Hardass (Bad Bitch) (12 page)

I nodded. Thoughts of the morgue effectively cooled the warmth he’d stoked in me. I nibbled my lower lip.

“I’ll be with you, remember?” His voice had softened.

“I know. I just hope I don’t faint and make an ass out of myself.”

He pulled into the deck and took his usual spot. He turned his sapphire blues on me and reached up to touch my cheek, the softest graze of his fingers.

I was on fire again. My lips parted and my chest was suddenly tight. He was like a syringe of adrenaline plugged right into my vein.

He held my gaze. “I would never let you fall. I’ll catch you every time.”

I believed him, believed every word. We leaned into each other, the air suddenly heavy with everything that had been simmering under the surface. He hesitated, just a moment away from my lips.

“Say you want me to kiss you.” He slid his fingers down my cheek to my neck. They were like brands, burning me with the most enjoyable possession.

His touch wasn’t enough. His lips wouldn’t be enough. I wanted more than kissing. I wanted all of him. He stroked his fingers along my collarbone, moving my cardigan out of the way as he went.

“Just say it, Caroline.” It was a growl, the fire in his eyes mirroring my own.

“I want . . . ,” I sighed as his fingers traveled lower, stroking the swells of my breasts.

He smiled, a wolf about to enjoy his prey.

No.
I leaned away. My body screamed for me to stop, to bring his fingers back. I wouldn’t. He was gaming me. I was falling for it. I refused. The lust cleared enough for me to see I’d almost lost to him.

“Caroline.” His gaze strayed to my lips and lower, taking in the places on my skin he’d lit on fire with his touch.

“No, Mr. Granade. Purely professional, remember?” I couldn’t keep the breathiness from my voice, but I could open the car door and step out. He shadowed me on his side. I caught the slightest movement, as if he were adjusting himself in his pants, before I took off toward the elevators.

He followed, both of our briefcases slung over his shoulder. I held my hand out, silently asking for my bag. He didn’t give it to me, just stared down at me with an intensity that threatened to make my blood bubble over again.

The elevator doors opened. I stepped on and turned, putting my hand up. “I think you should take the next one.”

His eyes opened wide. “What?”

“You heard me.” I stepped back, so the doors could close, but kept my palm up, warding him off.

He took another step forward, like a bull ready to charge.

I knew if he got on the elevator with me, I’d cave. The thought of his hands on me, his body pinning me to the wall, made my panties stick to me. I gave him my best stern look even as his eyes burned into mine.

I breathed a sigh of relief when the doors closed. I’d cockblocked myself, pretty much. I pinched the bridge of my nose.

“Game face, Caroline. Game fucking face.” I pep-talked myself in the reflective doors. My mind was on board; my damp panties, not so much.

If things kept going like this, I would be begging him to kiss me by the end of the day.

Caroline

The next day, Wash and Mr. Palmer were booked for a partner meeting in the morning, so I decided to check out Ms. Barnett’s lead on the prostitute who was taken to St. Paul’s Hospital after the violent episode at the halfway house. I called NOPD and talked to their records clerk. He didn’t have anything other than a police report on the incident.

He faxed me a copy, but the report was bare except for the date and time of the call and the officers responding. The victim was listed as a Jane Doe. I phoned the hospital, hoping for answers. After a long phone call, mostly spent on hold, got me nowhere thanks to HIPAA, I decided to go do some in-person sleuthing.

I gathered my things and walked passed the glass-encased conference room where Wash and Mr. Palmer sat with their accountant. Wash raised an eyebrow, but I kept moving. He didn’t have to hold my hand every step of the way. I stopped by the courthouse, getting a stamped subpoena to serve on the hospital to avoid any more privacy red tape. With official documents in hand, I was ready to pounce on St. Paul’s records department.

The facility was in a dingy part of town, and its four-story façade appeared moldy and gray in the morning light. I entered and followed the signs leading toward the business offices. The entire place smelled like bleach with an undercurrent of something foul. I focused on the bleach as I turned a corner and passed through the administrative section.

At the end of a long, echoing corridor, I came to a window with a sign above it marked records.

The older woman behind the pane of glass glanced over her glasses at me. “Help you?”

“Yes, I have a subpoena for records.” I’d never done this before, but I did my best to project an air of confidence.

She stared. I stared back. Was I supposed to say more?

“For what records?” She tapped her impossibly long nails on her desk.

“Oh, um, for records about a woman who was brought here a couple of months ago.” I stuffed the subpoena under the glass partition.

She unfolded the papers and read the entire sheet. It took an inordinate amount of time, and when she was done, she looked up at me and blinked slowly.

“So, can I get the records?” I put a hand on my hip.

Turning to her computer, she began to type much, much faster than she read. Before long she reached up to her screen and tapped on it with a blood red nail. “She gave her name as Ginger Smith when she was admitted.” She rolled her eyes. “A fake, I’m sure. She’d been beaten pretty badly and was released the next day. No contact information.” She hit a button, and a printer whirred to life behind her.

