Hardass (Bad Bitch) (13 page)

“Now get out!” Her scream was like a bomb blast, sudden and intense.

I fell back and scrambled up.

“Out! Out! Out!”

I backed away, my heart slamming into my ribs, and turned to run. My heel caught in the floor, and I fell against the wall. Ripping my shoe free, I careened out the front door, down the steps, and into my car. The men were nowhere to be seen as I cranked it up and squealed tires out of the neighborhood.

“You what!” Mr. Granade slammed his palm on his desk and stood, leaning over and boring into me with his eyes.

I cringed back in my chair. “I, well, I thought I would follow up on that lead, so I—”

“So you went to a dangerous neighborhood all alone and spoke to a hooker and God knows what other sort of shady characters?”

I shrugged. “I was just trying to follow up, do a good investigation. Also, I’ll need the firm to reimburse me for the one hundred and forty dollars I paid for the information.”

“Goddammit, Caroline, this isn’t a joke!” he roared.

Shirley came to the door, glanced at me with a dark look, and pulled it closed.

“You can’t just go out on your own like that.” He seemed to wrestle with getting his voice to a normal level, though his eyes still burned. “Do you have any idea what could have happened to you?”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “I did fine. I got a name, didn’t I? Chip. And now I know where Ginger Smith is.”

“Yeah, you know where she
was
.
If your description of her is accurate, I can guarantee you she’s already long gone. And a first name doesn’t get us anywhere. Do you know how many Chips live in New Orleans?”

“Seventy-four.” I smirked. I didn’t come into his office without some ammo.

He shook his head and sat back down. “Did you check them already?”

“I did. Only a couple seemed like possibles. But I’m going to do some more investigating on their backgrounds. Otherwise, I suspect it may be a nickname.”

“Likely.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m serious, Caroline. You can’t do that ever again. Got me? From now on, we investigate together. Only together. I don’t know what I would have done if . . .” He trailed off as the tension along his jaw and around his eyes softened.

I nibbled my bottom lip. Maybe he was right and I’d been a bit rash. His genuine concern was more than a little convincing.

I took a deep breath and uncrossed my arms. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

“Good.” He turned to his computer, dismissing me in that stark way of his.

I rose and opened the door.

“Turn in your expense report to Shirley. She’ll get you reimbursed.”

“Okay. I will.” I had pulled the door almost all the way closed behind me when he spoke.

“Poor execution, Ms. Montreat, but excellent instincts.”

“Thank you.” I stared at his broad back and dark hair, trying to figure out what was going on in his head.

“It wasn’t exactly a compliment.”

“I’ll take it as one, all the same.”

His shoulders shook with a short laugh. “Get out, Ms. Montreat.”

“Yes, sir.” I pulled the door closed and smiled, not even bothering to hide it from Shirley.
Excellent instincts.

Wash

After our initial interview with Ms. Barnett and Caroline’s lead on Ginger Smith, our trail on Tyler Graves went cold. It was like he’d disappeared from the city. He’d lived here his entire life. There was no way he’d finally decided to ditch this late in the game, especially not when his fall guy was under lock and key and set for a speedy trial. Something didn’t smell right about it, but even after talking to a number of his former associates and dealers, we were no closer to finding him.

I sat at my desk and watched the sun go down, the final rays coloring the sky an exotic pink with streaks of orange. Our morgue visit was set for the next morning. I could only hope Dr. Snider would find some evidence on the bodies or in the autopsies to back up our defense that Rowan couldn’t have been the real killer.

Our only other lead, Gene Rourke, had a sizable rap sheet, but nothing else to link him to the murders. Even so, his violent past kept him at the top of our suspect list. He and Tyler had the same tastes in beating and raping hookers. Maybe they were working together to commit the murders.

Even with two other possible suspects out there, the evidence against my client was damning: the bloody T-shirt, the multiple violent run-ins with hookers, the drugs. He was a shoe-in for lethal injection of the year. I’d been in spots as tough, but not many tougher. Either Rowan did it or someone framed him. Didn’t matter. The jury would hear nothing but the latter from my lips, even if I had only a few odd wood carvings to go on.

