The Perfect Death (6 page)

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Authors: James Andrus

BOOK: The Perfect Death
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Stallings said, “Her name is Maria. Helen is your daughter.” He said it lightly, hoping it would clear his father's head.
The elder Stallings gave a grin and a quick wink. “Just pulling your leg, son.” He tapped the side of his head and said, “I'm as sharp as ever.”
Even with the comment from his father, Stalling decided to use the visit to make sure the old man hadn't lost a few steps mentally.
Buddy enjoyed the few minutes he spent talking with Mary. She explained the difference between the dental hygienist and assistant as well as several of the key points of protecting your teeth.
She said, “You have good teeth and a very friendly smile.”
“Thank you very much. I appreciate the compliment. How long have you worked here?”
“Almost ten years.”
“There is no way. You must've started here when you were fourteen years old.” He wasn't just flattering her; she did have a very youthful-looking face.
“You are a charmer. I've been here since I was twenty-two years old and graduated from the program out at the community college.”
He liked her friendly manner and now that he looked, she had a few wrinkles, which gave her face a very gentle character. He said, “Maybe we could grab a cup of coffee sometime?”
Her smile already told him his answer. “I'd love to. I'm on vacation for two weeks starting Friday so maybe Friday evening. Otherwise we'd have to wait nine days until I got back from my cruise to Cancún.”
“Who you going on the cruise with?”
“I'm trying something new and spending the first three nights of the cruise alone, then meeting three girlfriends when they get on in Cancún. It was the only way we could all work out being together and I didn't want to waste a half a week of vacation. It's very exciting.”
Buddy did the math and realized this was an opportunity he couldn't ignore. As long as he kept things quiet, no one would realize he'd be the last person she saw before she missed her departure. That would give him several days to spend with the lovely Mary before he had to worry about anyone missing her.
He looked up and forced a gentle smile on his face, saying, “I'd love to meet you somewhere Friday evening.”
TEN
It was early evening and Patty Levine sat on the floor of her Jacksonville condo watching a Rodney Yee DVD and trying to master one of the more advanced yoga poses involving balancing on her hands with her torso lifted off the blue mat on top of the light carpet. She breathed in through her mouth and out through her nose, trying to fill her belly with air as well as her diaphragm. She cleared her mind and did everything Rodney said to, and still she felt like shit.
Patty plopped down onto the mat, placing her right foot across her left leg, and twisted her whole upper body, catching her reflection in the mirror of the open closet door in the hallway. She had no idea why she was so critical of herself. She generally didn't care what others thought and her parents were perfectly reasonable about most aspects of her life. It wasn't until she had gotten serious about gymnastics and started to compete at a high level that she expected more and more of herself. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail and although it wasn't the most glamorous look, she liked her blond hair. But she'd always been self-conscious about her wide-set eyes and the scar at the bridge of her nose she'd received falling off a balance beam her senior year in high school. She bared her teeth to her image in the mirror and, despite most of them being straight and white, all she focused on was her left incisor, which turned slightly outward. She shook her head in disgust and followed the next move on the DVD. That Rodney Yee could really spread his legs.
She muttered, “This is bullshit,” knowing it had a lot more to do with her own choices in life than with anything Mr. Yee was telling her on the DVD she had picked up at Target for $19.95. She could remember a time, before she started to compete nationally in gymnastics, when she had enjoyed all kinds of exercise and stretching. Now it seemed like one more thing to cram into her already busy day. But she knew the real issue, the core of her problem tonight, was her back pain and her desire to refrain from using one of the assortment of painkillers she had stashed in her bathroom medicine cabinet. She'd let her normal prescription run out but couldn't bring herself to dispose of the random pills she'd acquired over the years. Soon those would be exhausted too. That was why she was forced to do yoga in an effort to relieve lower back pain that had been building since midmorning.
The frantic pace she had kept with Stallings all day didn't help her in any way either. They'd hit a dozen different places where Leah Tischler might have been seen. The only person who'd been of any help was Liz Dubeck, the manager of one of the downtown motels. Patty could tell Liz was attracted to Stallings's good looks and charming manner. That wasn't anything unusual. What surprised Patty was Stallings's interest in the pretty motel manager. Sure, he didn't say anything and avoided any questions about her after they left the motel, but Patty knew her partner as well as anyone and this was the first time since his separation he'd shown any interest at all in another woman.
