Authors: James Andrus
John Stallings pulled his county-issued black Impala into the Wendy’s parking lot. His stomach had been rumbling for more than an hour, but he wasn’t sure the effect a Wendy’s burger would have on him. This stretch of Beaver Street had only a few restaurants, and Wendy’s was the best choice of the bunch.
He pulled into an empty spot near the big bay window and glanced inside to see how busy the place was at this hour. One man stood in line and a few people sat at tables in the main dining area.
A girl in the window right in front of him munched on a sandwich as her head bobbed in response to a question from her companion. Her multicolored hair swayed in every direction as she nodded. She smiled and her whole face lit up, reminding Stallings exactly why he was out here at this hour. He felt guilty detouring off the main case to seek retribution on a pimp for hurting one of his girls. But in the big scheme of things Stallings really felt he was on this job to help people, and those he felt were most at risk were younger women working the streets in some way. Spending a few minutes scaring a pimp would help some women but wouldn’t necessarily stop the killer.
Looking back up into the Wendy’s, Stallings watched the young lady finish her sandwich. The concrete pillar blocked his view of the other person at the table, but from her gestures and posture he guessed it was a young man.
Moments like this made him wonder what it would have been like to see Jeanie in social situations. Dating, bringing boys by the house, growing up in front of his eyes. He knew not to dwell on those kinds of ideas, because they would crush him if he let them. He appreciated the smile on the girl’s face and then decided if he was going to take a few minutes away from the case to frighten a pimp, he better skip dinner to make up for it.
Besides, hunger put him in a nastier mood to deal with Davey Lambert, the pimp who went too far.
Patty Levine had lost track of time as she made call after call into every time zone in the country and pored over online catalogs of luggage and duffel bags. She had no idea how many companies made similar looking bags and that the number of outlets was in the thousands. She had narrowed the initial focus of stores that sold large bags to a small geographic area of Jacksonville and the surrounding area. She had a small map and marked from the Georgia border south to Flagler Beach and from the coast inland to Macclenny off Interstate 10. She liked this kind of work but more importantly realized no one else would put as much energy into it and might miss something.
Just as she felt her stomach growl someone said, “You’re here late.”
She turned to see Tony Mazzetti leaning in the doorway. His tie was loosened and his sleeves were rolled up almost to his toned biceps. This was the most casual she’d ever seen him.
She scooted her chair all the way around to see him. “You should talk.”
He smiled and said, “I’m used to it. I’m a homicide detective.”
She let out a snort, even though she tried to control that sort of thing in front of good-looking men. “C’mon, Tony, don’t give me that shit. We’re all detectives.” To her surprise he gave her a cute, sly smile. Maybe he wasn’t the asshole everyone thought he was.
“Really, you can pick that stuff up in the morning. You should get some rest. See your family.”
“First, I can outlast you or any other homicide dick, and second, I have an automatic feeder for my cat. My responsibilities at home are met for the evening.”
Mazzetti set his intense, dark eyes on her and said, “In that case, fill me in on what you’ve found so far.”
John Stallings cruised the area near the house Tabitha had told him about. His stomach rumbled with hunger, but he was glad he’d skipped a Wendy’s burger. The house on Beaver Street was what Stall would consider a “sleeper” and proved just how crafty this Davey Lambert really was. But to a cop who had worked the street and paid attention, little things gave it away. It was a lot like when a cop tried to go undercover as a street person, but their shoes always gave them away. Cops could wear old, unwashed shirts from the Salvation Army, ripped off-brand jeans, lay next to the smelliest pile of trash this side of the Mississippi, but they loved their good running shoes. A pair of expensive Nike Air Pegasus or Asics Air Cumulus shoes would tip off street people as fast as driving up in a patrol car. This house was a lot like that.
Set off the road, it gave the impression of being run-down, with high weeds in the unkempt front yard, paint flaking off the cheap siding, and a front door with the screen drooping down from one corner like a puppy’s ear.