My thoughts dropped like leaves from a tree, and I was left with the solid trunk—the images and memories that always came to the forefront whenever I was overtired or incapable of concentrating. Caroline. She’d been with me all week, going to some rough neighborhoods and trying to shake information loose.

She was quick on her feet, wily even. Her seemingly guileless brown eyes and sexy wardrobe choices definitely helped our investigation, but did nothing to keep my cock from getting hard at inappropriate moments.

Even though I’d pressed her, telegraphed how much I’d wanted her, she would never ask me to kiss her. I was burning to touch her again, to run my hands along her smooth skin and tell her how beautiful she was, how smart, how deeply she got to me. She wouldn’t give in, and fuck if that didn’t make me want her more.

“Hey, man.” Kennedy, my younger brother, strode into my office without knocking.

I whirled. “What are you doing up this way?”

Kennedy was a plaintiff’s attorney with an office on the edge of the French Quarter. He plopped down into one of my chairs and stretched his long legs out in front of him. “We’re drinking tonight, remember?”

“We are? On a Thursday?”

“Yeah, Lincoln’s in town.” Kennedy whistled and looked out my window.

Lincoln was my older brother. I hadn’t seen him since a recent trip to New York where I sat in on a case as opposing counsel. He wasn’t pleased. I didn’t give a shit.

“I don’t want to see him.” I knew it was a losing battle, but I would fight it anyway.

“I know. But you’re gonna. If for no other reason than to make me happy.” Kennedy flashed his movie star smile, the one that got all the female associates falling all over themselves and offering up their panties.

“You could stop the peacemaker routine anytime, you know?” I packed up my briefcase. Once Kennedy was set on drinks and reconciliation, there was no stopping him.

“I know. But you need to get over that shit. Fawn was like, what, over ten years ago? And now she’s married to that douchenozzle Matt Turnbull. I think you’ve held the grudge for long enough, Wash. Besides, Linc’s got a new lady. I think it’s love. You’d dig her. She’s a hot little number with a dirtier mouth than even me.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think it’s possible for anyone to have a dirtier mouth than you.”

“Fuckin’ A, right? But she really does. Come on. You’ll see.” He stood and went to the window, using the reflection to smooth down his light brown hair. He was my height, but with deep brown eyes and a bigger build.

“Mr. Granade.” Caroline walked in, looking down at some papers. She wore her glasses today and looked like a naughty librarian. Hot as hell. “I think I may have a few more addresses we could che—” She looked up and saw Kennedy. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had company. I’ll come back later.”

She smiled at Kennedy, and something crept up my spine. A feeling that was as out of place as it was strong. I wanted her to smile at me. Just me.

Kennedy returned her smile, the predator clicking into place. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Kennedy, Wash’s brother.” He walked to her and held out his hand.

“I’m Caroline.” She took it, and they shook. “I’ve seen you a couple of times, and, of course, Mr. Granade speaks highly of you.”

I did?
I was pretty sure I’d never mentioned Kennedy to her. She was good.

“
Mr. Granade
?
” Kennedy didn’t drop her hand. “He makes you call him that?”

She giggled. My hands fisted.

“It’s all very professional around here, Mr. Granade.”

His smile grew wider. “Oh, no. Now that just won’t do. You call me Kennedy. Actually, you can call me whatever you want.” He winked.

I had never wanted to hit Kennedy. Not even when we were teenagers and got into an extremely heated argument over whose turn it was to be first player in Super Mario. But at that moment in my office, I could have knocked him out cold without remorse. He was touching what was mine. Smiling at what was mine.
Winking
at what was mine.

“Well, Caroline, Wash—I mean
Mr. Granade
—and I are about to go get some drinks. Come with us and give us something prettier to look at than each other.”