Patty twisted and crossed her legs in an effort to stretch out the middle of her back. There was definitely an improvement, but she could feel the constant throbbing still coming from lower down her back. If she'd known this would be the result when she was thirteen and practicing one hundred backflips a day, she might not have had the enthusiasm that didn't wane until her second year at the University of Florida. But that was her nature. She threw herself into anything she undertook.
The fact that Tony was working late and she had no real hope of seeing him for anything more than a few minutes over the next week didn't help her mood. Something just wasn't right with their relationship. She glanced at the Krazy Kat clock on her wall and realized it wasn't even eight o'clock yet and she was starting to feel anxious about going to bed. This would be the fourth night in a row she didn't sleep well, unless she took her usual dose of Ambien. And that's what she wanted to do in the worst way. She'd had to take Xanax the last few days as pressure mounted with the discovery of two bodies being linked to one killer. The Xanax helped her get through the day; it was the Ambien that helped her get through the night. And in two or three hours she'd have to make a decision: go another night with almost no sleep and drag through the day, or pop an Ambien and feel pharmaceutically groggy until ten o'clock in the morning. The choices weren't great. She wondered how Stallings functioned so well with as little sleep as he got each night. There was more than enough evidence of his nighttime activities like crawling around different neighborhoods looking for the right lead on a missing person or the tiny piece of forensic evidence that would help identify a killer. Patty also knew he spent a lot of time tracking down leads on his own missing daughter. That was something he couldn't talk about around the sheriff's office because he'd never been assigned to the case. He never would be; it was his own daughter. But he spent a lot of time on the computer and talking to missing persons detectives all across the country, hoping to find some clue as to what had happened to Jeanie after the Friday she walked away without a word to anyone. Poor John Stallings had a lot more to deal with than Patty did and she felt like he was a pretty good example. He was calm and patient, didn't drink, and never took pills.
Her new attitude had caused her to not renew any of her pain-pill prescriptions and now here she was in the early evening, anxious, alone, worried about sleeping, and in pain. Maybe she should've thought this out a little better.
 
 
Buddy had cheated and used a mold to blow the glass containers for his work of art. He used a mold so each container would slip into the slot it was made for. Right now he had an extra two containers with lids and rubber gaskets ready to go. Some were a rich blue glass, others a Coca-Cola bottle green. Any of them would make lovely sea glass if they washed up on one of Florida's sandy beaches. He had to have a clock directly above his workbench or he'd lose all track of time when he worked on his glass sculptures.
He ran up and took a quick shower in his apartment and changed into a nice pair of jeans and a button-down shirt. At exactly eight o'clock he heard a car door and the unmistakable rumble of feet on the staircase to the apartment. He felt a sense of dread as he padded to the door across the expensive hardwood floor he had put in two years ago. Somehow having Donna standing in front of her sister made him feel a little better. Buddy almost leaned down and kissed her on the cheek, but once again Cheryl's scowl forced him back. He allowed them to step into the entryway directly in front of his small kitchen.
He started to get annoyed but remembered what the doctor had told him and took a deep breath. At least this time they'd made an appointment and hadn't scared anyone off. He didn't have enough time left to waste potential candidates for his work of art. Cheryl had already cost him a great addition. Even though they had an appointment and were exactly on time, the thought of that woman invading his home pissed him off.
He thought about the precious hours he had spent with Jessie and how he would've felt if they had interrupted him. He had gotten to know the sweet girl from Ocala even after he had to secure her in a chair for more than an hour before he finally used his braided cord. Thinking back on the whole incident he felt a pang of guilt. He'd released the cord to allow her to gasp her final breath but had fumbled with the jar and missed it, so he had to do it a second time. He didn't enjoy terrifying someone like that. But there was nothing else he could have done. She'd been a good candidate to that point and he couldn't just let her walk away. Now she rested in the jar at the bottom left of this work of art.
Buddy was shocked when Cheryl allowed her sister to do the talking. This meant Cheryl really wanted him to move out. Donna's pretty eyes and natural body added impact to anything she asked and he found himself more open to what she had to say. She used that quiet little-girl voice of hers.
“We'd like to buy out your lease, Buddy.”
“What if I don't want to?”
“What if we made it worth your while?” She gave him a sweet smile.
