Hardass (Bad Bitch) (11 page)

“Anyone else?”

She shrugged and pushed herself up with a labored breath. “I don’t know anything more than what I just told you. Now, I’m going to need you to pay up and get out.”

“I’d like to look at Rowan’s and Tyler’s rooms while we’re here.”

“Cops already looked through Rowan’s. Got a new tenant in there now. Tyler’s ain’t been leased yet. You can look, but it ain’t free.” She turned on the water as if she were about to do the pile of filthy dishes.

“Two hundred.”

The water turned off just as swiftly as it turned on. “Done.” She fished around in yet another hidden pocket and dug out a key ring. She plucked two keys off the ring and palmed them. “Money first.”

Wash and I rose, and he got his wallet back out and added another hundred to the one he’d already earmarked for her. “What about the tenant in Rowan’s room?”

“He’s day-working someplace. Won’t be back till you’re long gone.” She held out her empty hand.

Wash placed the cash in it and took the keys from her other one. “You have a phone number I can call if I have any more questions for you?”

She turned the water back on. “I have a phone. Look it up in the phone book. Can’t promise I’ll answer if you call.” She looked over her shoulder and grinned. “Probably won’t.”

“Fair enough. Thanks for your help, Ms. Barnett.”

“Just leave them keys next to the front door when you’re done.”

“Will do.” Wash motioned for me to walk ahead of him in the hall. I tucked my notepad under my arm and led the way as Ms. Barnett began singing in an oddly pleasant voice as the clatter of dishes arose at our backs. Her voice must have been beautiful when she was younger, though now it was rough from too many cigarettes.

I took the stairs carefully, some of the steps more creaky than others. They were almost soft, the wood so old or so ill used that it was breaking down.

At the landing of the second floor, a stained, threadbare runner covered the length of the hallway. There were six doors on this floor, each marked with a room number in Sharpie.

“Let’s take Rowan’s first.” Wash approached the door marked 1B and inserted the key. The lock turned with a squeak, and the door swung inward. A musty smell floated into the hall, mixing with the already unpleasant odors that seemed to permeate the house.

Wash felt around on the wall inside until he found a light switch.
Mental note: hand sanitizer as soon as we leave.
The light was a bare bulb hanging overhead. The windows were covered with some frayed black fabric, almost completely blocking the sun.

Wash moved inside, and I followed. There was an unmade twin bed, a dresser I recognized from the police photos, and a few other pieces of furniture. Whoever was renting the room had meager belongings, just two pairs of shoes and only a few items hanging in the small closet.

“Look around. We probably won’t find anything, but it’s worth a try.” Wash bent down and peered under the bed. He pulled a mini-flashlight from his pocket and clicked it on.

I went to the closet and flipped on the light. There were two simple T-shirts and a couple of pairs of pants. I pushed them aside, not really sure what I was looking for. Then I got to my knees and examined the floor, thinking there could be a Nancy Drew–esque loose board hiding a psycho treasure trove of prostitutes’ fingers. Nope. Nothing. The wooden boards were tight.

“Ow!”

I looked behind me. Wash had a hand in his hair, rubbing his scalp. He was looking right at my ass. He must have hit his head on the bed.

I sat back on my haunches and gave him a “that’s what you get” look before I got to my feet. He stood, too, and went to the bookshelf next to the window, searching it as I took on the dresser, going through it drawer by drawer. I opened and immediately closed the underwear drawer. I wasn’t about to touch some guy’s grubby underwear. I finished my examination. Still nothing.

I peeked behind the mirror and saw a blood smear at the same spot where Rowan’s T-shirt had been stuffed in the police photo.

“Anything?” Wash asked.

“Nope.”

The room was a bust.

Wash checked behind the door for any last-minute clue finds—nothing there—and we left. “Let’s try Tyler’s room.”

We reentered the hallway and stopped so Wash could relock the door. As he turned the key, a shuffling noise caught my attention. I turned. It was coming from the door to 3B, Gene Rourke’s room.

“I think he’s home,” I whispered.

Wash dropped the keys into his pocket and took the few steps to Rourke’s door before knocking. “Mr. Rourke, would you mind speaking with us?”

Only silence. Wash knocked again, louder. “We just want to know about some former neighbors. You aren’t in trouble.”

