Once we’d cataloged all of it and gotten a copy of the police manifest, it was nearing five o’clock. We headed back to the office as the sun played a game of hide-and-seek behind the downtown skyscrapers.
“Start a database with all the evidence we’ve seen so far. I want a memo tomorrow detailing what’s in Matt’s file. List each item as a bullet point, with a note below concerning its significance.” He turned into the parking deck of our building.
“Tomorrow?”
“Hearing problems, Ms. Montreat?”
“No, that’s just”—I stole a glance at the sheaf of papers and the CD that could contain thousands more documents—“soon, is all.”
“If you can’t keep up, I’m sure Ms. Evans would be more than happy to help me.”
“Really? Yvonne couldn’t lawyer her way out of a paper bag.” I crossed my arms over my chest.
“And you can?” He gave me a sidelong glance as we pulled into his parking spot.
“Yes.”
“We’ll see. Have it on my desk by noon.” He didn’t move, just waited for me to get out.
“Calling it an early night, Mr. Granade?” I twisted and reached between our seats to gather the documents.
Mr. Granade shifted in his seat at my intentional invasion of his personal space. Good.
“I have a prior appointment, which is why I’m trusting you to get this done for me.”
I turned back around in my seat and opened the door. “I will. By noon.”
“Good. After we get our feet under us with the documents, we’ll start doing some real investigation.”
I got out and was about to close the door when Mr. Granade spoke.
“And don’t forget to schedule a visit to the morgue within the next few days. I want to see the bodies. Photos are good, but we need to take our expert, Dr. Snider, over for a look. Coordinate the trip.”
My blood chilled at the thought of dead bodies. I bent over and met his eye. “Do we have to go?”
“Do you want to be a defense attorney?” His tone was mocking, though he did genuinely quirk an eyebrow.
I had never seen a body before, especially not one that had been carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey, if the news reports were true. I fought my fear and tried to nod. Nothing happened. I swallowed hard.
His gaze flickered down to my throat but no lower before he caught my eyes again. “Well?”
I clutched the documents to my chest and let out a resigned sigh. “Yes.”
“Then, yes, we have to go. Good night, Ms. Montreat.”
“’Night.” I straightened up and closed the car door. I expected him to back out and leave, but he waited until I’d made it to the elevator bank, and even until the doors were closing and blocking me from view, before he put his car in reverse.
Terrell was waiting for the elevator when I arrived on the third floor.
“You’re going the wrong way. Turn around for home and wine.”
“Can’t.” I held up the folder of documents. “Have to go through some evidence and make a log for Mr. Granade.”
“We already back to Mr. Granade’s log again?” He grinned.
I rolled my eyes and walked past him. “Don’t wait up. I’m going to be here for a while.”
Yvonne came around the corner, her hooker heels clacking. “Finally decided to do some work today, Caroline?”
I was not in the mood for her shit. “The only thing you know about working is how to shimmy your skinny ass up under a desk and work a dick like you’re a bobblehead doll.”
Terrell snorted and covered his mouth with his hand.
Yvonne narrowed her eyes. “You—”
“Ladies.” Mr. Palmer walked past the reception desk, the expression on his face akin to sucking on a lemon . . . a rotten one. “Let’s at least try to live up to the decorum required in our profession, shall we?”
Fuck. Whereas Mr. Granade was the fabled hardass, Mr. Palmer was a stone-cold operator. Nothing got by him. He was in his fifties, single, rich from his own hard work, and conscientious to a fault. I was still surprised he’d hired me to work for him, though I suspected Terrell had something to do with it.
The Lynches and the Palmers were once slave families to one of the most powerful families in New Orleans. It was some sort of poetic justice that the slaves’ descendants were at the top of the food chain whereas the former masters’ families were scattered and no more high class than I was.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Palmer.” Yvonne jumped ahead of me in the brown-noser line.
“I don’t want apologies, Ms. Evans, just better behavior.”
His gaze rested on the documents in my arms. “Long night, Ms. Montreat? I heard Wash chose you to work on the Ellis case.”