A Father's Duty
Автор
Joanna Wayne
Прочтений
19,9K
Глав
16
Chapter One
August in New Orleans was like a nasty disease that clogged your lungs and made you sweat from every pore in your body. It was near midnight now and still there was no relief from the heat or the humidity, especially not here on the edge of the French Quarter where the stench of stale beer, fried seafood and someone’s pot habit hung heavy in the air.
Tanner Harrison had loved the inner city and the French Quarter once. He’d fed on its boisterous revelry, couldn’t get enough of the jazz, the food or the Big Easy attitude. That had been years ago. Now the area was like everything else in his life, a plague to be endured. But tonight desperation added a new element to his restless discontent. It rode his nerves like a hissing snake looking for somewhere to sink its fangs.
Lily. Sweet, innocent Lily. Climbing onto his lap and cuddling into his arms for a bedtime story. Skipping through Hyde Park on a summer’s day, her tiny hand clutching his. Waving goodbye as he’d boarded plane after plane after plane, always turning at the last second so he didn’t see the tears sliding down her cheek and she didn’t see the back of his hand flick across his own wet eyes.
Only Lily was no longer living in London with her mother. And his seventeen-year-old daughter was no longer innocent.
His daughter was here in New Orleans, last seen turning tricks for Maurice Gaspard. Tanner had seen it all in a lifetime of law enforcement, but nothing had ever made him physically ill the way thinking of Lily like this did.
He jerked to attention when he spotted a young woman running toward him, her high-heeled shoes bumping and scraping along the uneven sidewalk, her long blond hair flying behind her. Her skirt barely reached her thighs and her blouse was skin-tight, a bit of gauzy material that dipped low and revealed everything short of her nipples. He braced himself and studied her face as she came closer, looking for signs of the Lily he knew beneath the layers of makeup.
It wasn’t Lily, but she wasn’t much older than his teenage daughter, and she was running scared. Tanner reached out and grabbed her arm as she rushed past him. She clawed at him with long, fake fingernails painted a bright red.
“Let go of me.”
“Right after we have a little talk.”
She twisted to see behind her, then tried again to pry his hand from her arm. “I’m not working now, so get your rocks off with someone else.”
“I’m looking for Lily Harrison.”
“That’s your problem.”
“I just made it yours, too. Lily Harrison. She’s seventeen, blond and pretty, with a British accent. I know she worked for Gaspard for a while.”
“Seventeen. You’re sick, man. You know that? Sick. Leave the girl alone and get a life.”
“She’s my daughter.” Tanner pulled out the picture of Lily, frayed and bent from being carried around in his sweaty pocket. He handed the photo to the woman, then tugged her under the streetlight so she could see the details. “This was taken six months ago. If you’ve seen her at all, I need to know where and when.”
“I don’t know nothin’. So let go of my arm.”
But Tanner figured she did know. Like the rest of Gaspard’s women, she was just too damned scared to talk. No one squealed on the sleazy, revengeful pimp.
“Who are you running from?” Tanner demanded.
“I’m not running. And if I was, it’s none of your damn business.” She threw in a few gutter words for emphasis. “Look, man. I don’t know your Lily, but there’s a young girl in that courtyard back there, and she’s hurt bad. If you want to do something, go help her, just leave me out of it. Please, leave me out of it.”
“Which courtyard?”
“Half a block down. You’ll see the break between the buildings. There’s an iron gate, but it’s not locked.”
Tanner released his hold on the young woman, then took off running. He reached the gate in seconds, pushed through it and into a courtyard illuminated only by moonlight. The victim was lying in the middle of the enclosure, sprawled across the hot concrete, one leg dangling over a fountain that was dry and green with slime.
Tanner knelt beside her and brushed the long, blood-matted hair from her face, then felt the breath explode from his lungs in relief when he realized the half-dead woman wasn’t his Lily.
He checked for a pulse. It was weak, but it was there. He grabbed his cell phone and called for an ambulance. The young woman opened her eyes and stared at him.
“Don’t…hit me. Please. Don’t hurt…”
“I’m not the one who attacked you. Just lie still. There’s an ambulance on the way.”
Her face was swollen two sizes too big, her arms were scratched and bleeding and there was a long gash running across her forehead, possibly made by the cracked flower pot that lay next to her.
Tanner lifted the woman’s head. “Who did this to you?”
“No one. I…fell.”
“Like hell you did! Was it Gaspard?”
She shuddered and closed her eyes without answering.
“I’m looking for Lily Harrison. Do you know where I can find her?”
She didn’t open her eyes or show any indication she could hear his pleas for information. Still he knelt beside her and monitored her pulse and labored breathing until the shrill cry of the sirens pierced the night.
Tanner put his mouth close to her ear one last time as he heard the footsteps of the paramedics approaching. “Do you know a girl named Lily Harrison? She’s British.”
The victim’s eyes fluttered open as if she were trying to focus, then rolled back in her head before closing again.
“One word will do. I’m begging. Do you know where I can find Lily?”
