Hardass (Bad Bitch)(44)

I crossed my arms over my chest. “I did fine. I got a name, didn’t I? Chip. And now I know where Ginger Smith is.”

“Yeah, you know where she was. If your description of her is accurate, I can guarantee you she’s already long gone. And a first name doesn’t get us anywhere. Do you know how many Chips live in New Orleans?”

“Seventy-four.” I smirked. I didn’t come into his office without some ammo.

He shook his head and sat back down. “Did you check them already?”

“I did. Only a couple seemed like possibles. But I’m going to do some more investigating on their backgrounds. Otherwise, I suspect it may be a nickname.”

“Likely.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m serious, Caroline. You can’t do that ever again. Got me? From now on, we investigate together. Only together. I don’t know what I would have done if . . .” He trailed off as the tension along his jaw and around his eyes softened.

I nibbled my bottom lip. Maybe he was right and I’d been a bit rash. His genuine concern was more than a little convincing.

I took a deep breath and uncrossed my arms. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

“Good.” He turned to his computer, dismissing me in that stark way of his.

I rose and opened the door.

“Turn in your expense report to Shirley. She’ll get you reimbursed.”

“Okay. I will.” I had pulled the door almost all the way closed behind me when he spoke.

“Poor execution, Ms. Montreat, but excellent instincts.”

“Thank you.” I stared at his broad back and dark hair, trying to figure out what was going on in his head.

“It wasn’t exactly a compliment.”

“I’ll take it as one, all the same.”

His shoulders shook with a short laugh. “Get out, Ms. Montreat.”

“Yes, sir.” I pulled the door closed and smiled, not even bothering to hide it from Shirley. Excellent instincts.





Chapter Eleven


Wash

After our initial interview with Ms. Barnett and Caroline’s lead on Ginger Smith, our trail on Tyler Graves went cold. It was like he’d disappeared from the city. He’d lived here his entire life. There was no way he’d finally decided to ditch this late in the game, especially not when his fall guy was under lock and key and set for a speedy trial. Something didn’t smell right about it, but even after talking to a number of his former associates and dealers, we were no closer to finding him.

I sat at my desk and watched the sun go down, the final rays coloring the sky an exotic pink with streaks of orange. Our morgue visit was set for the next morning. I could only hope Dr. Snider would find some evidence on the bodies or in the autopsies to back up our defense that Rowan couldn’t have been the real killer.

Our only other lead, Gene Rourke, had a sizable rap sheet, but nothing else to link him to the murders. Even so, his violent past kept him at the top of our suspect list. He and Tyler had the same tastes in beating and raping hookers. Maybe they were working together to commit the murders.

Even with two other possible suspects out there, the evidence against my client was damning: the bloody T-shirt, the multiple violent run-ins with hookers, the drugs. He was a shoe-in for lethal injection of the year. I’d been in spots as tough, but not many tougher. Either Rowan did it or someone framed him. Didn’t matter. The jury would hear nothing but the latter from my lips, even if I had only a few odd wood carvings to go on.

My thoughts dropped like leaves from a tree, and I was left with the solid trunk—the images and memories that always came to the forefront whenever I was overtired or incapable of concentrating. Caroline. She’d been with me all week, going to some rough neighborhoods and trying to shake information loose.

She was quick on her feet, wily even. Her seemingly guileless brown eyes and sexy wardrobe choices definitely helped our investigation, but did nothing to keep my cock from getting hard at inappropriate moments.

Even though I’d pressed her, telegraphed how much I’d wanted her, she would never ask me to kiss her. I was burning to touch her again, to run my hands along her smooth skin and tell her how beautiful she was, how smart, how deeply she got to me. She wouldn’t give in, and fuck if that didn’t make me want her more.

“Hey, man.” Kennedy, my younger brother, strode into my office without knocking.

I whirled. “What are you doing up this way?”

Kennedy was a plaintiff’s attorney with an office on the edge of the French Quarter. He plopped down into one of my chairs and stretched his long legs out in front of him. “We’re drinking tonight, remember?”