his wife was having a hard time coping with their own situation. At the time, he thought he was helping her. But it was to help him too. Sharing an experience like a missing child helped people feel they weren’t alone and was a major source of comfort for most people. But most people didn’t have a profession like his. Now he knew he had no frame of reference to help this poor woman whom he was about to tell her oldest daughter was dead. All he could do was promise himself he’d do whatever it took to catch the person who killed her.
Suddenly the migraine made him squeeze his eyes shut as flashes of pain shot through his brain. The distracted Jackie didn’t notice as she searched for a place to lay down her cigarette.
When she turned to face him Stallings said, “You better sit down, Jackie. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”
Five
Patty Levine picked at a Lean Cuisine lasagna as she watched the late local news. The first story was, of course, the body Stallings had found earlier in the day. Tony Mazzetti stood in front of cameras to explain that the Sheriff’s Office had taken the homicide investigation and managed to talk about very few actual facts of the case. Jacksonville Beach was the official jurisdiction where the body was found, and Patty wondered why the Sheriff’s Office had decided to take on more work, but in the end it wasn’t her concern. Her job was finding missing persons, usually kids, and it was important. And she got to wear a detective’s shield. But two years at the same thing was getting old. It wasn’t like there were a bunch of volunteers to come into the missing persons unit. Pretty much it was her and John Stallings, and it looked like that’s how it was going to stay.
She looked across the room at her kitchen counter, where she had six prescription bottles lined up in a row, then glanced at the clock in her DVR to see if it was time to throw down a few Ambien. She’d taken the last Xanax about four in the afternoon and didn’t like the drug effects to overlap too strongly. Luckily, she hadn’t needed any Percocet this evening for her chronic hip pain. The years of gymnastics had taken their toll on her young body. When someone commented that she’d been a cheerleader, Patty dropped into her speech about the rigors of gymnastics, one of the toughest sports in the world and recognized by the Olympic committee. She only gave the speech to someone one time; the second time they faced physical confrontation. Cheerleading was fun and games, gymnastics was a sport, which was why she needed the drugs to mask any physical problems. Everyone knew she was as tough as any male cop, and she didn’t intend to let a little hip pain slow her down. No one at the office realized she often had a throbbing ache in her hip or that she was a serious insomniac or that she felt anxious for no reason. And no one ever would. She liked her image.
Right now she needed sleep, and Ambien was the only thing that gave her any chance at that. She exceeded the dosage because the twelve milligrams just didn’t cut it anymore.
Her cat, Cornelia, butted a hard, furry head against her leg, then jumped up onto the low couch. Patty, still looking at the TV, said to Cornelia, “That Tony Mazzetti is a sharp dresser. He looks good on the tube.”
She tossed the plastic container of her dinner and rinsed off the fork; this routine had kept her from using her dishwasher for the last three months. Ready to watch something lighter with Cornelia, she paused at the counter and threw down two Ambien, way more than the usual dosage, knowing the onset would be more than twenty minutes, if at all. Her cell phone, next to the parade of pills, started to ring. She recognized the number as one from the sheriff’s main office.
She flipped it open. “Patty Levine.”
A sharp, fast male’s voice said, “Report to homicide at oh eight hundred. Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it. Who’s this?” But the phone went dead
Suddenly the migraine made him squeeze his eyes shut as flashes of pain shot through his brain. The distracted Jackie didn’t notice as she searched for a place to lay down her cigarette.
When she turned to face him Stallings said, “You better sit down, Jackie. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”
Five
Patty Levine picked at a Lean Cuisine lasagna as she watched the late local news. The first story was, of course, the body Stallings had found earlier in the day. Tony Mazzetti stood in front of cameras to explain that the Sheriff’s Office had taken the homicide investigation and managed to talk about very few actual facts of the case. Jacksonville Beach was the official jurisdiction where the body was found, and Patty wondered why the Sheriff’s Office had decided to take on more work, but in the end it wasn’t her concern. Her job was finding missing persons, usually kids, and it was important. And she got to wear a detective’s shield. But two years at the same thing was getting old. It wasn’t like there were a bunch of volunteers to come into the missing persons unit. Pretty much it was her and John Stallings, and it looked like that’s how it was going to stay.
She looked across the room at her kitchen counter, where she had six prescription bottles lined up in a row, then glanced at the clock in her DVR to see if it was time to throw down a few Ambien. She’d taken the last Xanax about four in the afternoon and didn’t like the drug effects to overlap too strongly. Luckily, she hadn’t needed any Percocet this evening for her chronic hip pain. The years of gymnastics had taken their toll on her young body. When someone commented that she’d been a cheerleader, Patty dropped into her speech about the rigors of gymnastics, one of the toughest sports in the world and recognized by the Olympic committee. She only gave the speech to someone one time; the second time they faced physical confrontation. Cheerleading was fun and games, gymnastics was a sport, which was why she needed the drugs to mask any physical problems. Everyone knew she was as tough as any male cop, and she didn’t intend to let a little hip pain slow her down. No one at the office realized she often had a throbbing ache in her hip or that she was a serious insomniac or that she felt anxious for no reason. And no one ever would. She liked her image.
Right now she needed sleep, and Ambien was the only thing that gave her any chance at that. She exceeded the dosage because the twelve milligrams just didn’t cut it anymore.
Her cat, Cornelia, butted a hard, furry head against her leg, then jumped up onto the low couch. Patty, still looking at the TV, said to Cornelia, “That Tony Mazzetti is a sharp dresser. He looks good on the tube.”
She tossed the plastic container of her dinner and rinsed off the fork; this routine had kept her from using her dishwasher for the last three months. Ready to watch something lighter with Cornelia, she paused at the counter and threw down two Ambien, way more than the usual dosage, knowing the onset would be more than twenty minutes, if at all. Her cell phone, next to the parade of pills, started to ring. She recognized the number as one from the sheriff’s main office.
She flipped it open. “Patty Levine.”
A sharp, fast male’s voice said, “Report to homicide at oh eight hundred. Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it. Who’s this?” But the phone went dead
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