“Oh, I don’t think—”

“Good, don’t think about it. Just do it.” He released her hand. “We’re leaving in five. Be ready and we’ll swing by your office and pick you up.”

I glared at Kennedy. He was oblivious as always.

“I, um.” She glanced over to me.

I ran a hand through my hair, barely resisting the urge to pull it.

“Sure, I guess.”

“Good. Glad we came to an agreement. Now, run along. We’ll be there in four and a half minutes.”

She smiled again, demure in her glasses. I knew better. I knew how she tasted. Once she’d gone, her hips swinging in her heeled boots, I turned on Kennedy.

“The fuck are you doing?” I kept my voice down, but at that point, a yell would have been more than warranted. Kennedy had the amazing ability to walk into the middle of any situation and fuck it the hell up. Case in point.

He shrugged. “She’s hot as hell. Thought it might be nice to have some company instead of watching you and Linc try to choke each other with angry stares.”

“Don’t talk about her like that.” I tried to stay calm, to keep the jagged edge of anger out of my voice.

I failed.

Kennedy stopped primping in the window and turned to me. “Since when did you care what I said about . . .” He trailed off, and I could almost see him making the connection. “You got a thing for your associate.” He smiled, big and dumb, just like he did when we were kids.

“No. We try to maintain a professional workpl—”

“You fucked her, didn’t you?” He laughed and slapped his thigh.

I went to the door and slammed it. I was pretty sure no one was still around my end of the office, but still, I didn’t want to risk Caroline’s reputation. “Kennedy! Cut it the fuck out.”

“No, no.” He was still laughing. “I’m sorry. It’s just—it’s just you’re such a fucking robot sometimes. It’s perfect. Of course she got to you. I should have known the minute she smiled. Sexy, warm, clearly smart if she works for you. You didn’t stand a fucking chance.” He was almost howling.

I didn’t find any of his words so funny, especially not when he was talking about how sexy Caroline was. “Kennedy, I’m warning you.” I stepped toward him.

He fell back against the window and clutched his chest over his heart. “Oh, man, thanks for that. I needed a laugh today, no shit. God, this is going to be all kinds of fun. You, Lincoln, and that little hottie.”

“Her name is Caroline, Kennedy. Caroline Montreat. Call her that. Not hottie, not sexy. Got it?” I stepped closer, my hands fisted. I was being an irrational asshole. Kennedy was just being a regular asshole—par for the course for him.

“Okay, I got it, scrapper. Don’t do a repeat of the Fawn incident on me. I didn’t fuck her out from under you. Relax.”

The thought of Kennedy fucking Caroline made my brain short-circuit for a second, and I took two more menacing steps toward him.

“Whoa. You are serious about her. Sorry, man. I didn’t realize.”

I uncoiled, though the need to pummel him still flickered in the back of my mind. “No.” I shook my head. “I’m just being a dick. To you and her. I made some mistakes. Anyway, long story. But I’m trying to keep it strictly business with her now.”

Kennedy laughed and walked to me. “Good luck with that. I can already”—he put a hand to my forehead—“yep. Looks like you’re coming down with a case of the pussy-whipped. Might be terminal.”

I slapped his hand away and laughed.
Idiot
.

“That’s better.” He patted me on the shoulder and walked to my door. “Come on. Maybe I can find another hot associate to poach on our way out.”

Caroline

Yvonne jammed her elbow into my ribs and I bumped my drink, the tasty contents splashing onto the bar.

“Sorry about that.” She smiled, her perfect teeth bright white even in the low light.

“No problem.” I rubbed the spot and considered just knocking her the fuck off the barstool. I refrained, barely.

She turned back to Kennedy, chatting him up about his firm. She rested her hand on his forearm as she spoke, staking her claim. When she took a sip of her drink, Kennedy winked at me over the top of her head, as if we were in the wooing game together.

More power to you
.

