I slid my briefcase into his backseat and settled down, waiting for him to get in and start the car. He stood outside the driver’s door in the same position he’d been in when I’d sauntered over, swaying my hips and working my heels with each step. Had he gone into a fugue state?
I thought about leaning over and honking the horn, but then he said something—the word muffled by the car—and opened the door.
“Problems?” I gave him my best wide-eyed innocent look.
He scowled at me and started the car. “None, Ms. Montreat.” His jaw was tight, teeth clenched.
“Okay.” I put my hand on his arm and smiled as he met my gaze. “I was just checking.”
I moved my hand to the console and began typing the address into his navigation system as he reversed out of his parking spot. I leaned forward, knowing full well my breasts were demanding to overflow the edges of my V-neck in that position. Wash stopped and shifted, but the engine only revved and the car didn’t move. I glanced at him, coy smile still on my face.
“Sure you’re all right?”
He finally got the car out of neutral and into drive before shooting through the deck more recklessly than usual.
I finished entering the address, and a smooth male voice with an English accent directed us toward Algiers. We darted into traffic, early enough to beat the commuter crush.
I slid one knee on top of the other, my skirt riding up even higher. “We in a hurry?”
He pulled his sunglasses out and clamped them down over his eyes. “No. Why do you ask?” I gripped the door handle as he took a turn so hard I swore the tires squealed a bit.
I gave him a glare, but he returned it with a smile, the not-quite-visible dimples mocking me. He must have thought driving like a maniac would put him back in control. I reached into my bag and put on my own sunglasses before arching my back into the seat and laying my head on the headrest as I stared out the window. My body was fully available for his view, my breasts poised above my V-neck, my cardigan open, my legs crossed.
A strange rubbing sound hit my ears, and I slowly realized it was his hand tightening on the leather steering wheel. I smirked into the window and moved my hand under my cardigan, pretending to scratch an itch on my shoulder, and giving him an excellent view of the strap of my lacy red bra.
Another sudden burst of speed and we were on the interstate, passing other vehicles as if we had a number painted on the side of our car.
“What do we know about this first location?” His voice was strained and raspy.
Good.
“Halfway house. The owner is a Mrs. Lily Barnett. She’s a widow. Has a degree in social work. I don’t know much more. I would’ve called and interviewed her if we weren’t working with the element of surprise, of course.”
“Of course. Anything else important?” He tore across the murky river, past a tugboat splitting the water and several barges lined up in the channel.
“Yes. Rowan was holed up at the same halfway house when he was arrested. I’m hoping she hasn’t trashed all his belongings the police didn’t take. There might be something there, though I assume the cops took all the real evidence.”
“You assume?” His question was cutting.
“I, well, yes. I assume the police know what they’re doing.”
He sighed. “Oh, Ms. Montreat, your naïveté may have worked for you in law school, but it isn’t going to work out here in the real world. Never, and I mean never, assume things. More importantly, never assume the police have done their job. We make our living off showing just how shoddy police work truly is. Reasonable doubt is a complicated recipe that’s different in each case. But the one ingredient that is the same case after case is bad police work. Don’t forget that.”
Was I being chastised or taught? Why did they feel like one and the same with him?
“I got it.”
“Good.” We took the first Algiers exit and traveled past various industrial parks before coming to a neighborhood of beat-down houses. Wash assiduously avoided the larger potholes as we drove down the rough road into the heart of Algiers. The smooth Brit on the navigation system indicated the house was ahead on the right, and we slowed to pick out the address. The faded street number was written in large black letters on the curb as well as on the side of the rusted mailbox.
The halfway house had once been a beauty, with stately columns and a wide front porch. But it was obviously in disrepair. The paint was streaky, faded white and peeling away to gray. The roof was bowed in two places, leaves and debris collecting there and a couple of saplings taking root. The morning sun didn’t do the rotting façade any favors. Curtains twitched in a couple of windows, and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end.