The Perfect Prey

Thirty-four

Tony Mazzetti felt a little embarrassed creeping out of Patty’s condo before the sun came up. But she was sleeping so soundly, that cute little combination of a snore and a wheeze keeping a steady rhythm, and he didn’t want to wake her up. He had a ton to do, and it was technically Monday morning even if it was only four hours into it.

This time of night it was only a ten-minute ride to his house on the river. But he couldn’t resist swinging past the stadium toward North Market Street to see if there was any activity around the house where the triple murder had occurred. It wasn’t like he was scratching for overtime. It was just an impulse to see if anything popped up at him. It was a little out of the way, but he couldn’t stop himself.

There was still crime scene tape draped across the porch of the empty house. The state’s attorney had used witness protection money to move the three residents from the house to a hotel on the other side of town. Only one of the residents had seen anything at all, and her story had changed a couple of times. Typical. Even though they weren’t helping the case, they were still witnesses to a crime, and it appeared to have some elements related to gang activity. That was enough for the state’s attorney to spring for a safe place to sleep.

The house was dark and silent, not a soul on the street, and only a few houses had lights on. He turned the corner and saw the mysterious Miss Brison’s house. There were no lights on there either. A dark blue Mustang was parked on the street between Miss Brison’s house and the rundown apartment building next door. He wondered briefly whom the Mustang belonged to but realized he needed to get home and grab another couple of hours of sleep and then hit this case hard in the morning.

The stoner’s face was a little clearer in the single beam of light that came from across the water. “I asked you how you were gonna pay me to keep me quiet?” His voice cracked a little.

He kept his anger in check as he considered twisting this boy’s neck just like he had Lisa’s. The stoner was in his late teens, tall and skeletal, with long, greasy brown hair. On first blush, he doubted anyone would miss the youth if he were to disappear. He patted the pockets of his cargo pants as if he was looking for his wallet. He was really just buying time before he decided on a course of action.

Then he felt something in his pocket that just might save this boy’s life. He reached deep into the left-side cargo pocket and pulled out a green plastic container. He held it up next to his face, smiled, and shook it.

The stoner said, “What’s that?”

“Something a man like you might appreciate.” “I’m listening.” “Ecstasy hits.” “How many?”

“About twenty.” Even in the dim light he could see a broad smile spread across the boy’s acne-scarred face.

“I could get laid almost every night for a month with that.”

“Then we have a deal?”

“Just for helping you push the car in the water?” “And I need a ride.”

Twenty minutes later he hopped out of the stoner’s battered Saturn. He couldn’t risk going to his regular apartment so he had the young man drive to Cleveland Street near his sister’s house. He didn’t think it really mattered as high as the guy was. And the stoner seemed excited about finding a girl to share the Ecstasy with as fast as possible. He made it a point not to say much on the ride home. There was nothing really to worry about unless the car was found by some stroke of luck. Even if it was, the stoner would have to remember the evening and some details. He doubted that was possible.

It was about five o’clock when he slipped his spare key into the front door and padded through the house to the back bedroom. He popped his head in to check on his nephew, who snored softly on the small bed built in a race car kit. Shaking his head he backed out of the boy’s bedroom and walked down the hall and into his own room. He hoped no one would wake him up too early this morning.

As soon as he hit the bed his mind drifted back to the feeling of Lisa wrapping her legs around him and her neck cracking in his hands. He didn’t think he could ever fall asleep with such an intense erection.

Patty Levine looked across at her partner in the bright lights of the plush office of the small pharmaceutical company where Chad Palmer worked. She said, “You’re dressed awfully sharp today in that nice shirt and tie.”

“You dress for the job you’re doing.”

He seemed distant, not his usual laid-back self. She couldn’t put her finger on it, and it bothered her. Patty said, “You look tired. Everything go all right with the kids yesterday?”

“The kids weren’t the problem.”

Patty nodded, saying, “I can’t believe you found Jason Ferrell so late. What were you doing near Market Street in the middle of the night?”

“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you about it later.” He glanced down the hallway. “Here comes our man.”

She saw a tall, impressive man in an expensive Brooks Brothers suit. She’d seen his photo from the driver’s license database. He reeked of self-confidence. A graduate of the University of Florida School of Business, Palmer was the senior sales rep for a company that sold pharmaceuticals from six different manufacturers. As he came closer, he also reminded her of Gary Lauer. That same sort of swagger and belief that women found him irresistible. His precise haircut, manicured nails, white teeth, and fake smile made him the perfect lounge lizard.

They had already spoken to the receptionist, so he knew who they were. The real question was did he know why? His first interaction would tell them a lot.

He stopped right in front of them, raised his hands, and said, “You got the wrong man, officers.” Then laughed at his little joke.

Patty and Stallings introduced themselves and showed their IDs so there was no mistake they were here on official business.

Palmer said, “My sister said you’d been by her house. I knew we’d run into each other today if it was that important. I must confess that I am curious what this is all about.”

Patty held up a photo of Allie Marsh and said, “Do you recognize this girl?”

Palmer showed no emotion as he studied the photograph, then finally said, “She looks familiar. But I have to confess I meet a whole lot of women.”

Just the comment and the way he grinned reminded Patty of Gary Lauer again.

Palmer looked at Stallings and said, “Why, is there a problem?”

Stallings simply said, “She’s dead.” His tone and manner left little doubt who he thought was responsible.

Palmer still didn’t react.

Patty did the follow-up. “Is there anything you’d like to tell us?” It was an old detective trick, but sometimes it worked. This guy obviously wasn’t used to criminal investigations. He might start to blab without thinking.

Instead Palmer calmly said, “Do I need to contact my attorney?”