by James Andrus
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.
The sight knocked him speechless.
She wiggled her shoulders, making her breasts sway in wide arcs. “That must be worth some more Oxy.” She had an impish smile.
“Yeah,” he smiled. “Sure.” But as he stared, transfixed at the topless girl, he was overwhelmed. A panic rose in his throat. These situations were much easier when the female was lashed to the wall or comatose. He tried to swallow the basketball in his throat, then forced his eyes up to look in her face.
Trina said, “You’ll be amazed at what it takes to get my pants off. Hope you bring that pharmacy home with you at night.” Her tiny hands reached up to cover her bare breasts. The pose made his legs go weak.
At that moment he didn’t care if his mother rolled in on them. This girl was perfect. Just a bit loud.
Eleven
Patty Levine had spent a few minutes scratching Cornelia’s neck, feeling the low rumble of her purr, watched the ten o’clock news to see what they threw up on the homicide. She was surprised to see that it was only a sketch of the first victim, and the S.O. spokesman made it sound more like an accidental death. She figured they wanted to avoid the spectacle of the news covering a serial killer as long as possible without actually lying to the reporters. With all the cutbacks in the newsrooms it didn’t feel as if reporters pushed for the “real” story like they used to. People could talk about the erosion of constitutional rights, but revenue shortfalls had done more to curtail freedom of the press than any government action ever could.
There was a short interview with Tony Mazzetti, who looked good as always in a suit that showed off his sculpted shoulders and strained ever so slightly when he bent his arms. Seeing him on her flat screen frustrated Patty again. Earlier, she’d thought he was flirting with her, asking if she was attached, but when she gave him the obvious opening he just wanted to know where she was on finding out about the luggage. Did he really only live for homicide investigations the way some of the officers said? Something told her there was a lot more to Tony Mazzetti than good taste in clothes.
She’d spent a full twelve hours at her desk working, skipping lunch, blowing off the gym, eating her usual TV dinner. She was still going over in her head possible avenues she could pursue to figure out if the bags used to hold the bodies could lead them to the killer. This was the kind of challenge she’d been searching for in police work.
She turned off the tube after the story on the victim ran, then padded into the kitchen and made a quick assessment of what pills needed to be taken now. It was late, her back wasn’t sore, and she didn’t feel anxious, so that left only Ambien to let her sleep soundly. She shook out two 12-milligram pills and tossed them in her mouth, then chased them with some orange juice right from the plastic jug. As she replaced the container she looked over at Cornelia, who was staring at her from the counter.
“That’s right, it’s my house, so I can drink directly from the jug if I want.” She sighed, reached over, and rubbed the yellow cat’s chin, then added, “It’s not like anyone would mind.”
It was now officially late for a veteran cop like John Stallings. He’d just called home to see if Maria and the kids were okay. Lauren had told him that Mom and Charlie were asleep, and she was finishing homework. As he was about to shut his cell phone Lauren said, “Be careful, Dad.”
He smiled, and all he could say was “Love you, girl.”
Stallings focused back on work and recalled he was in Jacksonville Heights when he had picked up Lee Ann Moffit once. People in the sex trade tended to stay in one area where they had contacts, knew the clientele, and knew when a stranger was around. It helped to avoid arrests, designate an area where the competition would think twice before entering, and gave pimps several places to set up shop and be available if one of their girls needed help or, more often, if they needed to find one of their girls to explain how the business arrangement worked.
Stallings was a little disappointed to hear Lee Ann might have still been hooking in addition to her legit job. But it had to be hard to make it on minimum wage. He wasn’t in the business of judging. He had left that behind a while ago. Right now he wanted to find Franklin Hall and see what he knew about Lee Ann. And maybe convey some of the downside of being a man who preyed on women.
He’d been past a Denny’s, two local diners, even the shabby McDonald’s, but the closest vehicle to a Hummer he saw was a black Expedition. Jacksonville wasn’t like Miami, no matter how hard it tried. High-end vehicles weren’t as common unless you were talking about old people in Lincolns or Cadillacs. A Hummer would be easy to spot if it was out on the road. Then, as he turned onto 103rd Street he saw the unique shape of an International House of Pancakes with the shiny blue roof marking the spot where even cops hesitated to stop.
