James Andrus: The Perfect Woman

Stallings wasn’t cocky. He knew he could be the one on the wrong end of a fist or a cheap pistol, but he had surprise on his side. He focused on the academy mantra: “Is this the day that changes my life?” It really was something he’d said his whole career. The hell of it was now he really did need a change. He needed a miracle to get back all he had lost.

There were cops he knew who were quick to mix it up with a suspect. They liked the thrill and violence. Violence accomplished a goal, whether it was an arrest or a lesson; physical aggression was just another tool in a good cop’s bag of tricks. If you took it too far you had to be prepared to explain yourself. He could admit, at least to himself, that he enjoyed confrontation with the right thug. Bullies, pimps, and predators often didn’t understand anything but a good thumping. And sometimes he didn’t know how to deal with them except with a good thumping.

A Ping-Pong ball bounced around inside his stomach as he got closer to the hotel. He drifted to the inside of the sidewalk so the bulky dealer wouldn’t see him until he was at the next building. His heart picked up a few beats as he nudged his pistol under his shirt and hoped he didn’t have to use it. Through this entire ritual of checking his gear and his attitude he didn’t lose sight of the mission: save the girl. He knew if he could grab her before anything serious happened up in the room, he might not have to look for her as a runaway later. That was the key, identifying a problem early and acting. He only wished he’d been that smart for his own daughter’s sake.

Now he was near the hotel and visible. A small smile crept across his face when he saw Patty step up next to the skinny lookout near the stairs. The dumbass didn’t even know she was behind him. Patty was letting him focus totally on the giant man leaning on the battered and rusting chain-link fence. He was younger than Stallings, maybe thirty-five, and taller by at least five inches. The monster had to go six-five and over two-fifty without as much fat as Stallings had originally thought.

Stallings gave him a casual nod as he came closer but kept looking down the street like his destination was another cheap-ass hotel or maybe one of the ancient, beat-up condos that mostly housed aging snow-birds. That little maneuver allowed him to walk right past the man without telegraphing his intentions. Just in front of the giant man, he spun and threw an elbow under a prominent chin, then a knee into the side of his leg. The man crumpled as Stallings’s knee connected with the common peroneal nerve.

Stallings turned toward the stairway as the surprised lookout stood, prepared to rocket up the stairs and sound the alarm. Instead, Patty popped open her ASP with a flick of her wrist and tripped him as he started to take flight. She had a size-six Rockport boot on his chest before he knew what had happened. The twenty-eight-year-old detective looked like a big game hunter posing with an unfortunate antelope.

Stallings wasted no time with his man on the street, thumping his head against a metal fence post, then reaching to his waistband to retrieve a Taurus nine-millimeter from the dazed man.

The dealer gasped, “I ain’t holding. You got nothing on me.”

“I got this gun, you dumb shit.” He tucked the cheap pistol in his belt, then shook the man by the collar to make sure he had his full attention. “This is just a warning. Leave this hotel alone and head back over to Phoenix Avenue or this shit will happen to you every fucking day.” He wrapped his hand in the front of the crack dealer’s shirt and jerked the man’s face up to him. “Are we clear?”

The crack dealer’s shiny head bobbed as he caught his breath and tried to regain some composure. The thug may have weighed more than 250 pounds, but right now he was looking up into blue eyes that conveyed the threat of violent injury better than any pistol ever made by Smith amp; Wesson.

Patty led the other young man over, tugging him by his ear, then thrusting him into his cohort. She said to them both, “Give up your cell phones.” Her voice left no room for argument.

“What?” asked the skinny lookout.

She snapped her fingers. “Phones, hotshot. Then you can scurry off.” She paused and added, “If you behave.” She took the BlackBerries from the men, then casually dropped them onto the asphalt and crushed them under the heel of her boot.

There was no protest.

A few minutes later, Stallings and Patty were on the stairs ready to go into room 2-B. They had allowed the dealer to call his partner in the stash room to clear out. Stallings thought it was a good idea so they wouldn’t bother the hotel owner later. He knew the dopers had flushed a good part of their profits before they had piled into a tricked-out Escalade and fled back to Jacksonville proper. He didn’t give a shit about the dope.

Patty leaned in close and said, “If there’s a man with her up there you can’t hurt him.”

He just stared at her.

“That’s not Jeanie up there. Nothing you do will change the past. We’re cops, not vigilantes. We need to hear the whole story.”

“Whole story! If there’s an adult male with a fourteen-year-old up there it’s a crime. He can’t even try the Roman Polanski excuse. Those days are past.” He dialed it down before his voice carried up the stairs and across the open hallway. Patty had a point. She always did. But in cases like this she really didn’t understand. He would save the girl, but if he got the chance to teach this pervert a lesson he’d do it for every father in the country.

As they eased up the stairs, Patty stooped down and picked up two towels in front of 2-A. She just looked at him and smiled, then motioned him to the side of the door with a nod of her head.

He knew she was street-smart, so he stepped to the far side of the door to 2-B, where he’d been told the girl was staying, and let his partner do her thing. She stood directly in front of the door so anyone inside would see her standing there, holding towels like a hotel employee, then knocked on the door firmly.

From inside he heard shuffling, then a man’s voice said, “What? Who is it?”

Patty calmly added a slight, Latin-flared accent and called back, “I got towels and a new TV remote for you.”

There was a pause. Patty turned and whispered, “No man will turn down a new remote.”

Sure enough the door moved with a chain keeping it from opening all the way. Once the man got a look at Patty by herself, he shut the door, removed the chain, and then opened it wide with a predatory grin still on his round face.

Stallings stepped from around the corner and shoved the man hard, back into the room.

“What the hell?” shouted the man as he steadied himself against the cheap dresser. He wore only a stained, white towel around his waist and looked like he was in his early thirties. His chubby body and touch of gray made it hard for Stallings to guess his exact age other than it was old enough to get his ass kicked.

He looked around the room quickly, but didn’t see anyone else. He nodded for Patty to check the bathroom as he stepped up next to the startled occupant.

Stallings smiled and said, “Nice day, huh?”

“What the hell is going on?”

“C’mon, you’re not an idiot.” He lifted his shirt, exposing the gun and badge. “You know why we’re here.” An old trick, but one that worked. Usually people started jabbering about what they were doing. Not this guy. He clammed up immediately.

Patty tried the door then knocked softly. “Hello?”

No answer.

The man in the towel said, “I don’t know why you’re here. Why don’t you explain yourself, Officer?”

“It’s Detective, and I’d rather have your guest explain it.”