The Perfect Prey

Twenty-three

Stallings kept the binoculars on the front door of the Bamboo Hut from almost four blocks away. This was Police Work 101. They needed to talk to the drummer. He ran from them. A common occurrence on the streets of Jacksonville. The difference was that this wiry drummer was more important to them than the average crack dealer hoping to evade arrest until he can sell off enough of his stock to make bail.

Patty said, “What do you think?”

Stallings didn’t lower his field glasses. “He’ll be back pretty soon. That’s the beauty of cell phones and dumb-asses in the same room.” He had purposely said to Patty, as they walked back through the club after losing the drummer, that they would get him another night and that it was late. He knew a couple of the staff had heard his supposedly offhand remark and that the cell phones would start to burn up before too long.

Patty said, “How long you figure? Couple hours?”

“Not that long. He wants his drums. He’ll be back in less than an hour.” Before he could say anything else, a figure hustled down the sidewalk to the front door of the club and paused, then ducked inside. Stallings said, “Make that less than a minute. It’s showtime.”

A minute later Stallings pulled open the door to the little club, only to have someone stand up and block his way. It was the tall guitarist he’d seen earlier.

The young man with long, spindly arms said, “Sorry, dude, we’re closed.”

Stallings held up his ID and said, “JSO.” He started to step around the guitarist.

The man stepped to the side and blocked him. “Got a warrant, dude?”

“Don’t need one, dude. I’m in pursuit. But nice try.” He stepped the other way, but the man matched him. That was a mistake. Stallings shoved him to one side and had started marching to the rear of the club when he felt a strong hand on his shoulder.

Without hesitation, Stallings’s training took over and he reached up and grabbed the fingers of the strong hand and squeezed. He spun, pulling the man close to him with the hand firmly in his grasp.

Stallings said, “Wrong move there, dude.”

The guitarist swung his free fist at Stallings’s face.

Stallings cranked down on the attacker’s fingers, feeling the small bones crunch. “I tried to be nice.” He released the man’s hand and let him crumple, whimpering, onto the ground. No one else dared step forward.

Stallings raced to the back of the club. Nothing. He hit the back door hard, then froze as a smile spread across his face.

Patty stood over the bleeding drummer. She was ready to kneel down and slap on a pair of handcuffs. “You were right. He’d have run right into me if I waited by the back door.”

Stallings shook his head and mumbled, “Dumb-ass.”

Mazzetti had let Pudge slink away with that funny, half-leaning gait. He almost looked like one of the assistants to a mad scientist in an old horror movie. He eyed the yellow house and considered who was holed up there. No one had come out since the po-po had been on the scene, and that was a little odd, because the rest of the neighborhood couldn’t wait to see all the commotion. They may not have been talking to the police about the shooting that left three dead on their block, but they were certainly out and about, gawking at all the emergency workers.

He waited as Christina Hogrebe eased over from the other corner.

“Got anything, Tony?”

“Maybe.” He cut his eyes to the yellow house. “In a second, take a glance over there and see if there’s any movement. Just had someone tell me a white man is inside with a Miss Brison.”

“You think he might’ve been some kind of lookout or spy?”

“It’s just weird that a white guy is right in the middle of this neighborhood and a shooting occurs within viewing distance.”

Christina shrugged as they walked over toward the yellow house’s front door. He’d worked with the young detective long enough for her to know when to argue and when to just back him up. He liked the arrangement.

He paused on the poured-cement porch of the house. Deep fissures ran from one side of the porch to the other, and it felt unsteady in a way he couldn’t quite pinpoint. The door rattled as he knocked. He heard someone inside and glanced over his shoulder to see Christina standing to the side of the window but still looking in as much as she could. He stepped to the side of the door and brought his hand up to the Glock on his right hip. Someone paused on the other side of the door, the door handle moving just enough for him to notice.

Mazzetti’s heart rate picked up as he sensed something odd about the house and its occupants. Suddenly he wondered if the shots could’ve come from here. No one in the neighborhood had actually said they saw a car.

As he was about to call out to Christina, the door handle twisted and someone fought with the door, jiggling it to come open. He turned his full attention to the door.

Patty liked that Stallings let her conduct interviews without any interference. Sometimes a senior partner wanted to handle everything. Some male cops wanted to do everything, but Stallings had never shown any kind of prejudice against a female coworker. He treated everyone exactly how he felt they needed to be treated based on their behavior. If they were asses he treated them like asses. If they tried, but weren’t too sharp, he tried to help and support them. If you’d proven yourself, he trusted you completely.

They had the drummer, Donnie Eliot, in the backseat of her car with his hands cuffed behind him. A small pile of money, assorted baggies, a toothpick, and nail clippers that had come from his pockets sat inside a clear plastic evidence bag next to her in the front seat.

She turned around to face the scared young man. A trickle of blood still seeped from his nose where she had cracked him with a palm-heel strike as he ran right at her from the rear of the club.

Patty said, “Why’d you run in the first place, Donnie?”

“You know why.” He kept his eyes down on the seat.

“Why don’t you tell us?”

“I’m holding,” he mumbled.

She held up the evidence bag. “Something in here? That’s not why we were looking for you.”

“Then I’m free to go?”

“Not a chance.”

Mazzetti let his hand slip off his gun when he saw the young black woman who opened the door. Her green, oval eyes and perfect complexion and white, frilly nightgown gave her an angelic appearance. Until he glanced farther down and realized her white nightgown was some kind of incredible Victoria’s Secret special, cut for maximum exposure of her tight stomach, firm round breasts, and shapely hips.

She focused those lovely eyes on Mazzetti, who took a second to bring his up. “Hi,” was all she said.

“Hi, ma’am. I, um, I’m Tony Mazzetti from Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office, and this is Christina Hogrebe. Can we come in a talk to you for a second?”

The woman gawked at Christina and said, “She’s pretty.” The listlessness to her voice and the way her eyes tracked slowly told them she was high.

Mazzetti took a closer look and noticed her pupils were barely pinpricks.

Christina said, “What’s your name, dear?” She sounded like a mother, even though she was about the same age as this woman. Christina had a way of talking to certain people.

“Miss Brison,” the woman mumbled. “But you can call me Miss Brison.”

“Can we talk to you inside, Miss Brison?” Christina was already at the door, pulling Miss Brison along.

As soon as he crossed the threshold, Mazzetti sensed someone else was in the house. He turned and said, “Who’s here, Miss Brison?”

“Jus’ me and my cat.”

He heard a thump in the rear of the house and rushed down a narrow hallway to see an open window. He stuck his head out just enough to see a flash of a man’s face as he disappeared around the next house. There was no reason to chase the man, especially in this neighborhood. But he made note of his face. A thin white man with dark hair.

He had a few questions to ask Miss Brison.