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 epitome 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