He shook his head like he always did.
Apparently that was too much for Cheryl, as she pushed past her sister and poked him in the chest, saying, “Look, asshole, we own this building. Our father left it to us when he died. We have plans for it once you're out of the way.”
He didn't react to her bony finger jammed in his chest. She was like an aggressive drunk in a bar, pushing toward him, doing everything but slurring her words. But he kept calm and said, “Your father may have left you the building, but he leased it to me first. If you thought you could get me out of here through a lawsuit you'd already be in court. I have my reasons for staying and not wanting to move right now. I wish you'd respect them.”
Cheryl spat out a curse, turned, pushed past her sister, and disappeared out the door. He could hear her heavy footfalls on the rickety wooden stairs and heard something in his shop fall over as she stomped out the door he'd left open for them.
Donna shrugged and gave him a slight smile, turned, and followed her sister.
The image of Cheryl standing in front of him was burned in his mind. She had a superficial beauty—the kind of looks that turned heads in some circles—but she had no inner beauty, no soul, and for that reason she'd never be of use for anything worthwhile.
ELEVEN
John Stallings leaned back in the hard chair at the dining-room table of his family's house. As Charlie raced up the stairs to get ready for bed, he rubbed his eyes hard, trying to block out the trouble fractions still seemed to give him. As much as he disliked relearning all the rules of fractions or long division or any other math problems that he helped Charlie with each night, he wouldn't give up one second of his time with his boy to do anything else.
He looked out into the living room at his fourteen-year-old daughter, Lauren, lounging on the sofa watching TV. Occasionally she rolled onto her back and texted someone on her small phone. She said hello when he came in and grunted a couple times to his inquiries, but she'd had very little contact with him other than those basic communications.
Then he got a surprise, something he hadn't seen in over a week and certainly hadn't expected tonight. At the top of the stairs, his wife of nineteen years stood silently staring down at him. She glided down the stairs one at a time like she was unsure of her footing or carrying a fragile piece of glass. She kept a steady pace, taking the chair directly across from him at the dining-room table, sitting with the grace of a dancer.
She didn't say anything as he stared at her beautiful face with her delicate, defined features and shiny dark hair dripping down over her shoulder. There hadn't been one time since the day he met her at the University of South Florida he didn't think she was the prettiest woman he had ever met. Even tonight, with all the acrimony between them, one look made it all melt away.
Her voice was scratchy like she'd just woken up, but she didn't look like she'd had any recent bouts with drugs or alcohol, which had plagued her since before Jeanie had disappeared.
Maria said, “How's it going, John?”
He shrugged. “Charlie's got a pretty good head for numbers.”
“I'm glad somebody does. Thanks for coming over to help him with it.”
“No sweat. I was over visiting my dad anyway.”
“I'm impressed you've tried to work things out with him. I know the kids get a big kick out of seeing him. How's he doing?”
“I'm not sure, to tell you the truth. He seemed confused when I was over there.”
“I can tell you from personal experience that even when you're not drinking or drugging, the effects linger a long, long time. Confusion is the least of an alcoholic's problems.”
For the first time in many months she seemed interested and connected and what she said made sense. He felt better already.
Tony Mazzetti sat quietly in his Crown Vic with Sparky Taylor content reading an issue of
Popular Mechanics
. Mazzetti was almost afraid to engage his new partner in conversation for fear he would learn about something as disturbing as his family not watching TV at night; his organic diet, which had yet to make a dent in his extra eighty-five pounds; his oldest son's ability to deconstruct, then rebuild, any electronic device sold in the United States; or the fact that Jacksonville Sheriff's Office policy drove Sparky's professional life. He enjoyed the chance to think about not only the enormous number of tasks still needed to be completed for his case, but how to move his relationship with Patty further along. How to make it seem completely right again.
It was nine o'clock and he knew the crews had been working almost eighteen hours a day to complete the renovation of this large office building. There were supervisors for every aspect of the job, but tonight he only wanted to speak to one of them. In the construction trailer sitting in front of the hollow building was Joe D'Annunzio, who was also known as Joey Big Balls. Joey Big Balls ran the administration of the construction project, paying vendors and figuring out payroll because he had no building experience whatsoever. No one wanted to screw with Joey Big Balls because, at least down here in Florida, every Italian from New York or New Jersey in the building industry was assumed to be part of the mob. It'd taken Mazzetti years to get used to the suspicious glances he got when locals heard his accent and saw his name written out on credit applications or business cards. It was a relatively mild and benign form of prejudice, which shows like
The Sopranos
hadn't helped one bit.
