Hardass (Bad Bitch) (10 page)

He leaned down, close enough that anyone watching us would have thought we were kissing. “Do you understand the rules, Ms. Montreat?”

“Yes.” I couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but focus on him. I already wanted to ask him, to lose the game.

“Good.” He dropped his hand and retreated, stepping between the cars and striding away in the dimly lit parking garage.

I let my jelly knees go a bit and leaned against my car.
What the fuck was that?
I couldn’t figure him out, couldn’t even begin to follow what was going on in his head. One second he seemed ready to rip my clothes off, the next he was the hardass, and then he was a mix of both. My head spun almost in time with my heartbeat. Dizzying.

My phone chirped, bringing me out of my horny yet confused stupor. I checked the text as I sank into the car. It was from him.
Case meeting. 3 p.m. My office.

I dropped my head against the headrest. He was relentless. Absolutely relentless. And now he’d thrown down the gauntlet on what it would take to get his touch again, his mouth, his everything. I shuddered at the memory of his words before groaning at the clusterfuck of a situation I’d gotten myself into.

What could I do? I already wanted to break, to give him the okay.
No
.
I shoved my key into the ignition a little too hard. He wouldn’t win. I wouldn’t let him.

I drove the whole way back to the office while scream-singing along with the local rock radio station. I couldn’t sing on the best of days, but my rock act was even worse than usual. I didn’t care. I needed to pump myself up for the meeting. He’d barely given me time to make it back, much less to his office, before 3 p.m. hit. I hurried down the hall, gaining a small slice of satisfaction from elbowing past a scowling Yvonne. I was very busy and important, after all.

I stopped before I rounded the corner to Wash’s office and composed myself. Terrell lifted an eyebrow at me through his door, but I shook my head.
Later.
He gave me a two-finger salute and went back to typing.

Once my heartbeat calmed, I walked through his open door. He had taken his jacket off and loosened his tie, and the top button of his shirt was undone.
Gorgeous
.
He was playing hardball. I could take it, despite the flush creeping up my skin trying to convince me otherwise.

“You’re late.” He smiled, the dimples so close to the surface that I was certain if I’d cracked an off-color joke, they’d make an appearance.

“Traffic.” I kept my sex jokes to myself and took a seat.

“Tell me what you thought about Luke.” He began rolling up one of his sleeves, the dark hair along his arms drawing my gaze like a magnet.

I crossed my legs and stared out the window, though I could see his reflection just fine. He kept rolling.

“I thought he was a nice guy. I felt bad for him. Having a brother like that must be hard on him. Why, what did you think?”

He put his bare arms on his desk and clasped his hands. “I saw the same things you did. Older brother disappointed in the younger one. I’m just not sure how accurate his information is going to be. He’s a smart man. He didn’t get to the top of that building with just the easy demeanor he showed us. And therein lies the lesson.”

I turned back to him and barely kept myself from rolling my eyes. “What’s the lesson?”

“In this line of work, everyone you meet is going to lie to you.”

“I don’t think so. He fell right into my trap. If he was hiding something, why did he give me the information I wanted?”

“He wanted to make you like him. It worked.”

I shrugged. “I guess you got me, Sherlock. Yes, I thought he was a nice guy.”

“Well, then, Watson, try not to be so elementary. What would a guy like him have to hide? What would he want to protect? Family? Money? Figure out why they’re lying and you have a much better chance of figuring out what they’re lying about.” He pointed to my briefcase. “Go through your notes and listen to the audio again—send me a copy, too.”

“Okay. I can do that.”

“I want to hit Tyler’s last known haunts first thing. Meet me in the deck tomorrow morning at seven. When regular folks are getting up and moving about is when people like Tyler go to ground. We might be able to catch him napping.”

He leaned back, his chest expanding with the movement and making him appear larger than life. “That’s all for now, Ms. Montreat. Unless, of course, you have anything else?” He smirked, cocky beyond belief. He knew exactly what he was doing.

I glanced down to my turtleneck and slacks. I’d been demure for one day. But not anymore. Right then and there I decided I’d make him regret even setting up the game board, much less putting the pieces into motion. It was time he learned who the real hardass was.

