Hardass (Bad Bitch)(35)

I reached for the door handle, but Wash spoke before I could pull it. “Stick close to me. Got it?”

I couldn’t decide if I was tired of his babying or comforted by it. I split the difference. “Yes. I got it.”

“Record everything. Take good notes.”

I opened the door and slid out, careful to keep my knees together lest I give the window gazers more than I intended. “I got that, too.”

Wash strode past me onto the broken front walk.

Damn. My heels were sensible, but still not up to the challenge of the high grass and uneven concrete. I shouldered my briefcase and stepped gingerly onto the biggest chunks of sidewalk. Wash glanced back, his sunglasses and suit making him look almost like James Bond, and smiled a bit as he put out his elbow. I wobbled to him and took it, pissed I needed him yet relieved that I wouldn’t face-plant on my way to the house.

He was warm, heat radiating through his jacket and into my palm. His scent lured me closer as we managed the steps to the porch. I would forever associate his scent with my office, Mr. Palmer’s guest bedroom, and Wash between my legs one way or another.

Snap out of it. I pushed those memories away and focused on the job. This might be the best place to get a lead on Tyler Graves and, hopefully, come up with a way to defend Rowan.

Once at the front door—the edges were splintered, and the white paint a grimy dark gray around the door handle—I released Wash’s arm, and he rang the doorbell. We waited for a moment, but no one came, so he rapped his knuckles on the only uncracked windowpane.

He raised his hand again when a creaking sound and then steps came from within.

“What you want?” An elderly woman’s voice.

“We’re here to see Ms. Barnett.” Wash and I peered through the high panes, but they were so dirty that all I could make out was the shape of a person.

“What for?” She shuffled closer.

“Just want to talk to her about a tenant.” Wash gave a winning smile (no dimples), though I doubt she could see it.

“You the law?”

“No, ma’am. We’re attorneys. Rowan Ellis is our client.”

“Oh, him. So you sure you ain’t the law?” Her voice had a tremor in it, either from age or some other ailment.

“I’m sure. I’ll give you my card. I’m Wash, and this is my associate Caroline.” He dug his wallet from his back pocket and pulled out a business card. “We sure would like to speak with you.”

He waved his hand in front of the glass. It wasn’t just a business card he’d pulled out. Pressed against it was a crisp hundred-dollar bill.

The lock clicked, and the door swung inward to a gloomy hall. “I’m Lily Barnett. Come on in.” Her watery eyes were glued to the money.

“Thank you. And I promise you’ll get this”—Wash waved the cash before tucking it into his inner suit coat pocket—“before we leave.”

“Well, come on in.” She turned and moved slowly back down the hall, her floral muumuu swinging as she went. There was no sitting room or living room off the hallway, just a line of doors. The whole house appeared to have been converted to bedrooms. It smelled like old grease and something fouler, to the point where I wanted to cover my nose.

She led us past several doors until we came to a kitchen. Dishes were piled high in the sink, and the screen door leading into the backyard clanged as we entered. Someone had just left.

“Who was that?” Wash asked.

“Our cook, George, most likely. Got a warrant out on him. Probably thinks you’re here to pop him. But I ain’t never seen no cops dressed like you two.” She swept her hazy gaze down my body. “Especially not like this one here. Cops don’t wear heels.”

“Very astute, Ms. Barnett.” Wash gave another winning smile.

Ms. Barnett didn’t return it but motioned for us to sit at her kitchen table, the wooden surface marred with divots, burns, and other signs of heavy wear. It and Ms. Barnett both gave the impression of being worn out but still carrying on somehow. She sank down into a metal chair with a vinyl seat, sighing when she was finally off her feet.

Wash sat across from her, and I sat at his elbow before reaching into my bag and clicking on the recorder. She didn’t seem to notice. I drew out my legal pad and placed it on the table, knowing full well it would have sticky spots and grease on it when I left.

“Well, what you want to know?” She pulled a pack of cigarettes from a hidden pocket on her voluminous dress, took one out, and lit it up.

“What can you tell us about Rowan?”

She took a long drag and blew the smoke up, as if her mouth were a chimney or a steam whistle. “He was like all the rest of them here. Messed up. Violent. Surly. Angry at everything and everyone. Paid his rent late.” She shrugged.