Bad Behavior(148)

My navigation panel told me in a smooth British accent that I'd arrived at my location, and upon closer inspection of the narrow front porch, I saw KENNEDY GRANADE, ATTORNEY AT LAW on a tarnished silver plate. This was it. I hoped I had enough hand sanitizer to wash off whatever funk I picked up from visiting this part of the city.

I let the car parallel-park itself and pulled my leather briefcase from the seat next to me. No point checking myself in the mirror-I was already certain I was more put-together than anyone who'd ever set foot in the Granade law firm.

The wind blew cold and sharp down the city streets. It rarely grew cold in New Orleans, but January was an exception. The streets bustled despite the chill, tourists and natives going about their lives in my hometown. The familiar smell of the Quarter-garbage mixed with sugar mixed with wet dog-assaulted my nose as a particularly biting blast of air blew by.

I snugged my scarf closer to my exposed ears. My hair was arranged in a tight bun at the crown of my head. As the only female associate at Stone & Porter, I found it important to dress impeccably and present myself modestly, not a hair out of place. Today was no exception.

I climbed the stairs to the porch, my heels wobbling on the uneven steps. Getting to the front door without a broken neck was the least of my worries. Dealing with Kennedy Granade-especially given his less-than-stellar reputation-would likely be the true stumbling block.

Gathering my resolve, I rapped my knuckles on the narrow front door, the transom windows along the sides giving me no clues as to what lay inside. No one came. I knocked again. Still nothing. I checked my watch. It was ten in the morning. I'd just come from the most important meeting of my life, and it seemed the Granade firm wasn't even awake yet. It did not bode well.

I turned the handle and winced as it creaked and the door swung inward. The dim foyer was adorned with shabby chairs and art that was so bad, I feared it came from a low-end hotel. At least it smelled pleasant, like some sort of air freshener.

"Mr. Granade?" I closed the door behind me and stepped onto the threadbare rug in the center of the room. A hallway continued toward the back of the house, a staircase rose in front of me, and what looked like a secretary's office was to my left.

Leaving wasn't an option, so I took a few steps toward the open office.

"Good morning." A woman came down the hall, appearing from the gloom at the back of the house. "Can I help you?" She carried a steaming cup of coffee and wore practical flats, a navy long-sleeve blouse, and black slacks. Her gray hair brushed her shoulders and she gave me a welcoming smile.



       
         
       
        

"Yes, I'm Scarlett Carmichael, an associate with Stone and Porter. I left a few messages for Mr. Granade a little earlier, but he hasn't returned my calls."

"I'm Faye, Kennedy's assistant. I haven't had a moment to even listen to his messages yet." She sat down at her neat desk and placed her coffee on a coaster.

I followed her into her office. "Is he in? I'd like to speak with him as soon as possible."

She quirked an eyebrow. "He's here, yes."

"If he's in a meeting, I'm happy to wait." I threw a look at one of the tatty chairs in the parlor. "It's an urgent matter, and I prefer to speak with him about it in person." I was, in fact, not happy to wait, but I needed to speak with Mr. Granade as soon as possible.

She smiled, warmth in every wrinkle around her mouth. "A meeting. Right." Picking up her phone, she hit a button next to the name KENNEDY, and held the receiver to her ear. She repeated the process three times with no results.

She set the phone back into its cradle and tapped her fingers along her coffee cup as she gave me a once-over-toes to bun-and nodded to herself. "I have an idea."

She rose and strolled down the darkened hallway. I followed along, relieved when she flipped a switch and bathed the space in warm light. Framed settlement checks lined the walls, some for pittances, others for respectable amounts. Mr. Granade was no pauper, though his office gave the impression otherwise.

Stopping at a door, Faye knocked. And as I heard his voice and the ensuing vitriol, I learned everything I needed to know about Kennedy Granade.


He sat behind his desk, his deep brown eyes bloodshot, his dress shirt a rumpled wreck. Even though he looked hungover, he was still a handsome man. Chestnut brown hair, dark eyebrows, angular jaw, and almost too-full lips. He would clean up well, and that's all I really needed.

I perched on the edge of his still-warm couch. The room smelled of stale alcohol and I glanced to the windows, wishing for some bit of fresh air, even if "fresh" was relative since we were on the edge of the Quarter.