while.”
“Sure L.T. What’s up?”
“Someone wants to talk to you about these news leaks.”
“Why?” She thought about it and said, “Who wants to talk to me?”
“Internal Affairs.”
As soon as William Dremmel entered the Fountain of Youth sports bar where Stacey Hines worked, he knew she wasn’t there. A different waitress he hadn’t seen before carried a tray of food to a young family in the area where Stacey usually worked. The waitress was a little older than Stacey, maybe twenty-five, and tall, with large, fake boobs positioned for the best possible tips.
He couldn’t just turn around and leave. The bartender had seen him, and he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. Sliding up to the far side of the bar, he took a stool and ordered a simple burger and Diet Coke. While he waited, he pretended to watch the TV above the bar. A sports show had footage of the University of Florida football team in its orange and blue that so many schools in the area copied. The carpet that led to his office was the same hue of orange. People in Jacksonville were crazy for the Gators.
The bartender brought back his soda and made no indication he remembered Dremmel from any of his previous visits.
After finishing his lunch and drinking three glasses of Diet Coke, Dremmel started to formulate the right question about Stacey without appearing too interested. Then he caught a break. The tall waitress leaned against the corner of the bar near him and asked the bartender, “What time does Stacey get in? I need to pick up Julie from day care by five.”
The heavyset bartender didn’t look up from polishing glasses and said, “She won’t be here till six, but I’ll cover for the hour. It’s slow anyway.”
“Thanks, Tank,” said the waitress. “I could call her and see if she’ll come in an hour early.”
“Nah, it’s no problem. She was going over to the beach, and I doubt she’d be ready in time.”
The waitress nodded and turned to get over to a table.
Dremmel remembered his first conversation with the petite waitress from Ohio. She’d told him she liked Neptune Beach. It was the closest beach to her crappy little apartment.
A smile crept over his face. He knew where he was heading right now, and no one would be able to link him to her.
Stallings didn’t think the news leaks were as humorous now that he’d spent an hour in I.A. answering questions about it. Everyone on the task force had been pulled up to the Internal Affairs office and grilled about their friends in the media and if they’d been talking about the case. The S.O. was serious about the security of the leads. The main thing that bothered Stallings was the amount of time taken away from the case to answer the questions. He wanted to be out stirring things up, and instead he’d been on the fourth floor talking to two young sergeants he hardly even know. He had nothing to hide. They knew his reputation-it was apparent in the deference they showed him.
One of the interrogators had been brand new in the homicide unit when Stallings had captured Cernick, and he mainly had questions about the arrest. Neither asked him any questions about Jeanie. At least they had some manners.
As he was getting ready to leave the I.A. office, he almost bumped into the senior investigator.
The tall, handsome detective with graying hair simply said, “Hey John.”
Stallings didn’t acknowledge him.
The detective said, “Why so rude?”
Stallings stopped, feeling the anger rise in him. “Listen, Ron.”
“It’s Ronald.”
“Sorry, I forgot. Listen, Ronald, this is the second time you’ve held up an investigation that was important to me.”
“I had nothing to do with this one. I told them you and I had history and that I shouldn’t be involved. Besides, media links are small potatoes. Suspicious circumstances of a cop’s missing kid is the kind of stuff I handle.”
Stallings resisted the urge to punch Detective Ronald Bell right in his head. Instead he turned and forced himself to walk calmly out of the office knowing this wouldn’t be the last time he ran into the senior I.A. man.
Ten minutes later, as Stallings sat at his desk, getting ready to leave, he heard a pissed-off Luis Martinez stomp through the squad bay bitching about I.A.
The ex-Marine shook his head and said, “I.A. isn’t anything like the Gestapo. At least you could reason with the Gestapo.”
Christina Hogrebe laughed from her orderly desk in the “original” homicide section of the squad bay. “Did they rough you up, Luis?”
“Shit, you’d have thought one of us robbed a goddamn bank.”
Hoagie said, “They didn’t break you then? You still have your media contacts?” Her smile took any edge off the comments. She had a level head and hadn’t gotten too wrapped up in the drama taking time away from the case. That was the sign of a good detective.
Mazzetti stalked out of the conference room, where he could hear the banter between cops. “You guys think this is funny? We got a traitor among us.”
Hoagie said, “C’mon, Tony, I don’t think anyone here is a traitor.”
“Oh yeah, what do you call a glory hound that uses the media?”
From the rear of the squad bay someone said, “We call him Tony Mazzetti, Prince of Homicide.”
The chorus of laughter made Mazzetti’s face flush red. But before he could say anything, the secretary from the front office leaned in the door and said, “Stall, there’s someone downstairs says they have info on the case and wants to talk to you.”
“Me? Why me?”
“It’s an elderly lady, and she says she’ll only talk to the hero-cop that caught Cernick.” She saw the expression on his face and added, “I swear to God that’s what she said.”
Stallings stood up as Mazzetti marched toward the door. “I’m going too. This is still my fucking case.”
Stallings walked in silence with Mazzetti out of the Land That Time Forgot, down the main stairs, and into the lobby of the Police Memorial Building. He checked with a receptionist and found a small, frail-looking woman, wrapped up against Jacksonville’s occasionally cold winds and frequently cold rain.
“Ma’am,” started Stallings slowly. “I’m John Stallings. Can I help you?”
She turned in her seat, looked up and said, “Oh thank God. I didn’t know who to talk to, but I’ve seen you on TV.”
“What’s the problem, ma’am?” He didn’t want Mazzetti being rude to this lady, so he stepped in front of him as he spoke, then crouched down to eye level with the woman.
She appreciated the manners and looked over her shoulder at Mazzetti to see if he was going to bend down too. When he made no movement, other than one of impatience, she turned her full attention back to Stallings and said, “We have to hurry. He’s got a girl in the house.”
Stallings patted her arm softly and said, “Who has a girl?”
She didn’t seem to hear. “A young girl. I know who he really is.”
“Ma’am, who are you talking about.”
She looked at him, then up to Mazzetti and said, “I know who the Bag Man is.”
Twenty-five
John Stallings steadied himself as Tony Mazzetti pushed his Crown Vic around a corner too hard. He wasn’t used to sitting in the backseat of a speeding police car, but there was no time to argue once they had the tip. The old lady had too many details for them not to take her seriously. She said the man lived alone with a cat, acted oddly, and she saw him usher a young girl she described as “petite” into the house a couple of hours earlier. She had also seen him with a small woman Saturday night, the night Trina Ester said good-bye to her coworkers for the last time.