I liked Kennedy. He was funny and handsome, but I would be fooling myself if I thought there was anyone I wanted more than I wanted Wash. He sat on the other side of Kennedy, as far away from me as possible while still maintaining some semblance of being associated with us. So I gulped down my drink and ordered another.

The French Quarter bar was filled with locals and tourists, the mix making for interesting people-watching. A drunk guy stood by the door, greeting everyone who entered, though the bartender made clear the guy didn’t actually work there. A live band was warming up in the back on a stage the size of my closet. Random guitar riffs and snares colored the hum of people talking and drinks being made.

“Hi, welcome to this here bar!” the drunk called.

I looked to my left at the door. A gorgeous woman with auburn hair walked in with a tall, dark-haired stunner behind her. He had a scar running through his eyebrow, giving him a rough feel, but he was well dressed in a business suit.

“Linc!” Kennedy jumped up from his barstool and went to greet them. The men hugged it out as the redhead watched with interest.

“And who is this beauty?”

“This”—Lincoln put his arm around her—“is Evan, my fiancée.”

“Engaged? Shut the fuck up!” Kennedy clapped his hands and yelled, “Barkeep, buy everyone a round on me.”

Lincoln beamed, looking almost boyish as the redhead stared at him with open adoration. They were a striking pair.

All three dodged the greeter drunk and came to where I was at the bar.

Evan shook Wash’s hand. “Good to see you again.”

So they knew each other?

“Same here. I didn’t realize you and Linc . . . well, it doesn’t matter. Congratulations.” Wash’s voice was strained, but his gaze rested on his older brother, not Evan.

“Good to see you, Wash.” Lincoln smiled, and there was something almost vulnerable in it, as if he expected Wash to hurt him.

“Yeah.” Wash turned and resumed his seat at the bar.
Burn.

Kennedy shrugged. “And this here is Yvonne. And the blonde on the end is Caroline Montreat.” He leaned up and whispered something in Lincoln’s ear.

Lincoln tried to play off whatever information changed hands, but he smiled and shot me a couple of furtive glances.

“Fuck, I need a drink.” The redhead climbed onto the barstool next to me and signaled the bartender with an authoritative wave. I could already tell I liked her.

“Evan, is it?”

“That’s me.” To the bartender she said, “Hey, whose dick do I have to suck to get a drink around here?” Her accent was almost harsh to my ears, definitely not southern. But the way she talked just made me smile like an idiot.

“That would be mine.” Lincoln moved up behind her and handed his credit card to the harried bartender. “Start a tab. Anything she wants.” He kissed her on the top of her head and went back to talking to Kennedy.

She smiled, and not a minute passed before she was sucking down a hurricane through a twizzle straw.

“So, what do you do, Evan?”

“Lawyer. Mostly plaintiff’s work. You?”

“Lawyer. Criminal defense.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Tried any cases? Give me some details. You got lots of bad guys? Some real dirt? Nasty shit?”

Something about the way she asked made me think of an addict looking for a hit. I shrugged and went with it. “Wash and I have a murder case right now. Heard of the Bayou Butcher?”

She nodded, her smile growing.

“He’s our guy. We’re working the case right now. Wash and me . . .” For some reason, likely named “alcohol,” I let the end trail off as I pondered the implications of “Wash and me.”

She gripped her temples. “Brain freeze, but that shit was worth it.” She’d drained her oversized glass. She glanced over my head and then refocused on me. “He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since I got here. You know that, right?”

“I, um, I guess?” In fact, I did not know that. I took another drink.

She smiled. “Okay, let me help you out. You’re a bad bitch. I can see this already. Us bad bitches have to stick together.”

She kept rubbing her temples, and I leaned closer.

“These Granade boys.” She waved her hand in an arc and almost smacked me. “They are a different breed, okay? They are complicated, smart, sweet, and monsters in the sack. At least that’s been my experience with Lincoln.”

I nodded. “Yes, same.”

“Good. Now, the trick with Lincoln.” She crinkled her nose, as if she were deep in thought. “Actually, the trick with Lincoln was that he never gave up on me.”