Stallings noticed the run-down house also had a new, interlocking roof that could withstand a category-five hurricane and still not leak a drop inside. The reinforced storm windows were tinted tempered glass, and the door behind the screen was reinforced to discourage home invasions and withstand storm winds whipping off the Atlantic.
A surveillance system of linked cameras covered the front door all the way to the end of the driveway and a trip line ran along each side of the yard. A dark green H3 Hummer was partially hidden behind the house. Someone had invested a lot of cash to keep this house safe, dry, and very low key.
Stallings didn’t try to hide his approach; he didn’t have time. He needed information, but he also needed to let this asshole know it wasn’t cool to choke women. It would only take him a few minutes out of his way. He whispered to himself, “Is this the day that changes my life?” He checked his pistol in a sturdy polymer holster on his right hip, then headed for the front door.
As he started up the five wooden stairs to the porch, the inner door opened and a white guy wearing a bathrobe, with thinning blond hair, a goatee, and glasses stood in the doorway with the fake rickety screen door between them. He had the look of a college professor in his midthirties and was about six foot one with a little beef on him.
Stallings said, “You Davey?”
“Yep,” was all the man got out before Stallings threw a straight right punch through the screen and into Davey’s face, knocking the clunky man backward into the house.
Stallings didn’t hesitate to jerk the screen door open and follow the dizzy man into the house.
Davey was on his back trying to sit up when Stallings offered him a hand. Davey accepted without thinking and as he rose to his feet, Stallings head-butted him, knocking him into a sitting position on a small, expensive leather couch against the wall.
“What the hell, man,” cried out Davey, checking his nose for blood. “This is very uncool. You don’t know the fucking week I’ve had.” He took a moment, then said in a quieter voice, “Who the hell are you?”
Stallings calmly sat down across from him in a leather chair. “My name is John Stallings, and I’m a detective with JSO.” He crossed his legs like he was doing a TV talk show.
Davey said, “You’re Stall? I don’t work with underaged girls or runaways. I swear it, man.” The pattern of the screen was embedded into his face where Stallings had punched him. It already looked like it might bruise in that odd, woven pattern. “Why’d you punch me?”
“I don’t like pimps.”
“I don’t like cops, but I don’t go around smacking them.”
Stallings was sure he’d never met the man but was happy to know he had that kind of reputation on the street.
The pimp said, “Tabby told me all about you and what you did over on North Broad Street last year when they had a sixteen-year-old girl working there.” Davey shuddered. “I run a different, respectable operation, mainly over the Internet.”
“But you got girls walking the streets right now.”
“I have to so I can make the bills. Some asshole knocked me off-line for a few days.”
Stallings turned his head and looked in to the larger living room and saw six computers in various states of disassembly. He stood up to take a closer look. Davey followed him in.
“You’re not busting me for prostitution, are you? I thought you had better things to worry about.”
Stallings turned and made a fist. “This is an unofficial visit to make sure you don’t mistreat any of your employees again.”
Davey held up his hands in surrender. “I know I’ve been a dick this week. It’s a reaction to having my home dissed and shit trashed. I swear it won’t happen again.” He looked around the room at smashed computers and lines ripped from the wall. “This cat from over near Springfield accused me of violating the first law of pimping.”
“You stole one of his girls?”
“He thought I did. I never even heard of no one named Lee Ann, and I told him just that. He and his buddies still wrecked the place.” He pointed to a corner that was singed black where a fire had started.
Stallings placed a hand on his forearms to shut him up. “Whoa, whoa, did you say ‘Lee Ann’?”
“Yeah, he went off on me about her.”
“Lee Ann Moffitt?”
“Man, we don’t use no last names, you know that. This dude said she worked for him part time and since she worked part time at a Kinko’s near here and he saw me in there, he thought I stole her.”
Now Stallings knew that fate or karma or whatever you wanted to call it had brought him to this nerdy pimp’s house. “What’s the name of the guy who did all this?”
“Franklin Hall.”
“Describe him to me.”
“Black gentleman, he could be governor of California with arms as big as my legs and short hair. Always acts pissed off.” He looked at Stallings. “A little like you.”
“Where would I find Mr. Hall?”
