The Perfect Death Read Online Free PDF Page B

Mazzetti. “Any ideas on this one yet?”
    â€œHer 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?”
    â€œShe 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.”
    â€œSeems 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