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Authors: Christina Saunders
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Caroline, off the previous night.
I worked until what was left of my coffee was long since cold. It was already eleven, and I hadn’t accomplished much more than dictating a few letters, drafting a quick evidentiary pleading, and cleaning out my in-box. I was about to get a coffee refill when there was a knock on my door.
“Come in.”
Caroline eased inside, her brown eyes meeting mine with easy confidence. She wore an emerald green dress with a belt below her breasts, accentuating them perfectly. She had to be doing this to me on purpose, had to be. But my dick didn’t care one way or another; it was just happy to see her.
I kept my seat and waved her inside. She went to close the door.
“No. Leave it open.” I didn’t trust myself to be alone with her in a closed room, especially not when her dress was so short and she wore the most amazing high-heeled boots.
Definitely not going to be able to get up for a while
.
“I have the evidence memo you wanted.” She handed me a stapled packet of about twenty pages, each item neatly identified and tagged just as I’d asked. She was acting like she usually did, nothing in her demeanor changed despite what we’d done the night before.
“You looked at the pictures?” I asked as she sat, her skirt riding higher up her smooth thighs.
She looked down to her hands and then back up at me. “Yes. I had some help. Terrell and I went through them together.”
“Terrell?” I put my elbows on my desk. “You two are friends, right?”
Did I just sound like a jealous teenager? Yes, yes I did.
She smiled, her dark pink lips opening to show me her even, white teeth. “Yes, we live together.”
Holy shit, she was living with someone?
“Oh, I had no idea.” I sat back, my chest suddenly constricted, as if my shirt were too tight.
Her smile widened. She was gorgeous, the sun lighting her blond waves and kissing her skin. Of
course
she was with someone.
“Not like that, Mr. Granade. We’re just friends. Terrell is allergic to vaginas.”
I almost choked on my own spit. “Allergic to—”
“We’ve been roommates since law school.” She crossed her legs at the knee.
Gay, her roommate was gay. I was far too happy about that simple fact. I looked down at the paperwork she’d handed me so as to avoid getting myself in any deeper. She was like some sort of gravitational force that I needed to fight, even if it killed me.
I skimmed the first few pages, flipping through the rundown of the various police reports. A few things caught my eye.
“Did you read the interview of Tyler Graves?”
She leaned forward. “Yes, flip to the next page. That’s where it gets good. He claimed that he’d hung out with a couple of the victims, but said that Rowan was their primary customer, not him. He also claimed he’d seen Rowan beat one of the victims mercilessly only a few weeks before she was killed.”
“Which one?”
“Sotero, the one found on the upper branch of the Old Pearl tangled in some trees. They found her when the water fell after the drought a couple of summers ago. Autopsy report says she’d been there at least a month.”
I dropped the page and looked up at her again, her gaze intense. “And why is that important, Ms. Montreat?”
“Because Rowan told us he’d never even
met
Sotero.”
“Exactly. Someone’s lying.”
“So which one do you think it is?” She clasped her hands around her knee.
“What did I tell you about the importance of guilt or innocence, Ms. Montreat?”
She leaned back. “That it doesn’t matter.”
“That is correct. And it doesn’t, not for our purposes. Go ahead and pull last known whereabouts for Mr. Graves. We need to pay him a visit unannounced, and sooner rather than later.”
“Already on it. I found his last three addresses, all of them halfway houses for ex-cons and drifters. The most recent was over in Algiers.”
“Any jobs?”
“No. Not that I saw. He hasn’t worked in over five years. Not sure how
I worked until what was left of my coffee was long since cold. It was already eleven, and I hadn’t accomplished much more than dictating a few letters, drafting a quick evidentiary pleading, and cleaning out my in-box. I was about to get a coffee refill when there was a knock on my door.
“Come in.”
Caroline eased inside, her brown eyes meeting mine with easy confidence. She wore an emerald green dress with a belt below her breasts, accentuating them perfectly. She had to be doing this to me on purpose, had to be. But my dick didn’t care one way or another; it was just happy to see her.
I kept my seat and waved her inside. She went to close the door.
“No. Leave it open.” I didn’t trust myself to be alone with her in a closed room, especially not when her dress was so short and she wore the most amazing high-heeled boots.
Definitely not going to be able to get up for a while
.
“I have the evidence memo you wanted.” She handed me a stapled packet of about twenty pages, each item neatly identified and tagged just as I’d asked. She was acting like she usually did, nothing in her demeanor changed despite what we’d done the night before.
“You looked at the pictures?” I asked as she sat, her skirt riding higher up her smooth thighs.
She looked down to her hands and then back up at me. “Yes. I had some help. Terrell and I went through them together.”
“Terrell?” I put my elbows on my desk. “You two are friends, right?”
Did I just sound like a jealous teenager? Yes, yes I did.
She smiled, her dark pink lips opening to show me her even, white teeth. “Yes, we live together.”
Holy shit, she was living with someone?
“Oh, I had no idea.” I sat back, my chest suddenly constricted, as if my shirt were too tight.
Her smile widened. She was gorgeous, the sun lighting her blond waves and kissing her skin. Of
course
she was with someone.
“Not like that, Mr. Granade. We’re just friends. Terrell is allergic to vaginas.”
I almost choked on my own spit. “Allergic to—”
“We’ve been roommates since law school.” She crossed her legs at the knee.
Gay, her roommate was gay. I was far too happy about that simple fact. I looked down at the paperwork she’d handed me so as to avoid getting myself in any deeper. She was like some sort of gravitational force that I needed to fight, even if it killed me.
I skimmed the first few pages, flipping through the rundown of the various police reports. A few things caught my eye.
“Did you read the interview of Tyler Graves?”
She leaned forward. “Yes, flip to the next page. That’s where it gets good. He claimed that he’d hung out with a couple of the victims, but said that Rowan was their primary customer, not him. He also claimed he’d seen Rowan beat one of the victims mercilessly only a few weeks before she was killed.”
“Which one?”
“Sotero, the one found on the upper branch of the Old Pearl tangled in some trees. They found her when the water fell after the drought a couple of summers ago. Autopsy report says she’d been there at least a month.”
I dropped the page and looked up at her again, her gaze intense. “And why is that important, Ms. Montreat?”
“Because Rowan told us he’d never even
met
Sotero.”
“Exactly. Someone’s lying.”
“So which one do you think it is?” She clasped her hands around her knee.
“What did I tell you about the importance of guilt or innocence, Ms. Montreat?”
She leaned back. “That it doesn’t matter.”
“That is correct. And it doesn’t, not for our purposes. Go ahead and pull last known whereabouts for Mr. Graves. We need to pay him a visit unannounced, and sooner rather than later.”
“Already on it. I found his last three addresses, all of them halfway houses for ex-cons and drifters. The most recent was over in Algiers.”
“Any jobs?”
“No. Not that I saw. He hasn’t worked in over five years. Not sure how
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