She motioned for the bartender. “Another one of those, and get one for my friend here.”

“Thanks.” I’d already had three drinks, but a hurricane didn’t sound half bad. I would go home early and have a snack. Yes. I would have a snack and soak up the alcohol and not have a hangover.
Right.

“Where was I? Yes. Perseverance. That’s the key. I’ve worked with Wash. I know what he’s doing with that whole ‘I’m a dick’ persona. I am intimately familiar with how to use said persona. But that’s what it is. A persona. Get to the man underneath and sink your nails in.” She dug her nails into the bar for emphasis. “And don’t let go. Got me?”

“I got you.” I clawed at the air.

We both devolved into laughter and accepted our fresh drinks from the bartender.

“Bottoms up, bitch.” She toasted me.

We drank. And laughed.

And drank.

And then I was in my bed.

And then there was an earsplitting noise. I cracked my eyes open and saw the blur of my ceiling fan.
What the?
The earsplitting noise was my clock radio playing a soft tune at the lowest volume. I wailed on the poor snooze button.

I closed my eyes and dozed off until the noise began again. Three more times I destroyed the snooze button.

“Hey. Rise and shine, my favorite drunk.” Terrell’s voice cut through my haze. “You have a date with disgusting destiny this morning at the morgue.”

I almost retched right then and there.

“That’s what I thought. Jesus, you still smell like a vodka distillery.”

“What? What happened?”

“You don’t remember Wash and some redhead dropping you off at midnight?” Terrell came into focus, already dressed for work in an impeccable suit and tie.

“No.”

He peeled back my covers. I was wearing a T-shirt and panties.

“How did I—”

“I changed your clothes. Saw you naked and everything. I promise nothing happened.” He smiled and shook his head. “But you may be pregnant. Just saying.”

I snorted, which was a bad idea. My headache had been a distant echo; now it was a jackhammer in my ear.

“Come on.” He handed me a fizzy glass of water. “Drink up. I’m going to turn the shower on. I want you up and in it before I walk out the door. I’ll just tell everyone you’re running late because, oh, I don’t know, I’ll say you’re having that period thing or something.”

I groaned. “Don’t you dare.”

“Kidding, kidding. I think everyone probably knows by now that you and the hardass got trashed last night. He was doing only marginally better than you. That redhead, though, she could hold her liquor.”

“She was . . . she was . . .” Who was she?

“Doesn’t matter. Drink and then shower.” He went to my bathroom and got the shower going as I chugged the medicated water that tasted the way dirty gym socks smell.

“Yick.” I scooted to the edge of my bed, the room spinning, and shucked off my T-shirt. I sat still until the spin calmed down to just a slight wobble.

Terrell came out and averted his eyes. “Ugh. I mean, uh, yeah, boobs and stuff. Yay. Please tell me you don’t need help getting in the shower.”

I dug the heel of my palm into my face. “I think I don’t.”

“Fuck.” He came over. “You owe me for this, breeder.” He helped me up and walked me to the steaming bathroom.

I dutifully slid my panties down and kicked them away. He helped me into the shower, the hot water like a slap in my face.

“Better?” He closed the curtain.

“I think. Yes. I think better. I can make it.”

“Okay. I can stay, or maybe run out and get you a Life Alert?”

“Go. I’ve got it now.” I let the water jar my dulled senses back to life.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I’ll be there in like an hour.”

“Okay. I’ll make you some toast on my way out.”

“Thanks, Terrell.”

His steps retreated from the bathroom. “You’re welcome.”

I leaned my head on my forearm as the water cascaded down. What had I done last night? At least it sounded like Wash had been just as blotto as I was. If nobody remembers what happened, then nothing happened. Surely that was the way it worked.
Surely
.

I took a longer-than-usual shower and was slow to get ready. I didn’t even bother playing my sex vixen game with my wardrobe, just threw on some dressy slacks and a black V-neck sweater. I eyed what I considered sensible heels, but I didn’t even trust those not to land me on my face. I went with a pair of kitten heels instead.

