by Maria Luis
“Next!”
I stepped up to the counter at Café Vieux Carre, and promptly swallowed a groan when I saw it was Sarah at the register. Her eyes were bloodshot—tears, not weed, if I had to guess—and she looked like she’d just rolled straight out of bed.
Putting it bluntly, she looked like hell.
“Mornin’, Sarah.” I paused, waiting for her usual flirtatious greeting and, because I was still riding on the high of sex with Avery all night, tried to be nice. “You doing okay?”
Her ponytail slashed through the air as she angrily twisted around, already grabbing a Styrofoam cup from its stack. “I’m just fine.”
Oh, Jesus.
Even I knew what “fine” meant—as did the guy behind me in line. He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “Fuck that,” and then hightailed it out the front door. Smart man. If I didn’t have to be here this morning, I’d do the same thing.
With a hard clang! Sarah dumped new coffee grinds into the machine, and then shoved the cup into the appropriate spot. “Milk?” she snapped, hand on her hip as she faced me.
“Uh . . .” My gaze darted to the left and then to the right. No one seemed to be noticing the café’s barista having a meltdown. Either they were oblivious or had already received her special treatment for the day and were determined to keep their heads down and out of sight. Wish I could do the same. “Yeah, milk’s great. I’ll take the usual.”
As if I ever chose something else besides a café au lait.
Bending at the waist, Sarah flashed me her jean-clad ass and yanked open the mini-fridge.
Yup, something bad was about to happen, and I checked behind me and counted the number of steps it’d take for me to escape. Six. But only if I wasn’t running.
“Here’s your milk, Sergeant.”
I whipped around just in time to see her pour soy milk into my coffee. My eyes went wide when she didn’t stop pouring, and the coffee that should have been toffee in color was suddenly looking like shit that had just been pumped out of a cow’s udder.
She slammed the carton down on the counter, and the coffee splattered over the lip of the cup. Palm out for my debit card, she said, “I hope it’s as weak as Marco’s dick.”
Halfway wanting to protest paying for what had to be the shittiest coffee in the city, I pulled out my wallet and handed over the card anyway. “Guessin’ y’all went on a date and it didn’t go well?”
“Didn’t go well?” Sarah’s brows furrowed together. “His dick was as big as this straw.” She pointed to the straw in question, and I winced.
I opened my mouth. “Not everyone can be—”
“He’s overcompensating. Five daiquiri shops. Literally, who the hell needs five? You try one slushy, you’ve tried them all.”
It probably wasn’t the best time to tell her that the daiquiri shops were just a front for passing drugs through the city. She waved her hand around as she continued her rant, my debit card clutched between her fingers, and I made a quick dodge of my hand to snap it out of her grasp.
I missed the first time. Snagged it on the second.
Shoved the bastard into my wallet and picked up my mutilated coffee.
“You have a good day now, Sarah.”
“I bet you have a small dick, too, if you’re friends with him!” she shouted at my back. “It’s the small dicks club!”
“What the hell have you been joining since I suspended you, Ash?”
Fuck. As if the morning wasn’t going just fantastically shitty already.
Swinging my head toward the direction of my lieutenant’s voice, I watched his approach with a sip of my coffee. Nearly came up choking when I tasted how awful it was.
When Stefan Delery was less than a foot away, I muttered, “How badly do you feel about booting me off the force?”
His mustache twitched. “First,” he grunted, “you’re suspended, not fired. I’m not interested in getting the union involved in this shit. Second, not bad at all. It’s been fucking sunshine and rainbows showing up to work without having to see your mean mug.”
Yeah, I was going to ignore all of that. “Great. For the greater cause, get me something else.” I dumped the cup into the closest garbage can. “You don’t want me having this conversation without coffee, and I sure as hell can’t go up there again.”
He glanced past me toward the register. “Don’t tell me you fucked her, man.”
I’d been coming here for years and had never given her a second glance. And now that I was all wrapped up—literally—in Avery . . . yeah, that ship was never sailing. Not a chance in hell.
“Nah. Set her up on a date with Marco Carvino. Turns out the man’s loaded in every place but his pants.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“So’s my coffee that was just subjected to soy milk.” I clapped him on the shoulder. “Café au lait, large. I’ll even smile for you when you hand it over.”
Not wanting to give him the chance to turn me down, I was out the front door in six steps and taking a seat at one of the outdoor picnic tables in ten. My back to the café, I slipped my sunglasses on my face and watched the street. If I’d had the opportunity to have this conversation at the station, I would have, but with my suspension still looming over my head, there wasn’t any other choice.
L-T was weird about meeting at people’s apartments, and rarely—aka never—allowed others to visit his house.
So, we were doing this shit here, and all I could do was hope that no one overheard.
The door to the coffee shop swung open, and Delery ambled over, two coffee cups in hand. He slid one over to me with a dry, “Soy for you,” and didn’t even blink twice when I flashed him the bird and took a small sip.
It went down smoothly, albeit scorching its way down my throat, and I nodded in satisfaction.
“What’re we doing here?” Delery took the bench opposite mine and clasped his cup between his hands. “You know we’re not even supposed to be talking right now.”
