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 redwood 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.”
Stallings stood up and offered a hand to Franklin. It took some effort to hoist the muscle-bound pimp to his feet.
“Franklin, you know you gotta come in and talk to the lead detective on this.”
“I didn’t kill her.”
“I believe you, but we got a ton of questions.” Stallings was shocked at the sympathy he had developed for the pimp in a few minutes’ time. He was almost sorry he had struck him with the ASP. There was a chance that Stallings was developing something he lacked as a rookie: a sense of empathy. He wasn’t altogether certain he liked it.
Franklin said, “Can’t go to talk to nobody.” He struggled on his feet as he turned to run.
Stallings didn’t move. He had seen this before. The pain had eased up for a moment, but the leg still wouldn’t support him. The stout pimp took three steps, then went down to his knee.
“Like I said, Franklin. We’re going to talk to someone. Right now.”
“Can’t I just talk to you right here?” Now he sounded like a sullen little kid.
“You can, but there’s another detective who’ll need to speak to you, and that’s gotta be back at the Police Memorial Building.”