“Shit, man, I don’t know. He doesn’t check in with me.” Davey snapped his fingers. “He’s a freak for breakfast. Eats it every meal. Eggs, bacon, pancakes. He’s probably at some Denny’s or IHOP. Guy like that usually runs his business from a booth where no one bothers him.”
“What’s he drive?”
“Full-sized Hummer. Jet black.”
Stallings looked at Davey. “Are Hummers the new Cadillacs for pimps?”
“They show some class and power. And I can drive around three or four girls at a time for parties and special events.”
Stallings headed for the door, then turned. “Remember what I said. No more rough stuff.”
“I understand, sir. I swear it won’t happen again.”
Stallings turned, satisfied he had made the world a little safer for at least a couple of girls. You had to pick your fights and measure your wins carefully in this business, and he had just been rewarded with a lucky lead on the only suspect they had right now.
He looked up at the dark Jacksonville sky and whispered, “Thank you.”
William Dremmel opened the door to his house as quietly as possible, hoping with all his heart that mother was asleep. Sound asleep. He should have realized when the woozy girl, Trina, flopped down onto the path next to the walkway in a fit of laughter that silence would not be accomplished without pharmaceutical help. He shushed her as best he could as he helped her to her feet. She was absolute dead weight as he yanked her arm.
Then, after he was inside, he heard the table next to the door rattle and Trina burst out in a laugh that sounded like a tractor-trailer horn.
“Sorry,” she said like they were at a bowling alley.
He raised his finger to his lips and gave her a quick “Shush,” then held still and listened to see if his mother would call out. He peeked to ensure the door between the sections of the house was secured. Silence.
“Why? You got roommates?” Her harsh whisper grated on him.
He handed her another Oxy, hoping that might mellow her out some. So far the drug had shown little effect on Trina, who had told him she was a runaway from Cleveland and her folks had no idea where she was. After hearing that vital information, Dremmel’s mind started churning and solving problems one after another.
First, he made sure no one from Wendy’s saw her sitting with him. Then he was careful to meet her on the street, giving her some bullshit story about how he had to go back to the pharmacy to score her some Oxy. She wanted to come, but he said there would still be someone there. He arranged to meet her a block from the pharmacy and told her not to say anything to anyone. She’d promised and explained she was finished at Wendy’s for the night anyway. He had watched her leave from down the street to make certain she didn’t stop and talk to anyone inside Wendy’s.
She had just waved good-bye and walked out alone, a big satchel over her shoulder. He knew she didn’t have a car and she’d been carrying around her essentials to spend the night wherever she could. Sometimes at a runaway “safe house,” sometimes with friends, and sometimes with men she met and slept with for a few bucks and a comfortable bed for the night. Dremmel knew the runaway culture like a cop would. He listened to them in the pharmacy, read everything about runaways he could find, and wasn’t afraid to ask questions of the youths that were sent to the pharmacy from the free clinics.
Now that he had her at his house, with no witnesses, knowing she had no one expecting her, and an obvious taste for pharmaceuticals, he had his next set of obstacles. Mainly he had to keep his mother quiet and unconscious, then lay down the bed in his “darkroom” as well as set the hooks in the wall and get out the restraints. He figured he’d be able to accomplish that after this girl passed out from all the Oxy he had fed her.
He locked the front door, and when he turned around Trina was already wobbling unsteadily down the single step down into the sunken living room. She held out her stubby arms like she was one of the freaking Flying Wallendas on a high wire as she balanced on her platform Crocs. Now Dremmel had to consider drug interactions, because this girl obviously had her own supply she’d hit before meeting him.
“Wow, nice big screen.” She let her tiny fingers dance across the top of the forty-two-inch Samsung. Her head swiveled, taking in the whole room, multicolored hair flipping in every direction. “Cool couch,” she said, flopping down onto it. Without preamble, she slipped off her sleeveless shirt and then popped off an industrial-strength bra to expose large, fleshy, lopsided boobs. Her skin was creamy and consistent like she didn’t get out into the sun much, with only the occasional youthful pimple to blemish such a perfect picture.