Ginger Smith
.
A name—even if it was a fake—was something I could work with. The printer kicked out a few more pages, and she collected them, banging them on her desk to get them straight before stapling the thin sheaf together with an efficient click.

“Twenty-five pages, twenty-five dollars. Cash or credit only. No checks.”

“Oh.” I pulled out my wallet and paid. She handed me the records.

I felt like I’d hit gold. I hurried back to my car and scanned through the papers, trying to find any particular detail that could help the case. Ginger reported pain in her face, neck, and stomach—all places where she’d been hit—and further requested a bevy of narcotics. I flipped to the next page, which consisted of nurses’ notes. Vital signs, medicines given, food ordered, and a mass of other unimportant details filled the pages. The last two sheets were covered with handwritten notes.

I skimmed until I found the needle in the haystack. A nurse with a curlicue style of writing seemed to have gotten more information from the reluctant Ginger Smith. “Lives on Alix St. off and on, worked part-time at the spool plant before laid off, no living family, refer to social services upon release.”

I checked my phone for directions to Alix Street. Only a few minutes from the hospital, the neighborhood was ramshackle and spotty. Burned-out houses and vacant lots overpowered the few dilapidated homes that remained standing.

Edging down the street, I ignored the curious looks from people sitting on curbs and standing in the shadow of front porches. The sun was high and bright, but it didn’t seem to warm the landscape, only made the flaws and cracks bigger, more insurmountable.

The street was thankfully short, and only a few homes were in livable condition. I steeled myself and grabbed my purse and a legal pad. Knocking on doors in broad daylight with plenty of witnesses around seemed safe enough, though my hand shook a little as I gripped the door handle and pulled. I stepped out and looped my bag over my shoulder.

My legal pad slipped from my hand, and I bent down to retrieve it, eliciting whistles from a couple of men standing on the corner about a block away.
Great
.
I smoothed down my black skirt and picked my way across the high grass in front of the first house. It was a faded pink, the paint cracking and peeling in the humid New Orleans weather. I cleared my throat and knocked. Silence. I knocked again, louder this time. The stagnant air remained still, and no movement sounded from inside.

I turned and cut through the yard to the next house. Climbing the steps, I noticed two men from the street corner break off and head slowly in my direction. My heart sped up, but I swallowed the lump in my throat and knocked on the door. A dog barked from the other side, so loud and close that I yelped and backed up. Still barking violently, it clawed at the wooden door, shaking it on its hinges.

I retreated down the steps and back toward my car. The two men from the corner stood there waiting for me. One leaned against the passenger door; the other one was circling the car and peeking in the windows.

“Hey!” I stomped up, trying to hide my fear under a tough-gal mask. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Just looking, baby. That’s all.” He finished his inspection and came to stand next to his friend. “What are you looking for out here, anyway?” He dropped his gaze to my heels, then ran it up my bare legs to my skirt and then finally back to my eyes.

My thighs clenched together all on their own. “I’m looking for someone.”

“Me?”

I shook my head and clutched my legal pad tightly to my chest. “A woman. Ginger Smith.”

He smiled, a golden tooth glinting in the sunlight. “I don’t know no Ginger living on this street. What she look like?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then why are you looking for her?” the other one asked, then spit on the sidewalk.

“I just want to talk to her, is all.” I shifted from one foot to the other, trying to figure out how to get them off my car. This had obviously been a bad idea.

“She in trouble?” The inspector crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back.

“Not at all. She got beaten up pretty bad a few months ago. I work for St. Paul’s.” The lie flew into my head and out of my mouth. “Her insurance came through and paid for treatment. They also sent a check for her to cover expenses while she recovered. I’m just trying to get it to her.”

“I’ll give it to her.” The inspector held his hand out.

I raised an eyebrow. “How can you give a check to someone you just said you don’t know?”

He smiled again. “Tell you what. If you just out here handing out checks, give me one and I’ll show you where she is.”

I shook my head. “I’m not falling for it.” I took a deep breath and faked a confidence I didn’t feel as I walked around the car and opened the driver’s door. “I’ll look elsewhere.”

The men came around to my side, and I fought to tamp down the wave of fear that roiled in my stomach.

“Hey now, wait just a good goddamned minute. I said I’d take you to her, okay?” The inspector wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“How far?” My ruse was working, or at least it seemed to be.

“Close.” He pointed down the road behind him.

“We’ll see.” I sank into the car, the closeness of an escape comforting me a bit. “You walk. I’ll follow in the car. If she’s there and really is the woman I’m looking for, I’ll give you twenty dollars.”

The inspector ripped his beanie off his head, revealing a tangled mass of gray hair. “Twenty dollars. Shit, bitch! You think this is 1980? That there ain’t no inflation or some shit? Two hundred and you got a deal.”

I sighed. “One hundred. Not a penny more. Now, walk.”

“That’s more like it.” He grinned. “You sure we can’t ride with you?”

I closed my door so quickly he had to jump back. “Walk,” I mouthed and pointed in the direction he’d indicated.

His face soured, and he spewed some of the vilest profanity I’d ever heard, to the point where I wanted to write some of the words down for future use, but he started walking. I rolled along behind him and his counterpart for a block and a half before they stopped in front of a burned-out wreck of a house.