Caroline

I slid into Wash’s car, ignoring the rising hemline of my skirt. He’d watched me walk from my car, taking in every one of my movements with an intensity that sent shivers down my spine. I wore a short gray pencil skirt and a black top with a V-neck. I would have worn some ridiculous heels, but since we were going to be doing field work, I chose a more modest pair of pumps. I’d thrown some ballet flats into my bag, just in case. But those were only for emergencies.

I slid my briefcase into his backseat and settled down, waiting for him to get in and start the car. He stood outside the driver’s door in the same position he’d been in when I’d sauntered over, swaying my hips and working my heels with each step. Had he gone into a fugue state?

I thought about leaning over and honking the horn, but then he said something—the word muffled by the car—and opened the door.

“Problems?” I gave him my best wide-eyed innocent look.

He scowled at me and started the car. “None, Ms. Montreat.” His jaw was tight, teeth clenched.

“Okay.” I put my hand on his arm and smiled as he met my gaze. “I was just checking.”

I moved my hand to the console and began typing the address into his navigation system as he reversed out of his parking spot. I leaned forward, knowing full well my breasts were demanding to overflow the edges of my V-neck in that position. Wash stopped and shifted, but the engine only revved and the car didn’t move. I glanced at him, coy smile still on my face.

“Sure you’re all right?”

He finally got the car out of neutral and into drive before shooting through the deck more recklessly than usual.

I finished entering the address, and a smooth male voice with an English accent directed us toward Algiers. We darted into traffic, early enough to beat the commuter crush.

I slid one knee on top of the other, my skirt riding up even higher. “We in a hurry?”

He pulled his sunglasses out and clamped them down over his eyes. “No. Why do you ask?” I gripped the door handle as he took a turn so hard I swore the tires squealed a bit.

I gave him a glare, but he returned it with a smile, the not-quite-visible dimples mocking me. He must have thought driving like a maniac would put him back in control. I reached into my bag and put on my own sunglasses before arching my back into the seat and laying my head on the headrest as I stared out the window. My body was fully available for his view, my breasts poised above my V-neck, my cardigan open, my legs crossed.

A strange rubbing sound hit my ears, and I slowly realized it was his hand tightening on the leather steering wheel. I smirked into the window and moved my hand under my cardigan, pretending to scratch an itch on my shoulder, and giving him an excellent view of the strap of my lacy red bra.

Another sudden burst of speed and we were on the interstate, passing other vehicles as if we had a number painted on the side of our car.

“What do we know about this first location?” His voice was strained and raspy.

Good.

“Halfway house. The owner is a Mrs. Lily Barnett. She’s a widow. Has a degree in social work. I don’t know much more. I would’ve called and interviewed her if we weren’t working with the element of surprise, of course.”

“Of course. Anything else important?” He tore across the murky river, past a tugboat splitting the water and several barges lined up in the channel.

“Yes. Rowan was holed up at the same halfway house when he was arrested. I’m hoping she hasn’t trashed all his belongings the police didn’t take. There might be something there, though I assume the cops took all the real evidence.”

“You assume?” His question was cutting.

“I, well, yes. I assume the police know what they’re doing.”

He sighed. “Oh, Ms. Montreat, your naïveté may have worked for you in law school, but it isn’t going to work out here in the real world. Never, and I
mean
never, assume things. More importantly, never assume the police have done their job. We make our living off showing just how shoddy police work truly is. Reasonable doubt is a complicated recipe that’s different in each case. But the one ingredient that is the same case after case is bad police work. Don’t forget that.”

Was I being chastised or taught? Why did they feel like one and the same with him?

“I got it.”

“Good.” We took the first Algiers exit and traveled past various industrial parks before coming to a neighborhood of beat-down houses. Wash assiduously avoided the larger potholes as we drove down the rough road into the heart of Algiers. The smooth Brit on the navigation system indicated the house was ahead on the right, and we slowed to pick out the address. The faded street number was written in large black letters on the curb as well as on the side of the rusted mailbox.