There was no answer. Tanner moved out of the way as the paramedics loaded her onto the gurney. He had his doubts she’d live to see the hospital.
GEORGETTE DELACROIX jerked awake and sat up straight in bed, then grabbed the ringing phone. “Hello.”
“Ms. Delacroix?”
“Yes?”
“This is Amos Keller.”
It took her a second or two to place the name. “The ambulance driver?”
“Yes, ma’am. You asked me to call you if I picked up another beating victim who appeared to be a prostitute.”
Her pulse quickened. “Yes. Did you?”
“Yes, ma’am. Picked her up in a courtyard on Chartres Street.”
“How long ago was that?”
“A few minutes ago, but if you want to see her while she’s still alive, you better hurry down here.”
“I’ll be right there. Thanks for the heads-up on this.”
“Glad to help. Whoever did this deserves to be locked away.”
Georgette threw on a pair of slacks and a white cotton shirt, buttoning it as she slipped her feet into white sandals. After slapping some cold water on her face, she rinsed her mouth with antiseptic mouthwash and ran a brush through her dark hair. Good enough for a predawn trip to the hospital, she decided, not bothering with lipstick.
Twenty minutes later, she was rushing through the emergency ward, looking for someone to point her to the right room. It was always faster than dealing with the admitting nurse and her legalese and protocol.
“Code blue in room twelve. Code blue in room twelve.”
Georgette dodged a nurse wielding a crash cart, then followed her to room 12. A man in jeans and a blue T-shirt stepped out of the room and Georgette slipped past him only to be ushered out by a thin, middle-aged nurse with a no-nonsense expression.
“No visitors. Not now.”
But the quick glimpse Georgette got of the activity in room 12 was enough to know that they were fighting desperately to save the life of a young woman who’d obviously been beaten. The clothes thrown over a hook were a good indicator that the woman had been working the streets.
Georgette had no firm evidence to back up her suspicion that the skinny, weasel-looking pimp with hair that looked like black wire dipped in axle grease was responsible for this, but odds were that he was. All she needed was one breathing, talking, witness to help her take Maurice Gaspard to trial. Judging from the sounds coming from room 12, she wasn’t likely to get that witness tonight.
She studied the man slouched against the wall opposite her, the man who’d come out of the victim’s room as she’d walked up. A friend? Or one of Gaspard’s flunkies sent to make sure the woman didn’t talk?
Georgette sized him up quickly. Early-to mid-forties. A couple of inches over the six-foot mark. Hard-bodied. Thick, dark brown hair that could use cutting. A defiant stance.
“What happened to your friend?” she asked, nodding toward the closed door to room 12.
“She’s not my friend.”
“So why are you here?”
“I stumbled on her in the French Quarter after someone had beaten the hell out of her. I called the ambulance.”
“And then you followed it to the hospital?”
“Are you a cop?”
“No.” She put out a hand, “I’m Georgette Delacroix, a prosecutor with the District Attorney’s office.”
“You’re working a little after office hours, aren’t you?”
“I was hoping to see the patient before she…”
“Before she dies. You can say the word. It’s pretty obvious she’s fighting for her life in there.”
“I know. I sincerely hope she makes it.”
“Yeah.”
The door to room 12 opened and the doctor appeared. “Is anyone here with the patient?”
Georgette stepped up.
“I’m sorry,” the doctor said. “We did all we could, but we lost her. She had massive internal hemorrhaging and severe toxic shock. Basically, her body just shut down.”
“Were there bullet wounds?” Georgette asked.
“No. She’d been hit over the head with a blunt object and severely beaten. I’m sure the police will do a full investigation. We’ll need someone to stick around and give them and the hospital some identifying information on the expired patient.”
“I’m afraid I’m as in the dark about that as you are.” Georgette introduced herself and looked around for the man who’d been standing there a few seconds earlier. He was halfway down the hall, hurrying to the exit. She excused herself and chased after him.
“I’d like to ask you a couple of questions,” she said, when she caught up with him.
“Ask away,” he said, not slowing his pace.
“Did the victim say anything to you when you found her?”
“Yeah. She begged me not to hit her again. Evidently she was too out of it to realize I wasn’t the guy who’d attacked her.”
“Exactly where did you find the body?”
“In a courtyard on Chartres Street, river side, a couple of blocks off Esplanade.”
“Do you live in that area?”
“No.”
“Work there?”
“No. I was looking for someone. I found the victim instead.”
“Did she mention her own name or anyone else’s name?”
“No.”
“Look, I don’t know why you were down there this time of the night, and right now I don’t really care. I’m not trying to prosecute you for soliciting or buying illegal drugs. I just need evidence to put the guy responsible for killing that young woman in jail.”
“Isn’t that the police’s job?”
“Of course, but…”
“But you think you can do a better job of this than they can.”
She exhaled sharply, venting her frustration. “I do my job a little differently than some prosecutors, but I’m not trying to usurp the NOPD’s authority or responsibility. I would like to have your name, just so I can contact you again if more questions come to mind.”