I rolled my window down. “This?”

“Yeah. She in there.” He pointed.

Fuck
.
“Nobody’s in there. It’s destroyed.” It had been a shotgun house at one point, long and narrow with a quaint front porch. No more.

“Shit, bitch.” He threw his hands up and placed them on the roof of my car as he leaned in the window. His breath was a mix of whiskey and rot. “You think just because this house ain’t nice and fancy like where you probably live that people can’t live here. Now, give me my money.”

“Yeah, give him the money.” The sidekick banged on the roof behind me.

I jumped at the noise and then schooled my features. “Once I see her.”

“Well, get the fuck out of the car, Ms. High and Mighty.” The inspector backed away.

I scrutinized the house. There was no way anyone could live inside. Half the roof was gone, and there was no front door. It was a wide-open sore. Or maybe a rape and murder pit just waiting for its next victim. The inspector and his sidekick weren’t giving me any reassurances on that front.

I dug around in my bag and pulled out my emergency hundred along with a slim canister of pepper spray. I palmed the spray and opened my door, slamming it and locking it behind me with the remote entry.

“Go on.” The inspector gestured toward the house.

“You first.” I narrowed my eyes.

“Fuck. This ain’t even worth a hundred dollars.” He turned around and strode down the grassy walk before hopping onto the porch and disappearing into the front door.

The sidekick went back to leaning against my car as I followed the inspector. The stairs creaked under me, and voices erupted from inside.

“Get the fuck up. You got company.” His voice.

“What? Who? Customer?” A woman’s voice, hoarse and filled with sleep.

“No, you used-up whore. Get up.”

“Ow!” she yelled. “Get the fuck out my house.”

“Hey! Hey, rich bitch! She in here.”

I made a useless attempt to settle my nerves and walked through the charred opening, pepper spray at the ready. The fire had blackened the walls and left gaps from room to room. Movement toward the back caught my eye, and I maneuvered around fallen beams and hanging wires until I came to the one room that still had a piece of roof over it. A dirty mattress lay on the floor, and a woman in a T-shirt and nothing else was sitting on it as she and the inspector engaged in a shouting match.

“She from the hospital, woman!”

“What hospital?”

“Ms. Smith?” She quieted and glanced over at me.

“Get the fuck outta here, Terrence.” She slapped at the inspector’s leg.

“I’m going, but I’m getting paid first.” He walked to me, smiling as if he’d just won the lottery.

I pulled the hundred-dollar bill from my pocket but didn’t hand it over yet. “Don’t let anything happen to my car.”

“That wasn’t part of the deal.” He frowned.

“I’m making it part of the deal. Got it?”

“Shit.” He held his hand out, the palm crisscrossed with deep wrinkles. “I won’t touch it.”

“You better not,
Terrence
.
” I held out the bill. “I’m tight with NOPD, and now I have a name to track you down by.”

He snatched the bill from my hand and walked away. “Nice doing business, rich bitch.”

I hit the lock button on my car again, just to make sure, and focused on Ginger Smith. “Ms. Smith?”

“Yeah?” She leaned back and pulled a dirty white sheet over her lower half. “You from the hospital? What you want?”

I squatted down to her level. “I’m not really from the hospital. Sorry about that. I’m an attorney.”

She crossed her thin arms over her chest. She was like a frail bird, far too thin. Tracks marked her arms, and her cheeks were hollowed out. “What you want?”

“You aren’t in trouble. I just wanted to ask you about something that happened a few months ago at a halfway house near here. You got hurt?”

She laughed, the sound harsh and grating. “I get
hurt
a lot. You gonna need to be more specific.”

“A man was arrested for hurting you. Rowan Ellis? And there maybe was another man. Tyler Graves? Or maybe a Gene Rourke?” I pulled Rowan’s mug shot and then Tyler’s up on my phone and showed them to her. She flinched when she saw Tyler’s face.

“You know him?”

She shuddered and drew her knees up. “You need to leave.” Her dark eyes watered.

“What did he do?”

“Go.” She turned her face away from me.

I dug in my bag, pulling out the last cash I had—two twenties. “I can pay for information.” I held my hand out.

She slapped my wrist away. “Money don’t help dead people. Get the fuck out of my house.”

I recoiled at her sudden anger. “Please, I’m just trying to—”

“You just trying to get me killed. You just trying to get
you
killed.” She turned back to me, a tear rolling down her gaunt cheek.

I dropped all the way to my knees, the rotten wood sagging under my weight. “Please, just tell me what you know.”

“I’ll say this, and then you need to get the fuck out, rich bitch.” She wiped her tear away with the back of her hand. “They will cut you and they will kill you and no one will ever find you. Leave.”

“Who?” I held the twenties out again.

She seemed to wrestle with hitting my hand away again, but then let out a long, defeated sigh. “Tyler and Chip.” Lifting her shirt to her protruding ribs, she showed me a mark. I leaned closer. It was the outline of some sort of animal, made entirely of scars. Someone had carved it into her flesh. She dropped her shirt and snatched the money.