Wash tried again. “Mr. Rourke—”
“I said back the fuck up!” Rourke pounded the door as he yelled, rattling it on its hinges.
Suddenly, I had no desire to interview him whatsoever, and took a step back. Wash, unfazed, took a card from his pocket and slipped it under the door. “Call me if you change your mind.”
I stared, not sure whether he was brave or foolish.
He rose and smirked. “I’m used to it. Come on, let’s check Tyler’s room.”
He strode to 2B and unlocked it. I eyed 3B, but thankfully, the door didn’t open. Though I didn’t want to meet Gene Rourke, he’d done more than enough to add himself to my list of possible Bayou Butcher suspects. I’d find out all about him—but from a safe distance.
“Ready?” Wash asked and gripped the door handle.
“Lets see what’s behind door number two,” I said with my best game-show-host intonation.
The corner of Wash’s lips quirked a bit. Gotcha.
Tyler’s room was a little larger than Rowan’s but emptier. The bed was stripped down to just a mattress, and the dresser drawers hung half open. The windows were framed with dingy floral curtains that let in a decent amount of light. I’d stared at the few pictures I had of Tyler, mostly mug shots, trying to figure out if his close-set eyes were those of a killer. I tried to imagine him here in this room, shuffling around or playing with knives, or reading the newest issue of the Sociopath Gazette.
Wash hit the floor and inspected under the bed as I went to the closet again. Bare wire hangers and some dust bunnies were all I saw. I stomped around a bit in my heels, looking for the secret compartment again. No dice. Again. I stood on tiptoe to see if anything was on the closet shelf. I saw something brown in the far back corner.
I stretched up and reached for it, my fingers barely touching whatever it was.
“Let me.” Wash was at my back, his body pressed into mine as he brushed my hand with his and grabbed what turned out to be a small brown paper bag.
I relaxed back down into my heels and ignored the fire along my skin his nearness caused. My ass was against his upper thighs, and all I could think of was how close his cock was to me, how easy it would be for him to lock the door and throw me down and—Focus.
His breath tickled through my hair. “What do we have here?”
The bag crinkled in his hand as he brought it down.
“Somebody forgot his lunch?” Why did my voice have to quaver and give me away?
“Could be.” He took our prize to the dresser. “But I’m hoping it’s something a little more sinister.”
I followed him, trying to calm myself. “Like hooker fingers?”
“Yes, something like that.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of gloves. I still wasn’t creeped out, just impressed.
He pulled them on and opened the bag. Gripping the bottom, he dumped out the contents instead of reaching inside. Smart. Could be needles or something worse in there. I held my breath as the contents spilled out.
“What the hell?” I cocked my head to the side.
“Definitely not hooker fingers.” Wash picked up one of the small, carved wooden pieces, seven of them total in the bag and nothing more.
“That one looks like a mongoose or something? Maybe like a ferret?”
“It’s a fox, Ms. Montreat.” He put the piece down and picked up another.
“What’s that one? Looks kind of like a bird.”
“This”—he twirled it in his fingers—“is an egret, I believe.”
“Yeah, an egret’s a bird.”
“Well done, Ms. Montreat. I’ll call the bar the moment we leave and tell them about your spectacular lawyering abilities.” His lips quirked, and I couldn’t decide if I wanted to kiss him or hit him. This was a problem.
He went through the rest of the pieces—a snake, a rabbit (could have been a cat), a deer, a wolf (could have been a hyena), and a bear.
“So, call me crazy, but I don’t think these are made of human bones or anything, so what the hell are they?”
“Luke said he came from a long line of woodworkers.”
“Right, the desk. So, maybe Tyler is a whittler in his spare time or something? Family tradition and all that?”
Wash picked up the wolf (hyena), clicked on his flashlight, and aimed it at the wood. “Maybe, but, unless I’m mistaken, each of these tokens has been stained with blood. See?” He flipped it over and shone the light on a divot in the bottom. The natural wood was clearly a light maple or something similar. But the rest was stained a dark rust.
“What makes you think it’s blood?”
He held it up to my nose. “Take a sniff.”