We both knew I had the upper hand in this situation. Maybe in the walls of the precinct, Stefan Delery reigned superior, but we weren’t on NOPD property. And the shit I had for him was completely off the books anyway.
Months of work in the making.
Years, if you counted the time that I’d been making moves without the New Orleans Police Department behind me—and even when they had, I’d always skirted the line of illegal. Rank like Delery turned a blind eye when I got them the results they wanted. But this sort of break . . . it could change things. Hell, it could change everything.
And then Avery would be free.
She hadn’t asked for a savior, and it wasn’t like I had a damn halo above my head—but involving her in this would mean setting aside years of my life and taking a damn breath of my own.
Just like her, I was ready to live.
Reaching into the inner pocket of my jacket, I cast another glance toward the street and then slipped a small notebook from its sleeve. I dropped it on the table, thumbing it open to reveal a folded sheet of paper.
“Look at that,” I said, then took another pull of my drink.
I waited, stomach clenched, for my lieutenant to palm it flat.
His surprise registered in the twitch of his mustache. “You have a point in showing me the obituary for the mayor’s stepdaughter?” He rubbed his jawline. Tugged on his right ear. “Jesus, that was some sad shit.”
Guilt thrived in my veins like I’d taken a shot of a depressant, and I purposely distracted myself by flipping to the next page of the notebook. Withdrawing the ID from where I’d quickly stashed it this morning, I slid it over to Delery. “Notice anything?”
Fingers to the laminated plastic, my lieutenant dragged the ID closer and peered down at it. “Avery Washington.” He glanced up at me. “Am I supposed to recognize her name?”
My gut told me I was overstepping boundaries here. Not even overstepping—leaping.
You have the chance to save her
while keeping her safe.
Up until three weeks ago, I wouldn’t have questioned my decision. When you cared for little, not a damn thing mattered. I did my job, just like I had, once, for Ambideaux. At least this one was closer to the state line of being legal. But with Avery to consider . . . shit, no more second-guessing.
It was the right move.
It had to be the right move.
Clearing my throat, I nodded my head toward the ID. “It’s one of Rafael’s,” I muttered, referring to the tech whiz over on Basin who was known for making fake ID’s, to say nothing of the crazy sort of magic he wielded over the internet. “You stare at enough of those like I have in the past, and you start to recognize the small details.”
Like the extra space he added after the person’s birthdate.
And the hologram that was a damn near replica to the real Louisiana ID but was off . . . just enough for someone like me to notice.
“Ignore the dark hair, Stefan. Look at her face.”
Sitting in my SUV after commandeering one of Avery’s “spare” ID’s from her wallet, and dropping her off at her apartment, it was hard to believe I’d been such an idiot. How had I not spotted the similarities before? The green ring around her hazel eyes and the defiant set to her chin, and a myriad of other small quirks that were intrinsically hers.
Maybe because you didn’t want to.
Delery’s mouth dropped open. “Ash, you’re not saying that . . .”
Don’t do this to her. Don’t expose her.
I swatted the thoughts away like a fly getting smacked into nonexistence.
Elbows on the table, I spoke, voice low. “It’s her. I know it’s her, which means this shit with Foley can finally be put to rest.”
Delery’s gaze went back and forth between the obituary picture and then the ID. “You think she’ll testify?”
“To the fact that her stepfather has got a sick fetish for underage girls? Why the fuck wouldn’t she testify?”
It was the reason Ambideaux had sent me to murder her, after all. What better way to strike back than to take out the one person your enemy prized most of all? There was no better way. Me going after Avery at thirteen was like cutting Foley off at the knees. If any of my investigations over the last few years had proven anything, it was that he liked them young and innocent. Avery had been that way, perfect pickings for a man like the mayor.
And it was the reason I’d spent the last number of years working underground in this city I called home. Tailing leads, talking to all manner of girls who’d found themselves connected to my bastard father in some way.
And sometimes, the rage got a little too much to handle. Sometimes it wasn’t Foley’s victims I came across but other juveniles who’d been dealt an unlucky hand of fate. And, sometimes, I voluntarily chose to do what I do best and take out the predators—I wasn’t a modern-day Robin Hood by any stretch of the imagination. Had never wished to be someone else’s hero.
But when you split your time between working the beat with your coworkers and then living in the trenches with the vilest humans the world had to offer, being a little trigger-happy wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
Not if it let someone else breathe a little easier when they went to sleep at night.
And even if it carved another sin into my rapidly growing tally.
Delery sat back, the ID in one hand and the obituary in the other. “I’m not going to lie to you, Ash. If this . . . Miss Washington doesn’t come forward with solid proof, I’m not sure how much longer the NOPD can have your back on this.”
My mouth curled in a sneer. “Christ, do you hear yourself, Stefan?” I planted a hand down on the notebook. “Don’t be like every other pussy in this department, bending over to take it up the ass. He’s a mayor. He’s not fucking God.”
My lieutenant swallowed. “You know Harlonne’s in his back pocket. You know how hard it’s been for me to keep this on the down low when no one’s willing to go against the prick—at least, not until he’s out of office.”
