Authors: James Andrus
Patty Levine felt a little woozy after answering the phone call from John Stallings saying he had Lee Ann Moffit’s pimp at the D-Bureau. She’d been called out to a scene a couple of times in the past after taking a sleeping pill and knew the drill. First she went straight into her bathroom and stuck a finger down her throat until she vomited. It wasn’t dainty or subtle, but it usually worked. Then she showered real quick, got dressed, and drank a Red Bull on her way into the office. The sugar and caffeine seemed to counteract any of the Ambien that had dissolved in her system and kept her awake, if a little jittery, for as long as she needed to be. Every time it happened she renewed her vow to lay off the sleeping pills, but she never lasted for long. A night or two of tossing and turning and she was back to her kitchen counter looking for whatever she had that would make her nod off.
Now she sat with Stallings as the interview with Franklin Hall concluded. She was surprised Stallings had done the proper thing and brought in the suspect for Mazzetti to interview. That was the way things were supposed to happen, the lead detective calling the shots on something like that, but she hadn’t expected her partner to play by those rules. She had noticed the bulky pimp walking with a slight limp when they had taken a break for him to use the bathroom. She expected that from Stallings.
She and Stallings had watched the interview over a closed-circuit TV that also videotaped everything that went on in the small room with only three chairs. The newest homicide detective, Christina “Hoagie” Hogrebe, sat in on the interview. Mazzetti had said it was because he wanted a female perspective on the guy’s demeanor, but Patty knew it was a jab at Stallings. If Patty had to admit it, she felt a stab of jealousy too. The beautiful detective was already in homicide, a year younger than her, and she had earned it by good, smart police work. But Stall had found the guy, and he was a senior detective.
Stallings had already gotten most of Franklin’s story on the ride to the S.O. and the wait for Mazzetti to return to the office. Patty listened as Mazzetti laid out the same questions they all would’ve asked and assessed the pimp carefully on each answer. Like any team used to interviewing, Mazzetti kept good eye contact and developed rapport while Hoagie took notes and developed more questions for later. They were pros, and it showed.
The story was logical, and Franklin Hall didn’t seem to be hiding anything. He admitted to making a living as a pimp, to smashing Davey Lambert’s computers because he thought the brainy computer-pimp had stolen one of his girls, and that Lee Ann Moffit worked for him. She had recently tried a real job and was only working one or two nights a week for special clients that called Franklin and asked for her. The dark-skinned pimp had not hesitated to provide every name and number of those clients. There was no honor in the profession when someone turned up dead—the loser-pimp privilege didn’t apply.
Franklin also revealed that he used to be called “Jamais” and had each of his girls tattoo his name in the same place on their backs.
On the small screen, Patty heard Tony Mazzetti ask, “Why were you called Jamais?”
“Because Franklin isn’t the scariest pimp name in the world. I just made up Jamais and liked the sound of it.”
“Why’d you stop using it?”
“Jamais Cook down in Daytona came up with a couple of his boys and explained copyright to me.”
Mazzetti smiled and said, “How’d he get the lesson across?”
Franklin Hall lifted his shirt, displaying perfect abs and wide, chiseled shoulders. He turned in his seat and showed Mazzetti a jagged swath of scar tissue on his upper right shoulder.
Mazzetti winced.
Hoagie calmly said, “Let me guess, you had ‘Jamais’ tattooed on your own shoulder too.”
The pimp nodded.
She said, “How’d they cut it off?”
“Straight razor.”
Mazzetti was the one cringing, but Hoagie just nodded and made a note. Patty liked that this younger detective didn’t waver. She asked, “Take long?”
“Only a second or two. The man was fast. Real fast. But it got infected, and I was out of action a week.” He slipped the shirt back on. “I got the message and decided Franklin was an okay name as long as I stayed big and buff and didn’t take no shit.”
Hoagie said, “Except from Jamais Cook.”
Patty smiled at her shot and poise.
Franklin Hall bowed his head and mumbled, “Yeah, ’cept for him.”
They finished up, taking a few more notes, then Tony Mazzetti emerged from the small interview room shaking his head. He looked over at them, shook his head some more, and marched in the other direction.