The halfway house had once been a beauty, with stately columns and a wide front porch. But it was obviously in disrepair. The paint was streaky, faded white and peeling away to gray. The roof was bowed in two places, leaves and debris collecting there and a couple of saplings taking root. The morning sun didn’t do the rotting façade any favors. Curtains twitched in a couple of windows, and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end.

I reached for the door handle, but Wash spoke before I could pull it. “Stick close to me. Got it?”

I couldn’t decide if I was tired of his babying or comforted by it. I split the difference. “Yes. I got it.”

“Record everything. Take good notes.”

I opened the door and slid out, careful to keep my knees together lest I give the window gazers more than I intended. “I got that, too.”

Wash strode past me onto the broken front walk.

Damn
.
My heels were sensible, but still not up to the challenge of the high grass and uneven concrete. I shouldered my briefcase and stepped gingerly onto the biggest chunks of sidewalk. Wash glanced back, his sunglasses and suit making him look almost like James Bond, and smiled a bit as he put out his elbow. I wobbled to him and took it, pissed I needed him yet relieved that I wouldn’t face-plant on my way to the house.

He was warm, heat radiating through his jacket and into my palm. His scent lured me closer as we managed the steps to the porch. I would forever associate his scent with my office, Mr. Palmer’s guest bedroom, and Wash between my legs one way or another.

Snap out of it.
I pushed those memories away and focused on the job. This might be the best place to get a lead on Tyler Graves and, hopefully, come up with a way to defend Rowan.

Once at the front door—the edges were splintered, and the white paint a grimy dark gray around the door handle—I released Wash’s arm, and he rang the doorbell. We waited for a moment, but no one came, so he rapped his knuckles on the only uncracked windowpane.

He raised his hand again when a creaking sound and then steps came from within.

“What you want?” An elderly woman’s voice.

“We’re here to see Ms. Barnett.” Wash and I peered through the high panes, but they were so dirty that all I could make out was the shape of a person.

“What for?” She shuffled closer.

“Just want to talk to her about a tenant.” Wash gave a winning smile (no dimples), though I doubt she could see it.

“You the law?”

“No, ma’am. We’re attorneys. Rowan Ellis is our client.”

“Oh, him. So you sure you ain’t the law?” Her voice had a tremor in it, either from age or some other ailment.

“I’m sure. I’ll give you my card. I’m Wash, and this is my associate Caroline.” He dug his wallet from his back pocket and pulled out a business card. “We sure would like to speak with you.”

He waved his hand in front of the glass. It wasn’t just a business card he’d pulled out. Pressed against it was a crisp hundred-dollar bill.

The lock clicked, and the door swung inward to a gloomy hall. “I’m Lily Barnett. Come on in.” Her watery eyes were glued to the money.

“Thank you. And I promise you’ll get this”—Wash waved the cash before tucking it into his inner suit coat pocket—“before we leave.”

“Well, come on in.” She turned and moved slowly back down the hall, her floral muumuu swinging as she went. There was no sitting room or living room off the hallway, just a line of doors. The whole house appeared to have been converted to bedrooms. It smelled like old grease and something fouler, to the point where I wanted to cover my nose.

She led us past several doors until we came to a kitchen. Dishes were piled high in the sink, and the screen door leading into the backyard clanged as we entered. Someone had just left.

“Who was that?” Wash asked.

“Our cook, George, most likely. Got a warrant out on him. Probably thinks you’re here to pop him. But I ain’t never seen no cops dressed like you two.” She swept her hazy gaze down my body. “Especially not like this one here. Cops don’t wear heels.”

“Very astute, Ms. Barnett.” Wash gave another winning smile.

Ms. Barnett didn’t return it but motioned for us to sit at her kitchen table, the wooden surface marred with divots, burns, and other signs of heavy wear. It and Ms. Barnett both gave the impression of being worn out but still carrying on somehow. She sank down into a metal chair with a vinyl seat, sighing when she was finally off her feet.

Wash sat across from her, and I sat at his elbow before reaching into my bag and clicking on the recorder. She didn’t seem to notice. I drew out my legal pad and placed it on the table, knowing full well it would have sticky spots and grease on it when I left.