“If you don’t get the fuck away from my door, you’ll be the one in trouble, motherfucker.” The voice was menacing, and a chill ran down my spine.

Wash tried again. “Mr. Rourke—”

“I said back the fuck up!” Rourke pounded the door as he yelled, rattling it on its hinges.

Suddenly, I had no desire to interview him whatsoever, and took a step back. Wash, unfazed, took a card from his pocket and slipped it under the door. “Call me if you change your mind.”

I stared, not sure whether he was brave or foolish.

He rose and smirked. “I’m used to it. Come on, let’s check Tyler’s room.”

He strode to 2B and unlocked it. I eyed 3B, but thankfully, the door didn’t open. Though I didn’t want to meet Gene Rourke, he’d done more than enough to add himself to my list of possible Bayou Butcher suspects. I’d find out all about him—but from a safe distance.

“Ready?” Wash asked and gripped the door handle.

“Lets see what’s behind door number two,” I said with my best game-show-host intonation.

The corner of Wash’s lips quirked a bit.
Gotcha.

Tyler’s room was a little larger than Rowan’s but emptier. The bed was stripped down to just a mattress, and the dresser drawers hung half open. The windows were framed with dingy floral curtains that let in a decent amount of light. I’d stared at the few pictures I had of Tyler, mostly mug shots, trying to figure out if his close-set eyes were those of a killer. I tried to imagine him here in this room, shuffling around or playing with knives, or reading the newest issue of the
Sociopath Gazette.

Wash hit the floor and inspected under the bed as I went to the closet again. Bare wire hangers and some dust bunnies were all I saw. I stomped around a bit in my heels, looking for the secret compartment again. No dice. Again. I stood on tiptoe to see if anything was on the closet shelf. I saw something brown in the far back corner.

I stretched up and reached for it, my fingers barely touching whatever it was.

“Let me.” Wash was at my back, his body pressed into mine as he brushed my hand with his and grabbed what turned out to be a small brown paper bag.

I relaxed back down into my heels and ignored the fire along my skin his nearness caused. My ass was against his upper thighs, and all I could think of was how close his cock was to me, how easy it would be for him to lock the door and throw me down and—
Focus
.

His breath tickled through my hair. “What do we have here?”

The bag crinkled in his hand as he brought it down.

“Somebody forgot his lunch?” Why did my voice have to quaver and give me away?

“Could be.” He took our prize to the dresser. “But I’m hoping it’s something a little more sinister.”

I followed him, trying to calm myself. “Like hooker fingers?”

“Yes, something like that.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of gloves. I still wasn’t creeped out, just impressed.

He pulled them on and opened the bag. Gripping the bottom, he dumped out the contents instead of reaching inside. Smart. Could be needles or something worse in there. I held my breath as the contents spilled out.

“What the hell?” I cocked my head to the side.

“Definitely not hooker fingers.” Wash picked up one of the small, carved wooden pieces, seven of them total in the bag and nothing more.

“That one looks like a mongoose or something? Maybe like a ferret?”

“It’s a fox, Ms. Montreat.” He put the piece down and picked up another.

“What’s that one? Looks kind of like a bird.”

“This”—he twirled it in his fingers—“is an egret, I believe.”

“Yeah, an egret’s a bird.”

“Well done, Ms. Montreat. I’ll call the bar the moment we leave and tell them about your spectacular lawyering abilities.” His lips quirked, and I couldn’t decide if I wanted to kiss him or hit him. This was a problem.

He went through the rest of the pieces—a snake, a rabbit (could have been a cat), a deer, a wolf (could have been a hyena), and a bear.

“So, call me crazy, but I don’t think these are made of human bones or anything, so what the hell are they?”

“Luke said he came from a long line of woodworkers.”

“Right, the desk. So, maybe Tyler is a whittler in his spare time or something? Family tradition and all that?”

Wash picked up the wolf (hyena), clicked on his flashlight, and aimed it at the wood. “Maybe, but, unless I’m mistaken, each of these tokens has been stained with blood. See?” He flipped it over and shone the light on a divot in the bottom. The natural wood was clearly a light maple or something similar. But the rest was stained a dark rust.

“What makes you think it’s blood?”

He held it up to my nose. “Take a sniff.”