“It doesn’t matter how many questions come to mind. I’ve told you everything I know.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a business card. “But you can reach me at work if you want to waste your time. Crescent City Transports. The name and number’s on the card.”
She reached out her hand to take the card. His fingers brushed hers and she was hit by a jolt that all but sucked her breath away. She dropped her hand, and the card fluttered to the floor as images played in her mind with dizzying force.
A young blond woman, face bruised, her hands and feet tied, her eyes red and swollen. And scared—very, very scared.
“Are you okay?”
The voice cut through the images, and Georgette forced herself to focus on the man standing in front of her. “What did you say?”
“You look as if you’re about to pass out. Do you want me to get a doctor?”
“No, I’ll be fine. I guess I’ve just overdone it a bit lately. Sometimes I forget to eat and my blood-sugar level dips.” That was a lie, but she’d used it before. It was far more believable than the truth.
“Can I give you a lift home?”
“No. I’ll go to the snack area and get some juice from the vending machine. I’ll be fine after that.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I am.”
She watched him walk away, still troubled by the force of the vision and the fact that it was somehow associated with the man who claimed to have just stumbled over a dying prostitute in a deserted courtyard.
The gift. That’s what her mother called it when the psychic images took over her mind. Some gift. More like a curse from Lucifer.
She’d spent half her life trying to deny it, the other half trying to escape it. The old ways belonged to her mother and her grandmother before that. They were part of the world of chants, spells and hexes, and they had no role in the life of a junior prosecutor for the New Orleans District Attorney’s office.
Still, the image preyed on her mind. She reached into the pocket of her jacket to search for the card the man had given her, then saw it on the floor by her shoe. She stooped and picked it up. The apprehension hit again, but this time without the visions or the physical impact she’d felt when their hands had touched.
Tanner Harrison. Crescent City Transports, on Tchoupitoulas Street. The guy could be as innocent as he said, but she had a very strong suspicion that he wasn’t.
The gift was often confusing, but it never lied.
TANNER DIDN’T go back to the French Quarter that night. Instead he crawled behind the wheel of his sports car and drove back to his apartment, three third-floor rooms in an aging mansion on Napoleon Street. Like him, the house had seen better days.
There was no way he’d get the victim out of his mind tonight, no way he could forget the fear in her eyes when she’d begged him not to hit her again. His Lily was out there somewhere, likely facing that same kind of fear. She might have already been beaten like that, might even be…
No. He’d told Georgette Delacroix to come right out and say the word, but when it was Lily he was talking about, he couldn’t even think it. He couldn’t begin to understand what had possessed his daughter to fly to New Orleans and take up a life on the streets, but according to his ex, this was all Tanner’s fault.
In all likelihood, it was.
The guilt settled into a gnawing pain as his thoughts shifted to Georgette Delacroix. One minute she’d been firing questions at him, the next she’d looked as if she was in some kind of trance.
She didn’t look, talk or act like an attorney, at least none that he’d ever had dealings with. He’d guess her age as early thirties, and she was tall and shapely, with cold black hair that fell to her shoulders. It was her eyes that had really gotten to him, though. Dark as night, mesmerizing when she’d questioned him, haunting when she’d looked as if she might pass out on him. She was elegant, but exotic—a dangerous combination any way you cut it.
Whatever. Georgette Delacroix was not his problem and he hoped he’d never have to see her again.
GEORGETTE SAT at her desk staring at Tanner Harrison’s card and wishing she’d never met the man or even touched that card. It had been three days since the night she’d encountered Tanner in the hallway at Charity Hospital. Three days since she’d first seen the images of the young woman and felt her fear and desperation.
The images had hit several times since then, appearing at the most inconvenient of times—in a meeting with the D.A., while she was taking a deposition, and in chambers with Judge Colbert this morning. Fortunately they hadn’t been as intense as they’d been at the hospital, but they had been powerful enough to make her lose her train of thought and appear less than totally competent.
Tanner Harrison was somehow connected to the woman in the images. Georgette was certain of that, though she was sure of nothing else. For all she knew, the woman with her hands and feet tied and the woman who’d died in examining room 12 could be one and the same.
Or the woman in the visions could still be fighting for her life. The next victim. The possibility stewed in Georgette’s mind, taking over her concentration until it was useless even to think of writing the brief she’d started a half dozen times over the last few days.
Tanner Harrison, innocent employee of Crescent City Transports? Or, Tanner Harrison, lynch man for the mob? Murderer of young women who crossed the lines Gaspard drew in invisible ink?
She picked up the card and felt a cold, frightening shudder slither along her spine. To play this safe and according to protocol, she should take her fears to the police.
But what would she tell them? That she saw visions? That some unnamed woman was calling to her for help? Let that get back to her boss and District Attorney Sebastion Primeaux would fire her before she could open her mouth to deny it.
But neither could Georgette go on like this. So, it was field-trip time. She’d pay a surprise call on Tanner Harrison, but this time she’d stay in full control while she questioned him. A junior prosecutor on her way up should never have her equilibrium shaken in public.
Georgette planned to make it to the very top of the heap.
