a big case going on at the time.
Patty stepped next to Tony Mazzetti and said, “Where’d you get the screens?”
Mazzetti turned his handsome face on his thick, muscular neck and said, “Paramedics had them for some reason and loaned them to us. Who would’ve guessed firemen could be helpful on occasion?” His dark brown eyes scanned the immediate area and settled back on Patty. In a much lower voice he said, “You look great, I’m glad I have something to distract me for a few minutes. This one is ugly.”
“How’re you holding up?”
The big man shrugged, straining his tailored shirt. “I’m getting used to Sparky Taylor as a partner. I can’t believe Hoagie accepted the teaching job at the police academy for three months.”
“I heard Sparky is really, really smart.”
“He’s also really, really weird.”
Patty let her eyes drift to Mazzetti’s new partner. He was built like a giant pear. Patty figured the African American man was about forty, but with the extra weight and floppy clothes he wore, it was very difficult to be accurate. He’d looked the same six years ago when Patty had first met him. Back then he’d been the tech agent for the department. Basically an audiovisual guy who could plant bugs, hide cameras, and work complex wiretap equipment. But all that ended for Sparky Taylor when he got hopelessly wedged in the bathroom window of a suspect’s house after planting a microphone for the narcotics unit. Although the suspect had not come home and seen it himself, the neighbors had told him about the fire department and other cops rescuing a heavyset black man squeezing out of a back window. The department had been forced to reveal its court-ordered microphone and wiretap warrants. Since that incident, Sparky, whose real name was Cliff, had floated around different units in the detective bureau. Now he’d landed in homicide.
Patty turned to Mazzetti. “Any ideas on this one yet?”
“Her I.D. says she’s Kathy Mizell, nineteen, and a student at UNF. Her parents said she didn’t come home last night, which wasn’t unusual. She stayed with friends near campus a couple of nights a week.”
Patty felt sick at the idea of a bright young student ending up like this. “What about the scene itself?”
“She wasn’t killed here, just dumped. I called you guys because of the photo of your missing girl. I recognized the buckle on the belt. Has to be her belt.”
“Seems reasonable, but where’s her body and why would the killer link two victims?”
Mazzetti sighed, saying, “I’m trying to find any possible link to the body in Rolling Hills. So far, aside from the mode of death being asphyxiation, there’s nothing to connect the women. I don’t want to make the same mistakes I’ve made in the past.”
Patty was so proud of him for even admitting he’d ever made a mistake she wanted to give him a hug right there on the spot. She looked back up and saw the dead girl’s face as one of the crime scene techs moved to one side. She knew she’d see that face in her short periods of dreaming tonight.
FIVE
He sat outside a McDonald’s not far from his warehouse with the living quarters above. He had a dream lease. The two-bedroom apartment covered half of the second floor above his shop and was nicer than half the condos in the city. He watched the two little girls in the covered ball pit. Blond heads bobbing up and down out of sight. The clouds and light rain forced him to stay under the overhang, but at least he had time to enjoy his Big Mac, fries, and Coca-Cola. One of the drywall workers he saw on jobs left the McDonald’s and waved to him.
The burly young man said, “Hey, Buddy.”
He lifted his half-eaten Big Mac as a greeting and nodded. As the only employee of his business he had no need to make close friends. He was either “Buddy” or “the guy from Classic Glass Concepts.” That was how most of the construction business worked. Since his custom glass business took him to only the high-end homes and businesses, he usually saw the same companies catering to the wealthy. He had hoped, when he first started out in business, that his glassblowing talents would allow him to make money creating works of art. He quickly learned that to make a living in the glass business, you had to adapt. Now only a few square feet of his warehouse were dedicated to the actual art he had studied for most of his life. The walls of the warehouse held sheets of thick glass, some etched with exotic designs.
That was how he’d found the victim three weeks ago in Rolling Hills. He was working in a fancy house down the street. All the rich people insisted he use an unmarked van so he was parked in a driveway and no one noticed him. The street was crammed with lawn and pool service trucks and three separate construction crews working on remodelings. The gate to the community was unlocked for all the workers. He’d noticed Pamela Kimble walking with her children one day. Tall and graceful, she had the gait of a runner sidetracked by a pregnancy, fast and deliberate with the kids trying to keep up. He waited until he was done with the job, then came back two days later and parked at a house where he had installed an interior etched glass panel. He knew the owner wouldn’t be home. He was careful to leave an invoice on the front door handle in case anyone noticed him, but no one did. No one ever did. Rich people use workers but don’t notice them.
He’d slipped into Pamela’s house in the middle of the day. She hadn’t even known someone was inside until he had his hand around her lovely throat. He’d surprised her as she took a nap in her cool, dark bedroom on the mammoth king-sized bed. Sprawled in workout clothes and a loose T-shirt, she was the perfect picture of a suburban mom.
He had used his hands to choke her, requiring him to wear simple rubber surgical gloves, so he fumbled with his homemade glass jar. An exact little cylinder like the others. He opened his fingers slightly to let her gasp, then exhale, only to tighten his grip harder. It was difficult to describe the peace he felt when her body finally went limp and he let her lie across his lap for a few minutes. She was definitely worthy of eternity. He thought, in the long expanse of time, she might see what he was really doing for her. For her essence and memory. He slipped back out of the house, her kids sleeping in front of the TV in the next room. It was a great moment.
He had been shaken by his experience getting rid of the body the night before. The idea that someone might surprise him in such a vulnerable position was terrifying. He’d made some mistakes. He hoped he hadn’t left a fingerprint or DNA somewhere on the body. He almost always used some kind of gloves. It was bad enough he had used the belt and been so flustered he left it. Not that it could be linked directly to him, but it was too unusual to be ignored. He liked leaving as little as possible in terms of evidence or clues. He wasn’t like the nuts in the movies who enjoyed taunting the police.
For so long he’d been patient and careful never to use a woman who could be linked to him as a subject for his work of art. He wondered if it was really necessary. Were the cops really that good at discovering minute clues? He doubted it. That was one of the reasons he had picked up the pace lately. He realized his work of art would take too long to complete if he only added a piece every other year or so. But last night had spooked him.
The buzz of the encounter had him pumped up. He felt like a kid on Christmas morning as he calculated how many more he needed. Not too many now. Soon he’d have a real monument. A memorial that would be special. He couldn’t help but smile as he thought about his work of art in progress for sixteen years.
He finished his Big Mac and took a long swig of Coke. A red plastic ball popped out of the pit and rolled next to his heavy work boot. As he bent down to retrieve it, one of the blond girls scampered out of he ball pit, red ribbons tying her ponytail, flopping over to one side. She skidded to a stop about ten feet away and fixed her blue eyes on him. A smile swept across her face, showing one missing front tooth.
Then his moment of humanity was shattered when he heard an unmistakable voice say, “Look who’s here, the squatter.”
He looked up slowly, knowing exactly who had the sneer in her voice. He was surprised it wasn’t just Cheryl, but her sweet, younger sister too. Poor Donna had a look of horror on her face as Cheryl marched toward him.
Buddy mumbled, “Hello, ladies.”
Cheryl jumped right to the point. “You ready to accept our offer?”
“I’m looking, but I
“I can have that voided in court.”
“You keep saying that. If that’s true, why are you after me to move the shop?”
She growled in frustration. Her sharp features flushed red, while Donna looked on silently. He knew Cheryl