I tentatively inhaled. Copper and something sickly. I stepped back. “Okay. I’m convinced. And, for the record, that’s fucked up.”

He clicked off his flashlight and stuffed the tokens back into the bag. “Excellent analysis.” He handed me the bag. “Hide that, would you?”

I stuffed it into my purse, cringing at the thought of human blood stored inside my Kate Spade. Wash gave the room one more sweep before we left, locking the door behind us, and left the keys next to the front door on our way out. Ms. Barnett was nowhere to be seen, but the scent of cigarette smoke lingered. She couldn’t have been far.

Stepping outside was like being reborn. I took a few deep breaths of air, finally free from the closeness and stench of the halfway house. I felt like I needed a shower. Wash helped me across the broken walk and even opened my car door for me. I sank inside and gave the house one more look before we pulled away from the curb.

I dug through my purse, carefully avoiding the paper bag, and pulled out some hand sanitizer. “Hand.”

Wash obeyed and proffered his palm. A flash of what it felt like to have his hands on me made me over-squirt on him.

“Am I that dirty?” He smirked.

I flipped the lid closed and rubbed my palm along his to use the excess. “There, crybaby. Better?”

He laughed and scrubbed his hands together. “Crybaby?”

I shrugged. “If the shoe fits, lace that bitch up and wear it.”

“Words of wisdom if I’ve ever heard them.” He smiled, the dimples so close that I pretended they were actually present.
Panty melting in 3
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2
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1
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“So what do you make of the wooden pieces?”

Damn.

“Seven pieces. Seven victims. The blood on them. I mean, it seems like a shoe-in for Tyler to be the killer. I would ask you if we should go to the police, but I think you and Ms. Barnett are on the same page when it comes to talking to our friends in blue.”

He eased the car onto the interstate. “You could say that.”

“So what are we going to do with them?”

“Give them to Dr. Snider for testing. The blood’s degraded, but I’m hoping he’ll be able to tell us if they at least match the blood types of the victims. We likely can’t get thorough DNA testing without alerting the State something’s up. That’s the last thing we want to do.”

“Are we going to do a Perry Mason?”

He arched a brow over his glasses as we soared above the river, free of barges and only a few scattered ships here and there. “A Perry Mason?”

“You know, the defense attorney from that old black-and-white show.” I’d watched every episode when I was a kid.
Law
&
Order
had nothing on Mr. Mason.

“Of course I know who he is. But what did you mean in particular?”

“Oh, I was thinking that we could get Tyler on the stand and whip out those bad boys and say, ‘What sort of guy keeps blood-soaked whittled toys lying around—two of which are arguably a cat and a hyena?’ And then Tyler breaks down and confesses that he’s the real killer. You know, Perry Mason–style.”

Wash laughed. Actually laughed with dimples and everything.
Was I talking? Had I been talking?
All I could see was him. More dazzling than the sun off the Mississippi on a summer day. Why would he ever hide this part of himself behind the hardass exterior? He was beautiful, real.

He glanced over at me and no doubt noticed the star-struck look on my face. Or maybe I was drooling. I didn’t know. All I could think was
dimples
.

“You okay?”

“Me?” I tore my gaze away and stared at the looming buildings of downtown. “Yes. Fine.” My heart went wild, unsure whether it should beat or just implode.

“You looked sort of . . . sort of, I don’t know, entranced or something.”

“I was just thinking about the case.” I said it too quickly, and all the words ran together into an unintelligible mess.

“Sure. Sure, Ms. Montreat. Keep up the good work.” His smirk had returned.

Though I hadn’t been sure earlier whether I wanted to kiss him or hit him, his smirk drove me to come down pretty hard on the side of violence. His wall was back up, but I’d seen him. The real him. The one who could laugh and melt me down to my basic elements. The one who’d tasted me. My nipples hardened at those memories, and I pulled the cardigan tighter around me to ward off the goose bumps that claimed my skin.

“Once we get back to the office, call Dr. Snider’s office to see about dropping off our evidence. Don’t use a runner. I want a clear chain of custody. From your hands to Dr. Snider’s, no intermediaries. Tell him I want a custody log kept for it as well and that we need results as soon as possible. He likely won’t have comparators on the blood samples until Friday when we visit the morgue.”