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.