My toast was popped up, cold but ready. My stomach turned just looking at it, but I knew if I didn’t at least nibble something, vomit was all but assured. I grabbed a piece and made my way to work.

I kept my sunglasses on even as I sank down at my desk. I hadn’t been this hungover in years, probably not since the first year of law school after a particularly raucous Halloween party.

Terrell must have heard me, because he dropped in. “You going to make it, legal eagle?”

“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.” I put my head on my desk.

“Mr. Granade was here when I got in. His door’s closed, though.”

“So he was messed up last night, too?” Maybe I could rely on that to save me. He wouldn’t throw stones from his glass house.

“Yes. When he dropped you off, he kept asking if he could put you to bed.”

“He what?”

“Yep.” Terrell bounced his palm off my doorframe. “Sure did. I had to politely decline his offer.”

“Thank you.”
I think.

“Sure thing. Anyway, just rest. I figure you won’t have to leave for your trip to the—”

I groaned.

“To that, you know, that place you’re going, for about fifteen minutes.”

“Go.”

“Bitch.” His voice had a smile in it.

I lifted my head. “Thanks. For everything.”

He shrugged. “By the way, I got one more thing for you.”

“Yeah?”

He grinned like a devil. “Yvonne called in sick today.”

I smiled. Bitch couldn’t handle a hangover. “Pussy.”

“Ding ding ding.” He laughed and trudged away to his office.

I dropped my head back down and willed the fizzy solution and toast to get me back to some sort of equilibrium.

“You ready?” Wash’s voice.
Had it been fifteen minutes?

“Yeah.” I fumbled with my bag and my legal pad but eventually got everything straight. I stood and followed him to the elevator.

He seemed collected, his smooth stride giving nothing away. But he didn’t fool me. He was wearing the suit from the day before.

I couldn’t contain my snicker. He glanced over his shoulder, his locks falling across his forehead and begging my fingers to brush them back into place.

“Something funny, Ms. Montreat?”

“No. Nothing. Not a thing, Mr. Granade.”

We made the trip to the morgue without incident, though my dread grew with each block.
What if I passed out? What if I vomited, which actually had better odds than ever before?

“It’ll be fine.” He pulled into a parking spot marked law enforcement outside the hospital’s back entrance. I liked his style.

Another car pulled up next to us, and a middle-aged man with a nearly bald pate stepped out. Dr. Snider. I’d taken him the wooden pieces earlier in the week. He was brilliant, but he was a talker. It took me an hour just to extricate myself from his presence. I feared today would be worse, since we were in his wheelhouse, so to speak.

“Try to give me some advance warning if you’re going to eat it, okay?” Wash smiled at me.

I didn’t find his joke amusing, mainly because of the real risk of just such an occurrence. We got out and shook hands with Dr. Snider before walking through the automatic doors and heading down to the basement.

“Any news on the blood testing?” Wash asked.

“The presumptive test was positive for blood, but we haven’t gotten the types or any other indicators yet. It’s not as easy when the blood has been dry like that for so long. As long as there are still some white blood cells intact, we should be able to extract DNA for comparators. Just going to take some effort, is all. We’ll do everything we can.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

The doors opened, and we entered a secured area where we had to check in. At least we weren’t searched.

Dr. Snider led us down the hallway, clearly knowing his way around. He took a left and pushed through a set of swinging doors. We followed.

The smell was almost instant. It wasn’t strong, but it was everywhere. Something dead, something rotten. It’s the sort of smell that makes some part of your primitive brain wake up and tell you to run. Death. There was no other word for it.

Dr. Snider kept marching forward, as if oblivious to it.

“You can do this.” Wash took my elbow and led me forward through another set of doors, metal this time.

The smell grew stronger. We were in a room with a few rows of metal litters, all thankfully empty. Along the back wall was a counter with neat rows of tools and instruments that I knew for a fact I never wanted to see in action.