Hardass (Bad Bitch) Page 4

  “You really think you could bed any man, don’t you?”

  “I don’t think it. I know it.” He waved the remote at the TV. “Now, look here at this bitch. She just ate a whole bar of Ivory and now she’s going for some Irish Spring. What kind of redneck soap is this? You’d think the producers would at least spring for some Burt’s Bees or Rodan and Fields.”

  “I guess she’s a woman who appreciates the simpler things in life, Terrell. Hey, speaking of bitches, did Yvonne talk shit about me while I was on my field trip today?”

  “Does a pig have a curly tail?”

  “The one in Charlotte’s Web did, so yes?”

  “Yes. She went all over talking about how you cheated on Mr. Granade’s criminal procedure question.”

  “How the hell could I cheat on an off-the-cuff question like that?”

  Terrell shrugged. “I don’t know. She just said that a dumb hick like you could never have gotten it right unless you cheated.”

  I set my glass down and moved over to plop next to Terrell. “Did you defend my honor?”

  He smiled into his wineglass. “No, I agreed that peasants like you are all cheaters.”

  That was it. I dug into his ribs, his white T-shirt no match for my little sausage fingers, as he called them. He yelled and almost dropped his wine before scooting away to the end of the couch and fending me off easily with his free hand. Terrell was six-four and two hundred pounds of muscle. Sneak attacks were my only chance.

  “Dammit, Caroline, I almost spilled my wine.” He laughed but kept his hand up. I thought about jumping at him and grabbing onto his curls, but he really would have been pissed about that. No one touched the hair—ever. “And yes, of course I told her to shut her twat-face.”

  I sat back, slightly appeased. “Good.”

  “Now shut up and let’s watch this chick get her insides Zestfully clean.”

  I kicked at Terrell’s pajama-clad legs and settled down. We spent the rest of the night unwinding with trash TV. Even as Terrell gave running soap commentary, my thoughts strayed back to Mr. Granade—his fingertips along my lower back, his hand on my leg, his eyes on me.

  I had to excuse myself and head to bed a little early.

  “Sure, you’re tired, right?” Terrell smirked.

  “Yep. See you in the morning.” I put my glass in the sink and headed down the hall to my bedroom.

  “I can hear your vibrator, you know,” he called to my retreating back.

  “I know. Rub one out to it if you just have to. I won’t judge.”

  “I certainly will not, but I do suspect we’ll be fantasizing about the same person. Oh, Mr. Granade, you want me to stay late? I like your tie. Is it Valentino? I have the same one in navy. You want me to bend over your desk and pi—”

  I shut my door and drowned out whatever fantasy Terrell was having. I had one of my own to play out that involved the same desk and a much more creative use of Mr. Granade’s tie.

  “Class clown, you ready to head over to the district attorney’s office?” Mr. Granade leaned into my cramped, windowless office. His navy suit was cut perfectly to accentuate his broad shoulders. Terrell would be impressed. So was I.

  “Um, yes. I didn’t realize it was so late.” I checked the time on my laptop. We had fifteen minutes to get to our appointment.

  He leaned against my doorframe as I gathered my legal pad and a pen. “Usually the associate reminds the partner about appointments, not the other way around, Ms. Montreat.”

  His gaze was stern and his tone cold. So, in response, I bent over from the waist to grab my purse off the floor behind my desk.

  When I stood straight again, he was looking down the hall and running a hand through his hair. I smiled. He’d looked at my ass, all right.

  “Sorry, Mr. Granade. It won’t happen again.”

  “It better not.” He stalked away, and I hurried to keep up. My stride was far shorter and my heels far higher.

  We passed Terrell’s even smaller office, but I only had time to give him a quick wave before I followed Mr. Granade onto the elevator. The doors closed, and he moved away so we were standing in opposite corners. He was careful not to catch my eye in our reflection, so I took the opportunity to study his features yet again—the hair tickling the tips of his ears, the smooth jaw, the strong chin. What would his hands feel like on my waist? Or higher? Or lower?

