Authors: James Andrus

The Perfect Death (18 page)

BOOK: The Perfect Death

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THIRTY-TWO

John Stallings sat in the doctor's office next to his mother on a small couch while his father reclined in a chair next to the wide, dark oak desk. He felt his mother's small, trembling hand reach across the short gap between them to grab his. As soon as the doctor bustled into his office, Stallings knew what he was going to say. This was obviously not one of those doctors who could detach himself from the patient.

The middle-aged doctor, wearing almost comically thick glasses, tried to buy some time while looking through several pages of a lab report. Finally he looked, first at James Stallings, then over to John on the couch. He started to speak slowly, but it didn't hide his New York accent.

“I'm afraid I have some very bad news. And I don't believe in providing false hope. All the tests seemed to indicate ...”

All Stallings heard was
Blah, blah, blah, blahâAlzheimer's.
Then another phrase he didn't want to hear:
Prepare for the worst
.

Buddy had held the limp body of Lexie in his arms until he felt a change in her body temperature. He was comfortable on the floor of her tiny apartment with her head in his lap and her smooth arms neatly at her sides. He had done nothing lewd or inappropriate as he tried to reassure her that this was for the best and she'd now be recognized for all eternity.

He looked over to the small glass jar he'd set back on a windowsill and smiled, knowing he had another piece of his work of art completed. He'd been careful not to move from this area of the apartment and slid away from her like he was trying to keep from waking her up. He took the jar and glanced around. There was nothing that indicated he'd been in the apartment. He knew the cops had a way of picking up flecks of skin or strands of hair, but he wasn't that concerned about it anymore.

Buddy leaned down, lifted Lexie into his arms, and carried her across the room to the old, ratty couch. He laid her out gently and placed a pillow under her head. He turned the TV on and put the volume high enough that someone might hear it if he leaned against the door. Buddy figured that would buy him a day or two.

He picked up the jar and made one more scan of the room, then looked at the peaceful image of Lexie. That's how she'd be remembered until time itself ended.

It wasn't dark outside yet, but Stallings had the impression it was late. The office was completely empty and he appreciated the few minutes of silence while he sat at his desk and stared at the framed photo of Jeanie. He picked up a photo of Leah Tischler and stared at it for a few minutes. What had happened to the teenager from the wealthy family who lived near the beach? Would they be torn apart by this like his family was torn apart by Jeanie's disappearance? Had his father really seen his granddaughter, or was it the wishful thinking of a sick old man?

The doctor couldn't have been less encouraging and his father couldn't have been less interested in the diagnosis. Maybe it was his career in the military or his time on the streets, knowing that life was short and you shouldn't have any regrets. Either way, his father's Alzheimer's seem to be taking more of a toll on Stallings than the old man.

Stallings looked across his desk at all the information on the Leah Tischler case. He played an MP3 of the girl singing in the choir of the Thomas School. Her mother had provided it, thinking it might motivate him more. She had no idea how much he was motivated on his own. Even with the computer's small speakers he could appreciate the girl's soft, sweet voice. Definitely fit her innocent face.

His desk phone's loud, ancient ringer jolted him out of his trance.

He snatched the receiver, simply saying, “Stallings.”

The bored-sounding receptionist from the main lobby said, “Stall, we got someone down here to see you.” She hung up the phone before he could ask questions.

He trudged down the main stairwell that opened into the lobby. As soon as he opened the door he was shocked to see his visitor.

Liz Dubeck stood up from the hard plastic chair and gave him a tentative, hopeful smile.

Patty Levine felt as if she was operating at half speed all day, as though a fog had fallen over her. A day to recharge felt more like it had sapped her of any energy at all. The minor contact she'd had with the other people in her squad had proved to be disconcerting at best. Tony Mazzetti had virtually ignored her after he got back from the medical examiner's office. She chalked it up to the stress of running a serial-killer investigation. The media had started to talk about the bloody weekend Jacksonville had suffered. The news coverage focused on the discovery of a wealthy local woman's body in the backseat of her Chrysler at Jacksonville Landing.

Patty had heard Luis Martinez, one of the detectives on the case, mention that the big mystery of the crime scene was two different sources of blood. Right now the assumption was the other blood was the killer's. Patty knew the media had latched on to the murder because the victim was extremely attractive and lived in Ponte Vedra Beach. The local news stations rarely covered the story of a murder of a black prostitute or crack addict from Arlington.

Stepping out of the Land That Time Forgot, Patty was surprised to run into Sergeant Zuni and Ronald Bell leaving the lieutenant's office. All three of them stood, frozen, assessing each other. Patty assumed they were uncomfortable after the chance encounter at Gi-Gi's restaurant down in Deerwood Park. But she got an odd vibe and a sharp look from Ronald Bell.

Patty said, “Hey, guys. How's it going?”

There was an awkward silence until Sergeant Zuni cleared her throat and said, “Busy. How about you? You have a good weekend?”

“Not bad. What about you?”

Sergeant Zuni glared over at Ronald Bell, then back to Patty, and said, “Weekend was good, it's today that sucks.”

Patty couldn't miss the murderous stare Sergeant Zuni gave the senior IA investigator.