“Well, what you want to know?” She pulled a pack of cigarettes from a hidden pocket on her voluminous dress, took one out, and lit it up.

“What can you tell us about Rowan?”

She took a long drag and blew the smoke up, as if her mouth were a chimney or a steam whistle. “He was like all the rest of them here. Messed up. Violent. Surly. Angry at everything and everyone. Paid his rent late.” She shrugged.

“Did you ever see him with women?”

Her eyes darted to me and back to Wash. “A couple. They try to sneak them by me because they know I don’t allow them to get carnal in my house. Besides, if those truck stop trixies from down on Snow Street are going to stay here, they need to pay rent like everyone else. But I don’t rent to women.”

I itched to inform her of the flat-out illegality of her statement. I remained silent. More flies with honey.

“Snow Street?” Wash had slipped into his friendly interrogation mode, leaning back in his chair, one hand on the table, one in his lap—completely at ease.

“Yeah, two blocks over. Truck stop over there is where all the hookers hang around, trying to put their sin on any man who drives up or walks by.” She shook her head and took another drag. Her sallow skin seemed even yellower as she smoked, as if the smoke added an extra layer of age to her wrinkled face.

“You think Rowan picked up some girls there?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“He ever get violent with them that you know of?”

She shifted in her seat with a grunt. “There was one. Ambulance came.”

“When was this?”

“I don’t remember.” She grinned, several teeth missing or crooked. Her gaze moved down to Wash’s front pocket where he’d stowed the money. “I might need some help to get the details right.”

Wash drummed his fingers on the table. “One-fifty. That’s it. Now tell me.”

She took another drag and spoke through the smoke. “Been about six months ago. One of the girls from the truck stop. She’d come with Rowan and that other one, the one with all them tattoos.”

“Who?”

“Graves. Lived in 2B. Rowan lived in 1B. Anyway, Rowan had brought her home with him one night. It was about three in the morning, and the damndest racket woke me up. Screaming and banging. I didn’t investigate. I never do whenever it gets like that. Someone called the cops. I tried to keep them out, but they came on in anyway. Ran up there, found the woman. She’d been hurt pretty bad. Took her out on a stretcher. They arrested Rowan, dragged him down the stairs while he kept yelling he didn’t do nothing, that it was Tyler in 2B.”

“You know the woman’s name?”

“No, and I don’t care to. Women like that don’t belong in my house.”

I stifled my eye roll at the intensity of her hypocrisy—housing murderers and rapists yet looking down her nose at prostitutes.

“I know what you’re thinking, young lady.” She stared at me, and I got the distinct feeling she saw more than she let on. “But there’s a reason I don’t let women room here and don’t want the boys bringing them home. What happened to that poor girl that night is what I’m trying to prevent. These aren’t good men. I know that. But they have to live somewhere when they get out, don’t they? You want them in your neighborhood?” She cackled and snubbed her cigarette out in a cracked ashtray.

Good point.

“Did you tell the cops about that incident?” Wash snagged her attention again, to my relief.

She snorted. “I wouldn’t tell the cops if I was lying on the floor dying and one of them could save me.”

“What hospital did they take her to?”

“I think they said St. Paul’s, but I don’t remember.”

“Any other women for Rowan or Tyler, either one?”

“None that I knew about, but I suspect they brought some, yeah.”

“I take it Tyler doesn’t live here anymore?”

“No. I booted him after that incident. I don’t like cops in my house for no reason. I have enough trouble with them as it is.”

“Any idea where he went when he left?”

“No. Probably living under a bridge somewhere.”

“Was he friends with anyone else here, besides Rowan?”

“Yeah, I seen him talking to Gene. Lives in 3C.” She lit another cigarette.

“Got a last name? He still a tenant?”

“Rourke. He still lives here. If he keeps paying his rent late, not for long.” She took a puff and closed her eyes, as if pulling on the fresh cigarette were the height of her day.

“Is he home now?”

“Maybe.”

“What’s his story?”

“Rapist, thief, drug addict—same as all the rest of them.” She waved her hand, indicating the entirety of her house.