  My thoughts warmed my skin, and a flush crept into my cheeks. The elevator stopped, and he waited for me to exit ahead of him. I did, swaying my hips as I walked to his car. Once again, he walked toward the passenger door as if he were going to open it for me before he thought better of it and went to the driver’s side. Clearly, he’d been raised right, but he was squashing his gentlemanly instincts where I was concerned.

  He drove out of the deck and took us down Perdido Street to the government buildings.

  “Remember how I told you to be at the client interview? Seen and not heard?”

  I glanced to him, but his sunglasses hid his eyes again. “Yes.”

  “Do that again times two when we’re in their office. Got it?”

  I gripped my legal pad. “Sure. But if I’m not supposed to, you know, do any lawyering, why did you even bring me?”

  “Would you prefer if I left you at the office and chose another associate to work on this case?”

  “No, I was just—”

  “You were just complaining about the immeasurable experience you are about to gain, experience that none of the other associates have. But by all means, keep complaining, Ms. Montreat. See where it gets you.”

  The threat of being taken off the case was enough to shut me up. Still, I grumbled a whole hell of a lot on the inside.

  The silence held as he snagged a parallel spot on the street in front of the justice center and deftly parked the car.

  “See, Ms. Montreat? I knew you could do it.” He smirked, the dimple almost breaking through. “All you needed was a little guidance.”

  I got out and slammed the ever-loving crap out of his car door. He winced but didn’t comment as I moved around the front of his car toward the justice center entrance. He walked at my elbow and opened the door for me. We skipped the metal detector line and went straight to the prosecutor’s office.

  “Hi, Carla.” Mr. Granade smiled at the receptionist.

  The pretty brunette batted her lashes at him. “I was wondering when you were going to show up, handsome. Glad to see you again. And who’s this?”

  “Just my associate.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a little tin of candies that he handed to her. “Where’s Matt?”

  Just my associate? I didn’t even have a name? And he gave gifts?

  “Oh, you know I love these.” She took a taffy from the tin and popped it into her too-wide-open mouth, her eyes on Mr. Granade the whole time. I felt like I was trapped in a Willy Wonka porn, but I was just an Oompa Loompa cameraman.

  Mr. Granade smiled down at her, though there were no dimples.

  She swallowed (of course she did) and said, “Go ahead into Conference One over there. I’ll call Matt to come on up here for your meeting. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Maybe some tea?”

  I saw my chance and took it. “I’d love some sweet tea—”

  Mr. Granade gripped my wrist behind the reception desk. “No. We’re good. Thanks, Carla. You’re one in a million.”

  She picked up her receiver and began to dial.

  Mr. Granade squeezed my wrist and let it go before turning and gesturing to the nearest conference room. “After you, Ms. Montreat.” His mouth was a thin line of disapproval.

  As soon as the door closed behind us he said, “Didn’t I mention that you were not to speak the entire time we’re here?”

  “I was just being polite.” I stared at his nose—brave enough to look him in the face, just not in the eye.

  “No, you weren’t.” He lowered his voice. “Carla is an extremely helpful ally. Get your head in the game or I’ll fin
d an associate who will. Now take a seat and don’t say another word.”

  Asshole. I met his eyes then, and shot mental daggers into them, before walking around the table and sitting. He smoothed his tie, though it was still as pressed and perfect as it had been when I’d first seen him this morning. He didn’t sit, just leaned against the wall and looked at his watch.

  The silence stretched out between us as we waited, and waited, and then waited some more. I wanted to play on my phone or start a conversation, but I’d be damned if I was going to crack and say another word to him. And I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of getting on me for playing Candy Crush instead of remaining stone-faced like him.

  It took a full forty-five minutes before the door opened and Matt walked in. He had a disc and a manila folder under one arm.