In the case of Joey Big Balls, Mazzetti knew the real story. He'd been kicked out of the longshoremen's union in New Jersey for his third offense of stealing big-screen TVs from a freight depot in Newark. He'd moved down here and started fresh, first doing manual labor on construction sites but quickly moving up to the ranks to administrator when builders sought to get things done with a glare or a subtle threat. Mazzetti had met him years earlier when he'd been caught for fencing stolen auto parts. To avoid jail time Joey Big Balls had cooperated in the case and given up two different groups who were stealing high-end cars and breaking them down for parts. Joey didn't care about anyone knowing he had an arrest record, but there was no way he'd survive anyone ever finding out he was a snitch. And that's what Mazzetti was counting on today.
Finally it looked like the trailer was empty except for the single light on in the back. Mazzetti turned to Sparky and said, “Looks like it's showtime.”
He didn't wait for an answer; instead he popped out of the Crown Vic, hustled across the street and through the construction site. He was surprised to see that Sparky had kept up with him and was right behind him as he knocked on the door and entered.
The giant man behind the desk at the far end of the trailer didn't look up. All he said was, “I'm done paying out vouchers tonight. I'll be back at noon tomorrow.”
Mazzetti said, “I don't need any money, Joey.”
The fifty-year-old man looked up and focused his red eyes on Mazzetti and Sparky. He didn't smile or show any concern at all. In a flat voice he said, “Whatcha need, Tony?”
Mazzetti eased through the trailer back to the man's cluttered desk. “How are things going, Joey?”
The big man wiped his hand over his face and down his scraggly beard, showing two of his fingers had been broken and never set properly. He sighed and said, “It's a goddamn right-to-work state, how do you think it's going?”
“Jersey is better?”
“At least you knew where you stood with the unions. They may charge three times too much and have to shut down projects, but there was none of this bullshit of hiring guys right off the street or hiring guys you couldn't trust. Sometimes I think the state is stuffed with goddamn morons.”
“Look, Joey, I'm from Brooklyn so I feel like I have a pretty good view of things, and I'll admit the state does have a lot of morons, but after a few years you start to realize the worst morons have come from Jersey or New York.”
Joey shook his head and rephrased his first question. “Can I help you with something, Tony?”
“I need info on a case. You hear about this girl found over in the Dumpster?”
The big man remained silent but nodded his head.
“I'm looking for someone in the construction business who might notice another worker acting funny. Basically I'm asking you to keep your ears open and help us out if you hear anything.”
“If I turned in every felon or guy acting strange, I'd have no drywall or carpet guys left to work with.”
The conversation went back and forth for a few minutes with Joey avoiding any commitment to help. Mazzetti felt his patience start to lag and he stood quickly, shooting the chair back with his legs and leaning in close to Joey Big Balls across the desk. “Don't make me do something we'll both regret, Joey. This is serious.” Then he leaned closer, catching a whiff of the big man's body odor. But out of the corner of his eye he saw Sparky Taylor shaking his head instead of backing him up on the threat.
Joey Big Balls raised both of his hands and said, “I'll start asking some guys quietly and see if I can come up with a name for you, but in return you can't come around here anytime you want.”
“Joey, I don't want to come around here at all, but I don't think you want to feel any responsibility if another girl turns up dead and you're not willing to help us.”
After giving Joey his cell phone number and making his good-byes, Mazzetti headed out of the trailer with Sparky in tow. He turned to his partner and said, “What's with the look back there?”
“I don't agree with those kinds of tactics. They're not prescribed in law or the sheriff's policies. There's a reason we have rules, Tony. You're treating that man like a criminal.”
“Hello. He is a convicted felon and a snitch.”
“Is he a documented source of information?”
“No, I haven't officially listed him as one of my snitches.”
“Then by policy he's only a witness and we don't treat witnesses so poorly.”
“We don't let killers run free either and if we don't find the guy responsible for Kathy Mizell's murder and maybe Leah Tischler's too, he's gonna kill again. And I can't let that happen. That's my fucking policy.”

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