Stallings said, “What’s up his ass?”
“He’s probably pissed you brought in such a good lead. Made him look like an administrator.”
“But I did bring him in. I’m a team player. Sort of.”
“I noticed the pimp limping when he got up to stretch his legs.”
“So?”
“So, you can’t keep beating people for information.”
“Why not? It’s worked pretty well so far. Some instant street justice keeps everyone on their toes.”
She looked at him. “For me. For my sanity, please be a little more careful. Think about the consequences of your actions. Think about how much Maria and the kids need you.”
“You don’t need to worry about me.”
“Franklin is pretty big, Stall. You could’ve gotten hurt by yourself.”
“So now I’m an old man?”
Patty snickered. “No, you’ve been an old man for a while. Now you’re acting like a rookie.”
Rita Hester stepped out of an office, wiping her eyes as she walked. “Stall, you couldn’t have found this guy during the day? I’m too old to be out this late.”
“Sorry, Rita. I just lucked into finding him.”
From behind the sleepy lieutenant, Mazzetti said, “I believe you’re lucky. Luckiest son-of-a-bitch in the whole S.O.”
Stallings smiled.
Patty knew he thought it was more fun not to bite and let Mr. Type-A personality stew in his envy.
Rita Hester said, “You were a little rough on him, Stall. You really want to risk a fight like that at this point in your career?”
“To catch this killer, you bet. I hope everyone here is willing to take some risks.”
Mazzetti stepped into the conversation. “That was a hotshot move, Stall. You wanna be the one in the spotlight, don’t you?”
He smiled, shaking his head. “I don’t even want to be the one around the spotlight, Mazzetti. I just wanna find this killer.”
Mazzetti looked at Patty. “Maybe you can talk some sense into this guy.”
“Believe me Tony, I’ve tried.”
As Mazzetti stomped off, Stallings turned to his partner, “You called him Tony. You getting friendly with the enemy?”
She hoped he didn’t notice her face flush.
Stallings eased in his front door about two and was surprised to see Maria asleep in the recliner in front of the TV. Before he woke her, Stallings leaned down to smell the drink with a puddle of condensation around it. Ginger ale. He tasted it to be sure. Just ginger ale.
He gently shook her shoulder. “Hey, beautiful, let’s go to bed.”
Her eyes fluttered open. “Are you just getting home?”
He nodded.
“What time is it?”
“Two.”
“Why were you working so late?”
He knew it wasn’t the right time to explain his new assignment, especially that it was his choice. Tomorrow would be a better time. “Just have a few things happening. Let’s get some rest.” He took her hand and helped her up, happy to see her sober, safe, and with a smile on her elegant face. She kissed him lightly on his cheek, and his heart raced like it always did around her.
After trying to fall asleep for more than an hour, Stallings flipped for the twentieth time trying to get comfortable. It was an anxiety that surged through him and he didn’t know if it was from his case, his constant worry about the kids, sorrow for Jeanie, or the feeling that Maria was about to drop off the deep end any day. He never wanted to have to visit her during a “spa treatment” again.
He eased out of the king-size bed and made a quick circuit through the house, a habit he had only developed in the last few years. He found it calmed him and helped him sleep. He checked the front and rear doors, a few random windows, then looked in on Charlie, who snored away in a steady rhythm, then on his precious Lauren. He stood by her door, which she always kept slightly ajar, and gazed at her flawless face. Her room was a typical adolescent’s with an iPod in a charger next to a cell phone and computer. Her science textbook lay open on the small desk near her bed.
He searched both the kids’ computers on a regular basis, because he knew the predators that lurked on the Internet and how often runaways were lured from their homes by these creeps. He never kept his snooping a secret from the kids and explained his concerns openly, just like he explained drug use with them. Charlie never cared, but Lauren was getting to the age where she resented little intrusions like that. He knew he’d never be complacent again; she’d just have to get used to it.
Satisfied everything was secure, Stallings headed back to his bed, but still couldn’t shake the anxiety. He knew the only answer would be in finding Lee Ann Moffit’s killer.