  “Sorry to run late, Wash. Just had trouble getting this CD made, is all.” He dropped the items on the table and winked at me. His sandy blond hair was cropped short, and he had brown eyes a couple of shades lighter than my own. A handsome man, though nothing even close to Mr. Granade in the looks department.

  “Funny how every time I come here like this, you’re late.” Mr. Granade still leaned against the wall, but he was no longer relaxed.

  “You mad?” Matt grinned.

  “No. Worse.” Mr. Granade stood straight and squared his shoulders. He had more than a few inches on Matt. “I’m inconvenienced. Some of us have to actually work for our clients, not twiddle our thumbs at our desks on the State’s dime.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind the next time one of your dirtbag clients makes a mess I have to clean up on the State’s dime.”

  I’m sure my gaze went back and forth as if they were playing a tennis match. I wanted Mr. Granade to win, but it would be more than a little interesting if the two of them got into a tussle, on the floor . . . over me.

  “You lose your manners on the trip over here, Wash?” Matt turned to me and offered his hand. “Who’s this?”

  I shook his hand and returned his stare.

  “That’s my associate.”

  “I gathered that.” Matt pulled out the chair across from me and sat. “What’s your name?”

  “Caroline Montreat.” I could feel Mr. Granade’s gaze lasering into the side of my head.

  “I’m Matt Turnbull. Nice to meet you. When did you graduate law school? You look mighty young.”

  “Last year.”

  He slid his gaze down my body, lingering at the neckline of my red blouse beneath my suit jacket. “Young. I like it.”

  “Matt, that’s enough.” Mr. Granade loomed over him.

  “I was just making her acquaintance, is all. Same way you made Fawn’s.” Matt leaned back and smiled like the cat who got the canary.

  “How is your wife, by the way, Matt?”

  “She’s fine.” He drummed his fingers on the table, his eyes still on me. “Still mine. Thanks for asking.”

  What had I just walked into? Matt’s gaze slid south again, and I fidgeted in my chair.

  Mr. Granade picked up the manila file folder and the CD. “This everything?”

  “Everything I’m required to give you, yes it is.”

  “I have your word?”

  “That’s all I got except for the stuff locked away at the sheriff’s office. You can go fetch that yourself, can’t you? How about you just walk the block over there and I’ll keep Caroline company while you’re gone. Show her how a real lawyer does business.” He smiled. I wanted to wipe the look right off his face with the bottom of my shoe.

  Mr. Granade came around the table and offered me his hand. “Come on, Ms. Montreat. Time to go.”

  I took it and rose, feeling more awkward than anything else.

  “Sure you don’t want to stay here, Caroline?”

  I knew I wasn’t supposed to talk. I knew it. I did it anyway. “And learn how to creep on younger associates? No thanks. I can get that lesson better elsewhere.”

  Matt whistled. “You got a hot one there, Wash. Better watch out.”

  “Keep running your mouth like you always do. Doesn’t make any difference to me. I’m still going to wipe the floor with you like I always do.” Mr. Granade opened the door for me, and I gave an acid look to Matt as I walked out.

  “Not this time, Wash. Your guy is as dirty as they come, and I’m going to make sure he gets the death penalty.”

  “Sure, Matt. Sure. Say hi to Fawn for me, would you?”

  “Don’t even say her name, Wash.” Matt followed us into the hall.

  Carla looked at us over the ledge of the reception desk, her eyebrows raised almost to her hairline.

  “I don’t even have to say hers. I’m sure she says mine every night.” Mr. Granade pushed the door open for me, Matt hot on our heels.

  “Don’t you fucking talk about my wife!” His yell reverberated around the reception area.

  “Have a nice day, Matt. Thanks for the docs.” Mr. Granade kept his hand at my back as I tried to walk as quickly as possible to the car.

  My heart was galloping out ahead of me, both worried and excited that I was going to see a throwdown, all the while pretending they were fighting over me instead of “Fawn.”

  “This ain’t over, Wash.” Matt didn’t give chase any further, but his voice carried on the crisp fall air.

