James Andrus: The Perfect Woman

Then his phone rang. He had ignored most calls tonight, because he knew it was just some stupid command staff member wanting an update. This time he saw it was Stallings on the line, so he answered.

Mazzetti said, “Whaddya got, Stall?”

“Tony, I have a reliable tip that he’s out on U.S. 1 at a hotel. Why don’t you meet me there and we’ll see if we can scoop this asshole up.”

“You really think he’s there?”

“One of my old runaways ran into him and gave him a motel that’s safe to stay in.”

Mazzetti’s heart skipped as he considered his chance to really make a splash. If he could catch this guy after being the lead on the case, every news station in town would want to talk to him. A smile broke across his face as he considered the possibilities.

Stallings said, “I’m heading to the J-Ville Motel.”

Mazzetti was about to say he’d be there, then he looked down at Patty and saw the fear in her eyes at the thought of his leaving. She squeezed his hand tighter, and that kept him from answering.

Over the phone Stallings said, “Tony, you gonna meet me?”

Then Mazzetti surprised himself. “No, Stall, Patty needs someone here.”

There was a brief silence, then Stallings said, “Goddamn, Tony, you might be human after all.”

For the first time Mazzetti smiled at something Stallings said.

Before he called in reinforcements, Stallings planned on checking out the small motel. He drove past it slowly twice but only saw an old Ford pickup and a semitractor with no trailer sitting in the lot of the J-Ville Inn. The motel had two wings jutting out from the office in the center.

Stallings drove past one last time and parked around the corner in the lot of a self-storage place. He pulled his shirt over his gun and badge, then approached from the road, walking along the covered walkway next to the first six rooms. He noticed a light on inside the farthest room marked with a number 6 as he crept toward the office. The rooms on either side of the office also had lights on. One had the pickup truck parked in front of it, and the other had the semitractor at a funny angle in front of it.

Stallings was in the glass door and standing quietly before the clerk looked up from an old TV with a half-blown speaker. Craig Ferguson’s Scottish accent seemed to rattle the torn speaker fragment even more.

The clerk had the dark scowl of a pissed-off redneck. Longish greasy hair combed straight back with loose strands spiraling out around his ear. His dark eyes studied Stallings as he made him for a cop immediately.

The clerk said, “What are you doin’ here?”

Stallings showed his badge just so there was no question who he was.

The clerk said, “I know, I could tell the second I looked up. What’s the po-po need here in this shithole?”

Stallings held up a photo of William Dremmel. “You seen this guy tonight?”

The man didn’t hesitate to shake his head. “Naw, been real slow here tonight.”

“Let me see your registrations.”

“You got a warrant?”

“No, but you’ll have one on you if you don’t show me your registrations right now.”

The man was surprised at the aggression. He was apparently used to dealing with the younger, more polite police officers of the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office. Stallings stepped behind the half counter where the TV sat.

“Okay, okay, hang on.” The clerk handed him a book with the list of occupants for the night.

Stallings snatched it from the man’s hand, keeping his eyes on him as he set it on the counter and looked down to see two names, Bob Ura in room one and Dennis Bustle in room seven. Stallings flipped back a few pages to see how names had been entered the last few days. They had nine customers yesterday and six the day before. He looked up at the clerk, who still held a defiant look.

Stallings said, “You only have these two tonight?”

“Yep.”

“So you have ten rooms empty?”

“That’s right.”

“Why was there a light on in room 6 at the end?”

The man hesitated and eyed the phone at the same time as Stallings.

John Stallings was stuck. He knew he couldn’t leave this asshole clerk alone or he’d warn Dremmel in room 6. He called the sheriff’s office to send by a marked unit but knew he couldn’t wait. He grabbed the ring with room keys and pulled the reluctant clerk from the office and had him follow down the walkway as they approached room 6.

Stallings turned and asked, “There’s no back door?”

The sullen clerk shook his head.

“You wouldn’t be screwin’ with me again, would you?” He backed it up with a “no bullshit” look.

“Naw, no back door, and I think he’s in there alone.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that when I asked in the office?”

“You’re a cop. Never help the cops.”

“I respect that kind of commitment. Now sit down right here and don’t move.”

The clerk sat in front of room 4 and crossed his legs. He coughed once, not bothering to cover his mouth. The smoker’s hack sounded toxic already.

Stallings drew his pistol and continued on toward the last room.

William Dremmel was almost asleep when he heard a loud, hacking cough outside. The noise made his eyes pop open. He sat up quickly, reaching for the stun gun on the small night table next to the bed. Then he saw the shadow of someone crossing the window in front of his room. There was no back door. His head swiveled to each side, then up and down searching for an egress. His heartbeat picked up as he felt the walls close in. How had he been found? He clutched the stun gun, stood up, and moved toward the bathroom looking for any possible crevice in the bare room in which to hide.

He swallowed hard as he saw the door handle to the room jiggle.

John Stallings found the key marked “6” and slid it into the lock, while he said quietly, “Is this the day that changes my life?” He had his Glock in his right hand and turned his head every couple of seconds to make sure the clerk didn’t move. His heart pounded in his chest as he considered what a bonehead move this was, but he had no choice. He couldn’t risk losing Dremmel.

As soon as he felt the door lock click open, he shoved the door hard and ducked low, out of the doorway, where he knew he’d be silhouetted by the streetlights. He scanned the room once quickly with his pistol out in front of him, trying to control his breathing.

There was no one here. Stallings rose slowly with his Glock still out in front of him and crept toward the bathroom and closet at the far corner of the room, trying not to give away his position. When he reached the short wall that separated the bedroom from the closet and bathroom he paused, took in a breath, and then darted around the barrier, gun up and ready to fire.

Still nothing. The small closet was completely bare.

He could see into the open bathroom and it appeared empty. He stood to one side and used his left hand to push open the door until it clinked with the wall. He flipped on the single light and checked all the way inside, letting his eyes sweep the tub, toilet, and back wall.

Clear.

Where could this asshole be? Had Stallings’s luck just run out and he missed Dremmel? Had he gone to eat?

He had turned to check on the clerk, when he noticed the paneling inside the bare closet. Something didn’t look right.

William Dremmel had pulled the loose panel back in place, covering him in the hole inside the closet just as the door to the motel room swung open. It was tight and dark, but he could stay in the narrow gap for a while.

He waited, knowing someone was in the room, then, after a few seconds, sensing the person move past the closet into the bathroom. It had to be a cop.