO prisoner jumpsuit, shackled at the ankle and handcuffed through a front waist chain, being led into the crowded courtroom with armed deputies on either side of him. Dremmel had no expression as a murmur rippled through the courtroom audience.

  Stallings had made a lot of hard choices lately and figured he’d pay for some of them soon, but the choice to bring Dremmel in alive might pay off in positive karma in the long run. Thank God for Patty and her efforts to reform him.

  He stayed just long enough to hear the judge say, “No bond.” A sympathetic bailiff let Stallings slip out through a rear door to avoid the TV cameras.