He spotted the obnoxious-looking vehicle that, to him, was the epit
ome of conspicuous consumption, taking up two spaces on the side of the building. This was the second break he’d had in the last hour. Now the question entered his mind of whether he should call backup. But who? Patty? Mazzetti? It was late, and this could be a dead end or he may not want a witness to know how he went about getting information. He hated wasting a detective’s time as much as he hated getting his ass kicked by overgrown pimps. Then he noticed someone leaving the restaurant and by his size realized it must be the pimp known as Franklin Hall.
Fate had made the decision for him
William Dremmel had concluded that even though she was pretty, topless, and apparently willing, this girl Trina was the most obnoxious person he had ever met.
She had stomped around the house, poking her nose into rooms and saying things like, “What’s the little ramp for in the kitchen?” or “Is that the same room you used since you were eight?” The one that cut into him the most was, “Why don’t you have your own house by now?”
Trina showed no self-consciousness about her semi-nakedness and didn’t appear to be cold either. He was fascinated that her left breast looked a full cup size larger than her right. His experience with naked women, at least conscious naked women, was limited, but she looked good. Too bad she wasn’t a mute. That would make her perfect.
As the time wore on, her voice had a scratchier quality to it and the effects of the Oxycontin seemed to fade in and out as she would become manic and abrasive, then sweet and listless. She finally flopped back onto the leather couch, her breasts bouncing as she did, and he hoped this might be Trina’s final display of energy and she would soon start to drift off. Dremmel had slipped out to the garage to grab some of the things he needed, then set the mattress on the floor of the darkroom. When she asked him about it, he said he was getting her bed ready. She smiled at the thoughtfulness of her host, but still did annoying things like chase Mr. Whiskers IV around the house, complaining about how cats don’t respect human authority. He had no idea what that meant but was ready to move on to the next phase of his plan.
He’d brought in a plate with cheese, a few strips of leftover steak, and a knife and fork, then set it on the coffee table in front of her. She had to be hungry with all the talking she’d done, plus he had mashed 100 milligrams of Seconal into one of the patties of fancy aged cheese. He knew the strong sedative could overwhelm her in combination with the Oxy, but at this point it was a risk he’d take. The pills were also the handiest in the kitchen, and he was starting to rush things to get her secured before something bad happened like his mom waking up. The kitchen counter was a mess, and the bright red capsule halves were still by the sink. He had other reasons to use the Seconal. Mostly he was amazed that this chick was still up and functioning, so he didn’t want to risk that she had built up a tolerance to something common like Ambien or Lunesta. The Seconal was harder to come by, but packed a wallop, so he was ready to carry her into the darkroom/lab whenever she nodded off.
Trina had been topless so long that it held less fascination for him. He wondered what she’d be like when he hooked her up in the lab, secured and on a steady diet of sedatives. She was a little heavy for his average subject and that accounted for her exceptional curves. She was also a few years younger than the others, but he was certain he could extrapolate any data he got from the drug trial.
He sat across from her in a heavy bamboo chair his uncle had bought in Korea, trying not to show his concern, but one leg bobbed up and down in rhythm to an unknown song. Finally he said, “Why don’t you eat something?”
“Why? You get off seeing chicks eat?” Her speech was slightly slurred, and she had a woozy quality to her movements. Her childlike hand snatched up a strip of the skirt steak he had grilled the day before, then she bit off a chunk, her lips smacking loudly as she chewed.
She picked up the fork and prodded the small cheese wedge designed to knock her unconscious. She looked up at Dremmel. “Got any beer, Billy?”
He hesitated, calculating the effect of alcohol in combination with everything else she’d ingested. He needed her alive to gain any benefit. “Yeah, I think I have some Bud out in the garage refrigerator.” What would it take to get her to eat the damn cheese?
She cocked her head, dipping her multicolored mane onto her pale, bare shoulder. “What are you waiting for? Go get it.”
Dremmel remained motionless in the chair wondering what to do.
Trina said, “You might get my pants off if I get a beer in the next thirty seconds.” She hiccupped the last part of the sentence.
“Just get a little more food in your stomach so you don’t get sick.”
“What’re you, my dad?” She snorted and giggled, then added, “You could be if you fuck me. That’s why I’m down in this shitty city anyway.” Then she started to sob.