  Mr. Granade’s hand left my back for a moment and then returned. Something told me he’d just flipped Matt off.

  “What the fuck was all that about?” I slid into the leather seat and wiped my sweaty palms on my skirt.

  Mr. Granade tossed the evidence into the backseat and pulled away from the curb. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

  “Is that so? Seems like I do need to worry about it. I thought he was going to clock you there for a second.”

  Mr. Granade’s lip twitched and then stretched into a smile. “Even on that asshole’s best day, he could never clock me.”

  “Cocky much?”

  He shrugged. “Just stating a fact.”

  “Who’s Fawn?”

  “Matt’s wife.”

  I groaned. “You do realize I graduated from law school, right? That I did well enough on the LSAT to get into law school? That I, oh, I don’t know, graduated high school, and even middle school? So, while I appreciate you stating the obvious for me like that, what I was asking was who is Fawn to you.”

  “And therein lies the lesson. Ask what you mean to ask. Tailor your questions precisely and you may just get the information you’re after.” He pulled up to the sheriff’s office and jumped out of the car before I even had a chance to continue my short-lived interrogation.

  I followed him, but he managed to stay a few steps ahead of me this time, his hair gleaming in the afternoon sun. I wanted to reach up and yank on it to get him to talk to me, or at least let me talk. He wisely stayed out of range. Besides, even I knew that pulling your boss’s hair in broad daylight in front of the sheriff’s office might not be the best career choice.

  We signed in and were led to another stark conference room—everything metal and dingy. The evidence clerk brought in two storage containers marked with bright yellow tape and indecipherable codes in Sharpie.

  “This it?”

  “Aside from the bodies at the morgue, yeah.” The deputy seemed none too pleased about helping us.

  Mr. Granade dug some gloves from his suit. It should have creeped me out that he’d been wandering around all day with rubber gloves in his pocket, but I was just impressed that he came prepared.

  He handed me a set. “All of it’s been processed and dusted for prints, but there’s no telling what’s in here, and it’s probably stuff you don’t want to get on your hands.”

  “Noted.” I snapped the gloves into place as the deputy shut the door and took up his post down the hall.

  A camera in the corner kept an eye on us as we got to work. He cut the tape sealing the first bin and flipped the lid off. A manifest lay on top of the items, each piece of evidence neat
ly logged in a precise hand.

  “We’ll get a copy of their log, but go ahead and catalog everything I pull out. We never rely on anyone else’s work but our own.” He reached for the item on the top of the pile. It was a pale blue scarf that reeked of cheap perfume. A deep brown stain colored one end.

  I scribbled down the description.

  “We should have the tox and blood results on the docs Matt gave us. Once we get back to the office, give it all a once-over and match up the items with the test results. Then we’ll know which victim goes with what. Got it?”

  “Yes.”

  He placed the scarf on the table and dug out the next item. A white T-shirt covered with even more brown stains.

  “What’s that?”

  He checked the manifest. “Looks like a shirt that was found stuffed behind a chest of drawers at Rowan’s apartment.”

  I shuddered. There was too much blood on the shirt for it to have come from a shaving mishap.

  “Let’s keep going.”

  We spent the better part of two hours looking at the items that told a story of a life lived poorly and violently. Knives, needles, a variety of drugs, snuff porn—if it was disgusting or creepy, Rowan had it. Two pieces of evidence were particularly troubling: a gun and a notebook full of twisted writings.

  Rowan was something of an author, but as I flipped through the composition notebook, it became clear that his darkest fantasies were written on the pages. Rape, murder, dismemberment—all written in slashing blue ink. It read like the Bayou Butcher Manifesto. No wonder he’d been popped as soon as the cops got a line on him.

  Other pieces of evidence weren’t quite as obvious. A scribbled note with the name and number of a boardinghouse. A photo of Rowan with another man, Rowan’s arm slung casually over the much shorter man’s shoulders. It was old, taken back when Rowan’s teeth weren’t rotted out from the meth pipe.

  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.