Fury boiled deep in my gut as I pushed my chair onto its hind legs and tried to rein in my temper. Exploding on my boss wouldn’t do me any good—not for keeping my job and absolutely not for landing Foley in prison. Let him be someone else’s bitch and see how much he liked it.
Air pumped into my lungs as I inhaled deep. Be calm, man.
“So, what you’re saying is, I can either convince Avery to testify or I’m shit out of luck on this. Even with all the other evidence I’ve gathered.”
“You don’t have evidence when those girls won’t repeat to a judge what they told you. What they wouldn’t even tell you over a damn audio recorder because they’re terrified of the consequences. You’ve got stories, Sergeant. Grotesque, ugly stories told to you on street corners in the dead of night, but nothing more.”
It all boiled down to Avery, and wasn’t that the true irony in this situation?
When she’d spoken of Foley, she hadn’t mentioned abuse. It was possible he hadn’t messed with her yet, just biding his time until she was ripe enough to pluck off the proverbial tree branch.
And she’d been a virgin . . . until you.
Delery sipped his coffee, then wiped a hand across his mouth. “You’ve been a cop for a real long time, Lincoln. You’re a good one. A damn good one. But you know what’ll work and what won’t. You’re too close to this case to even be remotely objective anymore. There’s not enough evidence.”
Head pounding with undiluted frustration, I slammed the notebook shut. “Sometimes, I think the reason this ‘case’ hasn’t gone anywhere is because none of you want it to.”
My lieutenant slid the obituary and ID across the table. “For whatever reason, you’ve got a vendetta against the man. I don’t like him—never have. But I know my place and I like my job. Not everyone’s you, Sergeant. Not everyone cares.”
He made it sound like I wore my heart on my sleeve.
That couldn’t be further from the truth. Hell, the only person I’d even come close to sharing any part of myself with was Avery, the one woman I had to convince to come clean and not kill her stepfather, so that all the work I’d done for years could finally be done.
She wasn’t the only one running.
She wasn’t the only one whose life had been brutally torn in half by the man running this city.
But she was the only one who had complete power to end it all—for good.
17
Avery
University students were everywhere—and I did mean everywhere.
The good news: Pershing University was equipped with maps throughout the campus, which meant that it should be easy to navigate my way to the head administration building.
The bad news: there was some sort of sporting event happening today. I’d never seen so many bare chests with letters painted in green across their lanky forms.
A P stumbled his way into my line of sight, the paint on his chest half washed away as he shook a water bottle then dumped it over the top of his head. “Fuck yeah!” he hollered, throwing the bottle into the crowd.
It bounced off a girl’s head some seven feet away.
I’d always thought I’d missed out on the whole college experience, but one glance at the chaos around me told me maybe I was the one who’d ended up getting lucky.
You’re way too old for this.
In terms of years, maybe not so much.
Based on life experience, I might as well have arthritis, a cane, and a tomb picked out at one of the city’s notorious aboveground cemeteries.
“Excuse me,” I muttered, giving up all pretense of playing nice. I palmed a guy’s shoulder and shoved him roughly to the side. Slipped into the next open pocket within the crowd—and then repeated the process until I was nose-to-one-of-the-campus-maps, trying to determine exactly where I stood in relation to the admin offices.
Pershing University was seated in the center of New Orleans’ Uptown neighborhood, right on the streetcar line that s
tarted in the French Quarter and cut through the city. Unlike the campuses I saw on TV, Pershing wasn’t massive in acreage but more jam-packed into a centralized area, its perimeter flirting with surrounding residential homes.
My gaze tracked my location—the quad by the main dining hall—and then followed through to my end destination. Not far, maybe a five minute walk.
With one glance at the mayhem happening on the quad, I turned my back on the campus party and stepped on the pebbled pathway. Limestone buildings reached toward the sky on my left, and what had to be the smoothest street in the city graced my right.
Pershing was beautiful—if only its president wasn’t a total kidnapping prick.
By the time I climbed up the front steps and then rode the elevator to the third floor, I was sweating under my armpits, and the unease once again began to cling to my confidence. Visiting Big Hampton was a bold move, albeit an unexpected one. I hoped.
A bell jangled up above as I pushed open the glass door and stepped into the seating room. Luxurious artwork covered the walls, and potted plants sat atop every small table.
The receptionist’s head jerked up at my entrance, and a wide smile spread across her face. “Oh! Hello, dear.” She pushed the glasses that were perched on her nose up to the top of her head. “Do you have an appointment with one of our counselors?”
Luckily, I’d thought ahead.
Closing the distance from the door to the front desk, I smiled down at the woman, taking note of her nametag. “Hi there, Ms. Betty. I actually called earlier this morning? About the article that I’m doing for the Times-Picayune?”
Snapping her fingers, she exclaimed, “Ah, right! Yes, yes. Ms. Samantha Lovelace. Yes, I’m so sorry. I’ve got you all marked down for your appointment with Mr. Hampton.” She tapped a finger to her nose, staring at the expanse of her messy desk, and then snapped up a sheet from the far-right corner. “Here we go. He’s expecting you—2 p.m., right on the dot.”