Dremmel had no experience with comforting distraught women. His instinct was to ignore the whole unpleasantness, but he knew she expected some reaction from him—even if he just faked it. He eased onto the couch next to her and placed his arm around her shoulder, not knowing what else to do. It took several minutes for her to regain any composure until she took a napkin and blew her nose like a goose honking.
Without speaking, she reached down and picked up the spiked cheese, then stopped in front of her mouth like she was inspecting it. He waited patiently. At least while she cried over her father’s shameful behavior she wasn’t asking annoying questions in too loud of a tone. The sobs seemed to subside, but she still had the cheese in her hand. Then he heard something much worse than this girl’s voice.
From the intercom in the kitchen his mother’s voice screeched, “William, are you home? William, I need you.”
His stomach tightened as Trina’s head snapped up and she sniffled to end her crying jag, held on to the cheese wedge, and said, “Wow, who is that? She sounds like something out of a horror movie.”
Dremmel thought, you have no idea.
This was not working out the way he wanted it to.
Twelve
John Stallings parked his Impala behind the Hummer, blocking it in place. There was no way he wanted to be in any kind of car chase. He’d leave that to the show-offs and actors on TV. He lost sight of the pimp but knew he’d run into him shortly.
Before he even saw Franklin Hall come around the building, he heard the pimp shout, “Who parked that piece of shit behind my Hummer?”
A smile creased Stallings’s face at the thought of his coming confrontation. He hated psychobabble, but had put up with it for the last few years in counseling with the kids and Maria. All the issues the family had revolved around Jeanie, but he had attended a lot of AA and NA meetings with Maria too. The one term he had picked up that he felt was accurate was “anger issues.” He was about to explore some of those issues and possibly find an outlet for his pent-up frustration. The best part about it was that he knew, no matter what, this asshole pimp deserved whatever was about to happen to him. That made him keep smiling as he stepped out of his car and stood to face the taller, muscular man. Traffic was light, and the IHOP staff couldn’t see them from inside. This was perfect except he needed to get the big man’s attention quickly.
“John Stallings, Sheriff’s Office.”
“I ain’t done nothing, so you can speak to me through my attorney. His name is Scott Richardson, and he will eat you up and spit up out.” Hall had the rough Southern street accent so common in the area.
Stallings didn’t acknowledge the man. Instead he popped out his ASP expandable baton, and knocked out one of the Humvee’s taillights with an easy backhand swing.
“Oh shit! Is you crazy?”
Stallings laughed and said, “Is you Franklin Hall?”
The man just stared at him.
Then Stallings whacked the rear tailgate, leaving a dent and flecked paint.
Franklin took a big step toward him, so Stallings changed his stance, swung the ASP, and caught the muscle-head mid-thigh, sending him to the ground like a redwoo
d cut at an angle.
“Franklin, we gotta talk. I only need a minute.” He squatted next to the groaning man.
The man cut his yellow eyes up to Stallings but didn’t speak. He held his bruised thigh with both hands like everyone hit with an ASP did until they realized it didn’t help at all. Only time and maybe some ice sped the healing after meeting the business end of a weapon like that.
Stallings pulled out his photo of Lee Ann Moffit on the coroner’s table. “Who’s this?”
Franklin flicked his gauzy eyes to the photo, then froze. A hand came off his leg to hold the photo and study it. He sat up on the asphalt and mumbled, “Goddamn, baby, I thought you just run off.”
Stallings watched the injured pimp and sensed real sorrow from him. The traffic sounds of the night echoed in his ear as he allowed this nasty excuse for a person a few moments to grieve. Franklin showed no sign of wanting to give back the photo, as if he knew this would be the last time he’d ever see Lee Ann.
He looked up at Stallings. “Goddamn, what happened to her?”
“Was hoping you could tell us.” Stallings could sense this guy was troubled by the photo of Lee Ann on the autopsy table. That was unlike most pimps. One thing Stallings had learned was that not everyone was what you expected. It made him take a moment to view the muscular pimp in a new light and perhaps give the man the benefit of the doubt.
Franklin said, “I thought she’d found a better business deal and had changed managers.”
“When’s the last time you saw her?”
The pimp was still reeling but attempting to provide accurate information. After looking off in space and taking a few seconds, he said, “Don’t know, maybe a week ago.” The pimp had his hands out behind him on the asphalt, his hazy eyes moist. “She was a good girl. Never hurt nobody.”
