across his face.
Patty stood over the bleeding drummer. She was ready to kneel down and slap on a pair of handcuffs. “You were right. He’d have run right into me if I waited by the back door.”
Stallings shook his head and mumbled, “Dumb-ass.”
Mazzetti had let Pudge slink away with that funny, half-leaning gait. He almost looked like one of the assistants to a mad scientist in an old horror movie. He eyed the yellow house and considered who was holed up there. No one had come out since the po-po had been on the scene, and that was a little odd, because the rest of the neighborhood couldn’t wait to see all the commotion. They may not have been talking to the police about the shooting that left three dead on their block, but they were certainly out and about, gawking at all the emergency workers.
He waited as Christina Hogrebe eased over from the other corner.
“Got anything, Tony?”
“Maybe.” He cut his eyes to the yellow house. “In a second, take a glance over there and see if there’s any movement. Just had someone tell me a white man is inside with a Miss Brison.”
“You think he might’ve been some kind of lookout or spy?”
“It’s just weird that a white guy is right in the middle of this neighborhood and a shooting occurs within viewing distance.”
Christina shrugged as they walked over toward the yellow house’s front door. He’d worked with the young detective long enough for her to know when to argue and when to just back him up. He liked the arrangement.
He paused on the poured-cement porch of the house. Deep fissures ran from one side of the porch to the other, and it felt unsteady in a way he couldn’t quite pinpoint. The door rattled as he knocked. He heard someone inside and glanced over his shoulder to see Christina standing to the side of the window but still looking in as much as she could. He stepped to the side of the door and brought his hand up to the Glock on his right hip. Someone paused on the other side of the door, the door handle moving just enough for him to notice.
Mazzetti’s heart rate picked up as he sensed something odd about the house and its occupants. Suddenly he wondered if the shots could’ve come from here. No one in the neighborhood had actually said they saw a car.
As he was about to call out to Christina, the door handle twisted and someone fought with the door, jiggling it to come open. He turned his full attention to the door.
Patty liked that Stallings let her conduct interviews without any interference. Sometimes a senior partner wanted to handle everything. Some male cops wanted to do everything, but Stallings had never shown any kind of prejudice against a female coworker. He treated everyone exactly how he felt they needed to be treated based on their behavior. If they were asses he treated them like asses. If they tried, but weren’t too sharp, he tried to help and support them. If you’d proven yourself, he trusted you completely.
They had the drummer, Donnie Eliot, in the backseat of her car with his hands cuffed behind him. A small pile of money, assorted baggies, a toothpick, and nail clippers that had come from his pockets sat inside a clear plastic evidence bag next to her in the front seat.
She turned around to face the scared young man. A trickle of blood still seeped from his nose where she had cracked him with a palm-heel strike as he ran right at her from the rear of the club.
Patty said, “Why’d you run in the first place, Donnie?”
“You know why.” He kept his eyes down on the seat.
“Why don’t you tell us?”
“I’m holding,” he mumbled.
She held up the evidence bag. “Something in here? That’s not why we were looking for you.”
“Then I’m free to go?”
“Not a chance.”
Mazzetti let his hand slip off his gun when he saw the young black woman who opened the door. Her green, oval eyes and perfect complexion and white, frilly nightgown gave her an angelic appearance. Until he glanced farther down and realized her white nightgown was some kind of incredible Victoria’s Secret special, cut for maximum exposure of her tight stomach, firm round breasts, and shapely hips.
She focused those lovely eyes on Mazzetti, who took a second to bring his up. “Hi,” was all she said.
“Hi, ma’am. I, um, I’m Tony Mazzetti from Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office, and this is Christina Hogrebe. Can we come in a talk to you for a second?”
The woman gawked at Christina and said, “She’s pretty.” The listlessness to her voice and the way her eyes tracked slowly told them she was high.
Mazzetti took a closer look and noticed her pupils were barely pinpricks.
Christina said, “What’s your name, dear?” She sounded like a mother, even though she was about the same age as this woman. Christina had a way of talking to certain people.
“Miss Brison,” the woman mumbled. “But you can call me Miss Brison.”
“Can we talk to you inside, Miss Brison?” Christina was already at the door, pulling Miss Brison along.
As soon as he crossed the threshold, Mazzetti sensed someone else was in the house. He turned and said, “Who’s here, Miss Brison?”
“Jus’ me and my cat.”
He heard a thump in the rear of the house and rushed down a narrow hallway to see an open window. He stuck his head out just enough to see a flash of a man’s face as he disappeared around the next house. There was no reason to chase the man, especially in this neighborhood. But he made note of his face. A thin white man with dark hair.
He had a few questions to ask Miss Brison.
Twenty-four
Patty Levine had never used this interview technique before. She had heard some of the older detectives talk about it in the past, but none of them ever made it sound like anything other than a practical joke. But now that she and Stallings were alone in the Land That Time Forgot, on the second floor of the PMB, with the drummer in handcuffs sitting quietly at Stallings’s desk she realized her partner was serious and thought this might work.
Donnie had been quiet, courteous, but not particularly helpful since they had arrested him outside the Bamboo Hut. They were on their way to book him in jail on a minor possession charge. Although there was always a great uproar about the number of people that went to jail for seemingly minor marijuana and other drug charges, in fact, the only time anyone was arrested in Jacksonville for marijuana was in connection with a more serious crime or if they gave the cops shit. Donnie had some meth and about half an ounce of weed. Normally that wouldn’t warrant much attention from a cop, but they needed him and wanted him a little frightened right now.
Stallings sat with him as the drummer said for the tenth time, “I swear to God I am telling the truth.”
Stallings said, “What’s the most time you ever spent in jail?”
Donnie looked down at the grimy floor and said, “I did four months at a juvenile facility and a couple nights here and there for stupid things. Never anything worse than smoking pot.”
Stallings stared at him. The hard cold stare he usually saved for the predators they caught with young girls. He didn’t say a word, make a fist, or even look angry. It was just those cold blue eyes and the sense that he was past the point in his career where he wanted to hear nonsense.
Donnie quickly added, “Well, smoking pot and breaking into cars. But I always made sure they were tourists and not local people.”
“Why is that important?”
“I wouldn’t want to hurt the hardworking people who live here.” The young man seemed sincere. He had an odd, earnest, goofy appearance, his wavy brown hair flying out in wild directions. He managed a smile, showing his crooked teeth with a huge corner taken out of one of his upper front teeth.
Stallings continued to stare without a word.
“And the tourists tend to have more money and leave it stashed in a car.”
Stallings said, “All I really want is information about Allie Marsh. You already admitted that you’d been talking to her.”