John Stallings had to admit he liked sitting at the picnic table, staring into Liz Dubeck's beautiful face. The table sat under a small stand of willow trees that overlooked the St. Johns River. Technically it was owned by the condo next to it, but the manager of the condo, a retired NYPD sergeant, opened the beautiful spot to any cop who wanted to walk across the street from the PMB and welcomed them to think of it as their office away from the office. During the day it was rare the table did not have some frustrated detective jabbering on his cell phone. But this time of the evening Stallings and Liz had complete privacy.

Liz reached across a wooden table and took both Stallings's hands in hers. “I thought you might call. I know I'm acting like a schoolgirl, but I felt the chemistry between us.”

“Sorry, I ...” He couldn't come up the combination of words that would explain how he felt about her or why he couldn't do anything about it. He'd never been a very good liar, even if it was to spare someone's feelings. Instead, he sat there and stared at her.

“You're stuck on your ex-wife, aren't you?”

“Not ex, yet.”

Liz looked down and nodded her head. “I can respect that. Probably the reason I hoped you'd call me. You know how hard it is to find a guy who's loyal and honest?”

Stallings shook his head, trying to keep eye contact.

“I don't want to screw anything up between you and her. But I don't want to walk away either. Maybe this would be a good time to wait and see what happens.”

Stallings nodded, feeling the connection but knowing he had to walk away. “We could be friends.”

Liz let loose a tired smile and said, “That's usually my line.” She stood and stepped away from the bench, motioning for him to stay. As she walked away she turned and said, “You'll keep me informed about Leah?”

“As soon as I know anything, I'll let you know.” He felt a sharp pain in his chest as he watched her slowly leave. He wished it was just a heart attack.

THIRTY-THREE

This was exactly the type of activity John Stallings needed to get his head out of his own personal problems. He was a cop and this was one of the most satisfying aspects of police work: looking for a specific suspect.

Stallings hadn't cared much about the details when Tony Mazzetti approached him an hour ago to go to the apartment of some guy named Daniel Byrd. Mazzetti had laid out a few pieces of information that sounded interesting but did not necessarily make Byrd a prime suspect in the recent strangulations.

Generally a car with three detectives in it was full of chatter and smart-ass remarks. Tony Mazzetti was preoccupied while he drove, and Sparky Taylor was working on one of his complex Sudoku puzzles in the front passenger seat. That was fine with Stallings, who was content to sit in the backseat and hope that this was the guy who could provide some answers about Leah Tischler and any other girl who might've gone missing in the area. Although the more he considered his father's comments, the more likely it seemed that Jeanie had escaped harm at the hands of a man who strangled young women.

The apartment was in the north end of the city not far off U.S. 1. The kind of place construction workers and rodeo riders might rent. Cheap and not opposed to loud music or parties. Toby Keith blared from a window on the side facing the road, competing with loud hard rock from an upper window on the side. The three detectives took a moment to assess the entrances and exits as well as how crowded the apartment building looked.

Sparky Taylor said, “Policy dictates that if there is a chance for violent confrontation we should at least consult the tactical team.”

Mazzetti said, “If we called those dildos every time we thought we might have a confrontation nothing would ever get done. Last I checked we were all authorized to carry a gun and make an arrest. I think policy will back me up on that, won't it, Spark?”

Stallings could see Mazzetti getting a handle on his new partner and understanding how to manipulate him. It didn't matter one way or the other. Stallings was in a mood for results, and smacking someone in the head might make him feel better. He kept his mouth shut and followed the two partners through the front door of the apartment building, then up one flight of sketchy wooden stairs. Even stepping slowly and carefully Stallings knew they were broadcasting their presence to the entire floor.

Mazzetti said, “There's only one way in and out of this place, so we don't have to worry about covering any back doors. No matter what, we don't want to have to chase this guy on foot. As soon as he opens the door, we grab him.”

As he approached apartment 2-C, the third door on the right-hand side of the hallway, Stallings quickly and silently went through his personal rituals. First he placed his right hand on the grip of his Glock .40-caliber pistol. He liked the feeling of knowing it was on his hip as he muttered his mantra, “Is today the day that changes the rest of my life?” He knew Mazzetti had heard it, but he didn't turn or acknowledge Stallings. The same instructor had taught the phrase at the police academy for twenty years as a way to keep cops sharp and focused every time they stepped into an unknown or dangerous situation.

Mazzetti stood to the left of the door with Sparky Taylor behind him, while Stallings stood to the right. No one had his gun drawn because, in theory, this was just a simple interview. Ask the guy a few questions and see what kind of a read they could get from him. Simple.

Despite his years of experience, both as a road patrolman and as a detective, Stallings's heart rate started to increase and he felt the excitement of the unknown. It was a thrill most cops appreciated on some level. It was the reason for the thrill that caused so much grief and sorrow. It was a one in one thousand chance that whoever opened the door would have a gun in his hand.

Stallings tensed when Mazzetti banged on the door.

Sergeant Zuni sat at her desk getting ready to leave for the evening.

Ronald Bell, sitting across from her, said, “You got to be kidding me. That was business. I'm just doing my job. I thought we were going to separate work and personal business.”

The sergeant flashed her dark eyes at him. “Look, Ronald, I agreed not to say anything and you agreed to keep this quiet as long as possible. But the way you seemed to relish trashing a good cop and sneaking through medical records has left a bad taste in my mouth. I can't hide the fact that I don't like how you did your job. And I can't change who I am.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you're a douche bag and you will not be seeing me naked again.”

BOOK: The Perfect Death

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