“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.”
The muscular pimp scooted back to lean on the tire of the big Hummer. He shook his head. “Poor Lee Ann. She was almost completely clean.”
Stallings looked at him. “What do you men ‘almost’ clean? What was she using, and where’d she get it?”
“She was using what all the young girls like today-prescription drugs like Vicodin or Oxy. They think it’s safer and cheaper than anything else.”
“They think Vicodin is safe?”
“Yeah, I know, when we was kids we all smoked pot. Everyone said it would kill us and turn us into lazy bums. That’s what my mama would say, ‘You smoking weed, you nothin’ but a lazy bum.’” He let a slight smile spread on his wide face. “You believe that shit. Turns out pot is safe compared to everything else.”
“Where’d Lee Ann get the prescription stuff?”
“She had a couple of sources. All the girls tend to use one or two different guys because they’re safe. A couple street dealers downtown. They all go to them.”
“Got a name?”
“They all white dudes. No brother would be caught dead selling shit like that. There’s guys named Chuck and Ernie, then there’s a little dude named ‘Peep’ or some shit like that.”
“Peep Morans?”
“That’s the dude. You know him?”
Stallings frowned and couldn’t hide his real feelings for the man known as Peep Morans. All he said was, “Yeah, I know him.”
Dremmel froze for a moment. Sweat started to drip from his forehead.
“William.” Her tone was back to her preferred, calmer southern hostess voice but it still filled the whole house, belching out of three separate intercoms, bouncing off the terrazzo floors and echoing in the halls.
His eyes cut from the courtyard door to Trina, until she said, “Who the hell is that and where is she calling from?”
He cleared his throat and said, “It’s my mother on the other side of the house. She’s not well.”
“Are you going to see what she wants?” Finally she popped the whole pie-shaped pat of cheese into her mouth and started smacking her lips.
He motioned her to stay put, turned, and hurried into the kitchen, through the courtyard, down to his mother’s bedroom, bursting in the door without his customary knock, then shutting it tight behind him. His pulse was galloping over 120, and he was starting to see spots in his vision. Was this a stroke? He’d have a hard time explaining a few things to the paramedics and cops when they showed. His legs went weak, and he slipped onto the folding chair next to the bed, shoving the magazines off onto the floor.
His mother turned her pretty face toward him and grasped his hand in her own delicate hand. “Are you well, William? You look odd.” Her eyes had a bright, lucid look to them as she sat up in her bed. “I was about to get into my chariot and venture into your side of the house.”
Dremmel tried to control his breathing, flinching slightly at the touch of her hand. “I’m fine, Mother. I was in the middle of something when you started screaming. What do you need?”
“I just hadn’t seen you, son. I was afraid you might not come home. What are you in the middle of?”
“I have a lot of work to do. Papers from school.”
“I wish those people at the college recognized how hard you work.” Her voice sounded clear and light for a change. He almost wished he didn’t have to force her back to sleep. Lucidity was a rare quality for his mother anymore. Mostly because of him.
“You need some rest, Mother. You look tired.”
She drifted off for a moment, then asked, “Can I watch TV with you for a while?”
He shook his head. “Tomorrow night. I have to get busy on my work again.” He wanted to say ‘experiment,’ but historians didn’t do experiments and he didn’t want to explain his personal pharmaceutical work, especially since she was the most successful test subject to date. He dimmed the light next to her bed and pulled up the flowery comforter. “I’ll get you some milk so you can fall back to sleep, okay?”