nails at Blanchart's arm to make him stop.
The lighter smoked. The smell of burned flesh circulated in the cabin.
Blanchart let go and reinserted the lighter in the twelve-volt receptacle. He observed his trembling hostage, which pleased him. He had no compunction about killing her and leaving her body in the road, but she'd always come through for him in the past. In his experience, the only bad informant was a dead informant.
"If I snitch on him he'll kill me and my baby."
"There are worse things than death."
The lighter popped.
Blanchart grabbed her hair and brought the glowing element toward her eye. "This might sting a little."
"I heard he likes to hang at this biker bar near the water," the hooker blurted.
"Which one?"
"The Tiki Hut. Near the FEMA trailers."
"What else?"
"That's it. I heard he likes to party three on one. I never met the dude before. That's all I got. I swear."
Blanchart stuffed the cash in her top and wiped her nose with the rag. "Go back to work. You'll know when I need you again. And keep this conversation to yourself—or the next time you see me will be the last."
Chapter 18
Leslie rubbed her eyes when she entered the courthouse detention cell and gave the okay signal to the deputy behind the observation mirror. She dropped her attaché case on the table and slid a chair across from her shackled client.
"My name is Leslie Dancroft," she said in her congested voice before she settled in behind the table and thumbed through a bundle of legal folders. "I'm with the public defender's office. The court appointed me to represent you. I'd like to start by asking you—"
"Where's my lawyer?" Manny Morallen demanded in his prisoner restraints and orange jumpsuit with the collar covering a portion of the black Yin/Yang symbol on his neck. His pork chop sideburns extended toward his chin and melded with a thick mustache. His arms were sleeved out in prison ink with the word " Defiance " spelled out in black letters across his knuckles.
" I am your lawyer," said Leslie, projecting an air of confidence and a bit of indifference toward the man she knew only by name and rap sheet.
"I want the dude who was here before," Morallen protested. "The one who said he could make this go away."
"Right now I am that dude, Mr. Morallen, and the only thing standing between you and a swift conviction. I suggest you lose the attitude and share some love about what happened on the night of October twelfth in the house on Lipscomb Street."
"How soon can you get me out of here?"
"Your bail hearing is scheduled for tomorrow morning. Given the charges and your criminal record, I wouldn't hold your breath. You've been charged with first degree murder of a Lakewood Deputy Sheriff who happened to be a married father of one. That won't earn you any points with a jury."
Morallen jerked against the arm restraints. "I didn't kill no cop!"
Leslie felt tiny saliva particles hit her face, so she scooted her chair back. A correctional officer entered the room.
"You good in here?" the officer asked her.
Leslie wiped her chin. She burned her gaze at Morallen and asked, "Are we good in here?"
Morallen settled himself in his chair. "We're cool." He waited for the officer to leave before he whispered, "I was there, inside the house, when that cop was killed. But I didn't touch him. I'm just a cook."
Leslie opened Morallen's folder and skimmed the highlights. "Apparently not a very good one. You were busted twice in Miami-Dade and nearly blew up a house in Homestead."
"Those charges were dropped," said Morallen.
"Did you learn your trade in prison?"
"My uncle taught me."
"Professor Enrique Morallen," Leslie quoted from Morallen's file.
"He was until the cops shot him dead at a traffic stop."
"Sounds like you have a beef with the law." Leslie opened Morallen's file. "Sheriff Blanchart's arrest report indicates you were taken into custody outside a campground two days after the Lipscomb Street incident
The lighter smoked. The smell of burned flesh circulated in the cabin.
Blanchart let go and reinserted the lighter in the twelve-volt receptacle. He observed his trembling hostage, which pleased him. He had no compunction about killing her and leaving her body in the road, but she'd always come through for him in the past. In his experience, the only bad informant was a dead informant.
"If I snitch on him he'll kill me and my baby."
"There are worse things than death."
The lighter popped.
Blanchart grabbed her hair and brought the glowing element toward her eye. "This might sting a little."
"I heard he likes to hang at this biker bar near the water," the hooker blurted.
"Which one?"
"The Tiki Hut. Near the FEMA trailers."
"What else?"
"That's it. I heard he likes to party three on one. I never met the dude before. That's all I got. I swear."
Blanchart stuffed the cash in her top and wiped her nose with the rag. "Go back to work. You'll know when I need you again. And keep this conversation to yourself—or the next time you see me will be the last."
Chapter 18
Leslie rubbed her eyes when she entered the courthouse detention cell and gave the okay signal to the deputy behind the observation mirror. She dropped her attaché case on the table and slid a chair across from her shackled client.
"My name is Leslie Dancroft," she said in her congested voice before she settled in behind the table and thumbed through a bundle of legal folders. "I'm with the public defender's office. The court appointed me to represent you. I'd like to start by asking you—"
"Where's my lawyer?" Manny Morallen demanded in his prisoner restraints and orange jumpsuit with the collar covering a portion of the black Yin/Yang symbol on his neck. His pork chop sideburns extended toward his chin and melded with a thick mustache. His arms were sleeved out in prison ink with the word " Defiance " spelled out in black letters across his knuckles.
" I am your lawyer," said Leslie, projecting an air of confidence and a bit of indifference toward the man she knew only by name and rap sheet.
"I want the dude who was here before," Morallen protested. "The one who said he could make this go away."
"Right now I am that dude, Mr. Morallen, and the only thing standing between you and a swift conviction. I suggest you lose the attitude and share some love about what happened on the night of October twelfth in the house on Lipscomb Street."
"How soon can you get me out of here?"
"Your bail hearing is scheduled for tomorrow morning. Given the charges and your criminal record, I wouldn't hold your breath. You've been charged with first degree murder of a Lakewood Deputy Sheriff who happened to be a married father of one. That won't earn you any points with a jury."
Morallen jerked against the arm restraints. "I didn't kill no cop!"
Leslie felt tiny saliva particles hit her face, so she scooted her chair back. A correctional officer entered the room.
"You good in here?" the officer asked her.
Leslie wiped her chin. She burned her gaze at Morallen and asked, "Are we good in here?"
Morallen settled himself in his chair. "We're cool." He waited for the officer to leave before he whispered, "I was there, inside the house, when that cop was killed. But I didn't touch him. I'm just a cook."
Leslie opened Morallen's folder and skimmed the highlights. "Apparently not a very good one. You were busted twice in Miami-Dade and nearly blew up a house in Homestead."
"Those charges were dropped," said Morallen.
"Did you learn your trade in prison?"
"My uncle taught me."
"Professor Enrique Morallen," Leslie quoted from Morallen's file.
"He was until the cops shot him dead at a traffic stop."
"Sounds like you have a beef with the law." Leslie opened Morallen's file. "Sheriff Blanchart's arrest report indicates you were taken into custody outside a campground two days after the Lipscomb Street incident
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