The Perfect Prey

Forty-two

The sun had just risen as Stallings woke. For a few moments, as he lay still in the small bed of his rented house, he had the slightest of hopes everything had been a dream. The irrational beating of Chad Palmer. The discovery that he wasn’t distributing X. The expression on Sergeant Zuni’s face. His right hand throbbed slightly, and he saw the cuts on his knuckles where they had dug into Chad Palmer’s teeth and knew it had been no dream. He’d fucked up in a big way this time. And there was no one to blame but himself.

As soon as Yvonne Zuni had arrived at the hospital where Chad Palmer was getting stitched up, she looked at Stallings and said, “Go home until I call you.” She had taken charge, but it didn’t sound as if she cared about his reasons. The sergeant was looking at facts, and the fact was he had no right to hit Chad Palmer in the face. It didn’t matter now. He doubted he’d be working for her or anyone else at the sheriff’s office. A flood of thoughts rushed through his head. How do I tell Maria and the kids? How do I explain my behavior? Do I need to retain an attorney? Why didn’t I kill the son of a bitch once I’d started?

He rolled over and stared at the ceiling, realizing for the first time he was still in his clothes from the night before. The whole evening was a blur for him, but he knew he’d had a late dinner, and after a brief ride near Market Street, looking for his dad, he’d come home and collapsed, the weight of the last few weeks catching up with him.

Incredibly, his cell phone hadn’t rung all night, and now he wondered if he should call the sergeant and see what kind of shit he was in. He’d never had a complaint filed against him. Most cops suffered numerous frivolous claims of brutality and excessive force. The funny thing was Stallings used his fists much more than most cops. But he knew when to hit and what to say afterward. That was the gift God had given him to carry into his chosen profession: the ability to make people like him even after he kicked their asses. But now he’d finally gone too far with the wrong guy at the wrong time.

Patty Levine didn’t like the expression on her boyfriend’s face as they shared a cup of coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts near the PMB.

Tony Mazzetti almost beamed when he said, “How much blood was there? I mean, was it from several wounds or just one massive head wound?”

“Mainly from his lips. Stall really only punched him the one time.”

“Holy shit, the nut job finally went over the edge. I knew it was just a matter of time before Mr. Squeaky Clean cracked.”

“You don’t have to be happy about it. I mean we all work on the same squad and it wasn’t like he went postal and shot someone indiscriminately. He punched a guy giving drugs to a nineteen-year-old girl. Given his history, it didn’t seem outrageous at all.”

Mazzetti waved off her criticism. “I’m not happy about it. It’s just he tends to be a little self-righteous.”

“Why? Because he’s had to go back and rework two of your cases?”

Mazzetti looked hurt but focused on his coffee for a moment. “I’m glad you’re not in trouble with him.”

Patty didn’t know if she was in trouble or not. The whole thing had been handled very quietly. Yvonne Zuni stepped right in and was on the phone to IA immediately. Patty only caught snippets of the conversation, but it sounded as if this was how Yvonne the Terrible had gotten her nickname. She had wasted no time sending Stallings home and bringing in investigators from the internal affairs unit to handle the questioning of Chad Palmer and his young friend.

Patty had protested she should be there, but the sergeant told her she was a witness, and now all she had left to do was go home and wait till she was called back. But Patty hadn’t exactly waited. She was headed back in at nine sharp, and she didn’t intend to keep her mouth shut. Not only did she owe a lot to John Stallings, but the guy had been through too much to get crushed over something like this. She didn’t know what she could do, but she knew she couldn’t just sit at home.

He’d come by his sister’s house to say hello and maybe grab one of her really good grilled-cheese sandwiches for lunch. But he also enjoyed spending time with his nephew even if it was only watching him watch TV. He could see their shared genetics in the boy’s keen eyes and quick movements.

But now, sitting at the counter with his sister, he faced one of the many barrages of questions she fired at him from time to time. It wasn’t an inquisition, like when his mother would clearly be worried about his outside activities. He finally realized what his mother had suspected, and he’d had no real contact with her in several years. He figured dear old mom was just as happy with that arrangement.

“I’m not saying you have to settle down, I was just wondering why you don’t,” his sister started. “I mean you spend most nights away from here anyway, but you never give me any clear idea of whether it’s with one girl or a hundred different ones.”

He didn’t answer directly, but he had to smile about keeping his apartment secret for so long. He’d met his landlord, Lester, at the Wildside when Lester was delivering alcohol from his beverage truck. He’d struck up a mild friendship, and Lester had offered him the detached apartment behind his house for a few hundred dollars a month. He wasn’t nosy and asked no questions, which made him a great landlord.

His sister said, “Mom worries because you live with me. I have no idea why. What happened with you two?”

“Same stuff that happens in all families. She doesn’t approve of some things I do, and I don’t give a shit.”

“She said she had a psychiatrist she wanted me to take him to"-she lowered her voice and nodded toward his nephew watching TV in the next room-"to see about expanding his vocabulary.”

He looked over at the boy and nodded his head. He didn’t talk much either when he was a kid.

His sister continued. “Of course she doesn’t have any money to help with the evaluation.”

“I got some cash if you need it.”

“You already do too much for us now. Let’s see what happens with him in the next few months, and then I’ll decide if we need to be more proactive.” She patted his hand, stood from the stool, and turned to finish making their lunch.

He sat on his stool at the kitchen counter and gazed at his nephew. The sound on the cartoon his nephew was watching was turned down to almost nothing as usual. The boy didn’t like to crowd his senses with unnecessary sights and sounds. It was quiet enough to hear the heavy trucks behind the commercial buildings on Cleveland Street. He saw a movement through the sliding glass door in the backyard. The neighbor’s cat was strolling through as if he owned the place.

He caught his nephew’s eyes tracking the cat. He didn’t move his head or show any interest other than his sharp eyes assessing the cat and the terrain.

The boy was a predator himself.