for her to show. His plan this time was a little more direct. Grab her and take off. He had a variation of chloroform, which he had made himself and tested first on Mr. Whiskers IV, then on his mother. Neither knew what had happened and awoke an hour later. The cat looked a little dazed, and his mom complained of a headache until the next day, but he knew the stuff worked.
The rear of the van was empty except for a moving blanket and some heavy nylon rope, both items he could explain to any cop who might stop him. The tiny bottle of chloroform looked like a commercial nasal spray, which made it easy to spritz onto the washcloth he had to go over Stacey’s lovely, delicate face. He’d prefer to talk to her for a while and interact, but his patience was wearing thin. He couldn’t even concentrate on simple tasks anymore because she had filled up so much of his head.
Another lesson he’d learned recently had taught him to have a knife handy. His wasn’t a large suspicious knife, just a folding Gerber with a sharp, serrated edge. He even knew the target now if he ever had to do it again: center chest and neck. Somehow he didn’t have the impression that Stacey would ever have the bad manners to act like Trina did before he was forced to deal with her. But he was prepared and flexible. That was the key to success in any endeavor.
He checked his watch and saw it was just after eight with no sign of her. She wasn’t at the Fountain of Youth either. A pang of jealousy, like any boyfriend might have, popped up in him as he wondered what she might be doing. Did she have another man? Then a much worse thought had hit him-what if she had been lonely and moved back to Ohio?
Now his main urge was to enter her apartment through the back where no one would see him and see what was left around. He had to know if she had moved. He didn’t think she could do it so quickly, but maybe he didn’t know her like he thought he did. He knew all about her. Her checking account back in Ohio, her power consumption, her rent, and even the grocery store she shopped at, but maybe, just maybe, he didn’t know her that well.
As he considered hopping out of the van and easing into her apartment he noticed some movement in his rearview mirror. He’d been so preoccupied with what Stacey could be doing that he’d gone soft on being aware of his surroundings. That was another key to avoiding detection. No one should be able to tell the cops they saw his van or give a description.
Now he saw that an elderly man was standing almost directly behind his van with a pipsqueak dog on a leash. Dremmel froze and waited to see what the man’s movements would be. From the streetlight all he could make out was the stoop of age, a light jacket like old men used to play shuffleboard, a cane, and the leash. From his side mirror he saw the dog sniffing near the light pole directly behind his van. The dog had a tiny shirt that covered its chest and two front legs and its movements seemed jittery like all miniature dogs’.
Dremmel swallowed and consciously held still while the man lingered behind the van. He knew the old man had spotted him and wondered why he was just sitting there. Hell, old people like that, with nothing to do but walk their dogs, might even write down his tag, then he’d have to forget about Stacey. Nothing could happen to her if there was a record of his presence in her neighborhood.
Give up on Stacey? Not after all he had been through. He reached into his front pocket and felt the weight of his new Gerber knife. He pulled it out and used his thumb to pop open the vicious blade as his eyes cut back up to the mirror and saw the old man in the same spot.
He knew what he had to do.
Twenty-three
Patty Levine felt like a weight had been lifted from her as the last of the unmarked cars pulled away from the Law and Order Pub, leaving just her and Tony Mazzetti in the parking lot. They both knew that any attraction they felt for each other had to be kept low key for now. An office romance meant scrutiny, gossip, and sometimes jealousy. She didn’t have time for any of that.
She looked up at Mazzetti now that they were alone in the lot. Still a little old-fashioned, she was waiting for him to make a move. If that failed, then she knew what to do.
He looked across the hood of her car and said, “You busy?”
Did he have an investigative task or was it a come-on? She had no idea how to read him, and that made it all the more exciting. She felt anxiety but no need to reach for Xanax. She liked this feeling and just smiled.
Tony Mazzetti said, “I was wondering if you might like to have a private drink with me?”
“Off duty?”
“Off duty.”
“No police talk?”
“Not unless you’re into that kind of thing.”
She nodded and then, without any idea it would come out of her, “How about my condo? I have a bottle of wine that’s been collecting dust for three years.”
“Will you actually drink with me?” His eyes twinkled in the streetlights. She liked his cute expression. It was the opposite of his persona around the Sheriff’s Office.
Patty considered the possibility of a drink. She’d taken her last Xanax on her way home from UF after the geologist came on to her. She hadn’t felt anxious, but with habit, took one of the peach-colored pills about the same time she did every day. That was more than eight hours ago. Her back or hip didn’t hurt, which meant there was no need for a pain pill. That left only Ambien. She needed her sleeping pill if she wanted any hope of dozing off. Based on her careful analysis, she finally answered him, “Sure, I’ll have a glass of wine.”
A grin slid across Tony Mazzetti’s handsome face, lighting up his brown eyes. She liked the brash New Yorker and realized most everything he did for show was just an act. He was a history buff who liked to write. That was more like the real him. She was sure of it. Regardless, she was ready for some quiet time with him based on two important facts: he was really well built, and she hadn’t slept with a man in almost a year. She needed a shot of confidence as well as a chance to get to know this guy better.
Mazzetti said, “I’ll follow you.”
She thought, I hope so.
William Dremmel had to commit himself to acting quickly. He already had his knife open and in his hand. He popped the automatic locks of the minivan and took a deep breath. This was something he’d never done before. He was about to assault the old man and planned to jab the knife into his abdomen and his throat, then shove him into the van and dump him God knew where.
The man’s little dog yipped behind the van and that made Dremmel freeze for a second. What would he do with the dog? If he left it, the cops would know the owner was gone faster than if he took it. That was one more clue that could potentially point to him. Either option was unacceptable.
He thought about it and decided he couldn’t kill the dog. Not with the knife anyhow. But maybe there was a way he could use the little dog in his research. It was a different metabolism than what he’d been working with. Unlike the girls or even Mr. Whiskers, the original or II and III, the little dog would present new opportunities.
Dremmel processed the decision, yanked the door handle, and slipped out onto the asphalt road. He turned and hurried to the rear of the van, ready to strike without warning. He couldn’t afford to allow the man to scream.
As he cleared the rear bumper, the knife in his hand, but held low, he saw the man’s face clearly in the light of the dim bulb suspended on the rough wooden pole. He froze and the man turned to look in his direction.
“Hello,” said the man.
“Um, hello,” answered Dremmel, now frozen in place a few feet from the elderly dog walker.
“Am I blocking you?” The man touched his dark glasses. “I know my way around but sometimes get in front of cars waiting to pull out. I’m sorry.”
“No, no, I’m fine.” Dremmel now realized the cane was not a walking aid but an indicator that the man was blind.
“I’m afraid Pico here is not much of a guide dog. But he’s a good friend.”
Dremmel squatted down and let the little Chihuahua scurry to him and sniff his hand. He patted the white dog, then reached under him to get a feel for his weight. “This is one tiny dog, mister.”
“My daughter gave me little Pico Sanchez about three years ago, and I couldn’t live without him now.”