Dremmel’s mind spun as he tried to buy time. Trina was clearly smarter than he’d given her credit for, and she was more resistant to the Oxy and Seconal than he thought possible. He’d read in one of the medical journals that continued use of most pharmaceuticals created a tolerance in the user even if the big drug companies claimed it didn’t. This girl was a walking, jabbering contradiction to the notion that continued drug use didn’t build tolerance. She had enough chemicals in her body that she should be snoring loudly in his lab by now.
If he bought enough time and calmed her down, maybe the drugs would start to hit her. He just needed a few minutes to get her into the lab, secure her, and then he could breathe a little easier.
He said, “I, er, I was worried about you and wanted you to get some rest. You’ll have your own bedroom even.”
She flung the empty Seconal capsule halves at him and screeched, “Bullshit. You’re a fucking perv.” A small fist blasted him in his right eye, snapping his head back. A trickle of blood ran down the side of his face. Trina turned, stomped into the living room, and started gathering her bra and blouse. “I’m outta here.”
He stood, silent, feeling the sticky blood from the small cut and the lights still dancing in front of his right eye. Test subjects weren’t supposed to act this way. He said, “No, wait. I can explain.” As much as he didn’t want to lose her as a potential test subject, he really didn’t want her as a potential witness. He rushed after her, a lump in his throat and his stomach so tight he thought he might vomit. “Please just hold on a minute.”
Trina looked up at him with her clothes in her hand, brown eyes angry but showing no sign of the sedative about to kick in.
He was on alert for another blow to the face, so he paused outside her short arm’s range and studied her face as it darkened. All that emotion wasn’t just because of him. This girl brought a whole stack of issues to the table. Certainly not as complex and debilitating as his own problems, but she definitely needed help. That fire, the rage shocked him. This was valuable information in itself; natural adrenaline could overcome even a sedative as strong as Seconal. He watched her carefully as she shuffled back and forth in front of the low coffee table, like she was deciding on a course of action.
Finally she said, “No, no way. I’m gone.”
“Where? How will you get there?” He fought to hide the panic in his voice.
“Don’t know, but I’m not staying in this nuthouse.”
Then he knew she was lucid. She had identified his house for what it was—an asylum. He knew he had to act.
Trina spread her blouse on the couch and started to lift her arms through the straps of her bra.
Dremmel dropped to one knee, took a firm hold on the thin but sharp knife he had brought out with the cheese, and looked up at the half-naked girl from his crouched position.
Her arms were straight up now and her bra was just slipping over her hands when he struck upward with the knife, between and slightly below her breasts. The blade slid just under her sternum, the bone providing a guide for the steel through her soft tissue into her heart and lungs. He felt her flesh close in around his fist clutching the handle of the knife and knew all those years of studying anatomy had just paid off with a perfectly placed blow.
He stood up and withdrew the knife in the same motion, leaving a surprisingly slim, neat slit in her abdomen.
Trina dropped the bra to the floor and stared at him as blood finally started to dribble, then pour out of the wound. “Oh God, oh God.” She clutched her upper stomach, covering the hole, causing blood to seep between her petite fingers. Then she started to scream. “You’re crazy. Oh God, you’re crazy.” She had tremendous volume not only for a small person but for one with a knife hole almost directly in the middle of her body.
Dremmel looked down at the blade to make sure it was as long as he had thought. Blood dripped from its pointy end all the way down to the sandy-colored wooden handle. That should’ve killed her.
Trina reached out with her right hand like she needed help, then, in an instant, grabbed at his left ear. She raked her dull nails across his face as she stumbled back, knocking her can of beer from the coffee table onto the hard terrazzo floor, then steadied herself on the big-screen LCD TV. Now she looked up at him with an air of defiance.
Dremmel flinched at the blood getting on the most expensive item in the house, felt his face where the scratches started to sting, then moved toward her with the knife still in his hand.
“Don’t come near me, you freak,” shrieked Trina, trying to back away more. At last her legs gave out and she plopped onto the cold floor, blood now spurting between her fingers. She rolled over and got up on her hands and knees, then started crawling away from him like an infant.
He had to stop her screaming. It dug into his brain like a power drill and made his ears ache. It sounded so loud that he was afraid his neighbors might hear it, let alone his mother. He knew he was panicked, but he also realized this had to stop.