He raised his hand again when a creaking sound and then steps came from within.
“What you want?” An elderly woman’s voice.
“We’re here to see Ms. Barnett.” Wash and I peered through the high panes, but they were so dirty that all I could make out was the shape of a person.
“What for?” She shuffled closer.
“Just want to talk to her about a tenant.” Wash gave a winning smile (no dimples), though I doubt she could see it.
“You the law?”
“No, ma’am. We’re attorneys. Rowan Ellis is our client.”
“Oh, him. So you sure you ain’t the law?” Her voice had a tremor in it, either from age or some other ailment.
“I’m sure. I’ll give you my card. I’m Wash, and this is my associate Caroline.” He dug his wallet from his back pocket and pulled out a business card. “We sure would like to speak with you.”
He waved his hand in front of the glass. It wasn’t just a business card he’d pulled out. Pressed against it was a crisp hundred-dollar bill.
The lock clicked, and the door swung inward to a gloomy hall. “I’m Lily Barnett. Come on in.” Her watery eyes were glued to the money.
“Thank you. And I promise you’ll get this”—Wash waved the cash before tucking it into his inner suit coat pocket—“before we leave.”
“Well, come on in.” She turned and moved slowly back down the hall, her floral muumuu swinging as she went. There was no sitting room or living room off the hallway, just a line of doors. The whole house appeared to have been converted to bedrooms. It smelled like old grease and something fouler, to the point where I wanted to cover my nose.
She led us past several doors until we came to a kitchen. Dishes were piled high in the sink, and the screen door leading into the backyard clanged as we entered. Someone had just left.
“Who was that?” Wash asked.
“Our cook, George, most likely. Got a warrant out on him. Probably thinks you’re here to pop him. But I ain’t never seen no cops dressed like you two.” She swept her hazy gaze down my body. “Especially not like this one here. Cops don’t wear heels.”
“Very astute, Ms. Barnett.” Wash gave another winning smile.
Ms. Barnett didn’t return it but motioned for us to sit at her kitchen table, the wooden surface marred with divots, burns, and other signs of heavy wear. It and Ms. Barnett both gave the impression of being worn out but still carrying on somehow. She sank down into a metal chair with a vinyl seat, sighing when she was finally off her feet.
Wash sat across from her, and I sat at his elbow before reaching into my bag and clicking on the recorder. She didn’t seem to notice. I drew out my legal pad and placed it on the table, knowing full well it would have sticky spots and grease on it when I left.
“Well, what you want to know?” She pulled a pack of cigarettes from a hidden pocket on her voluminous dress, took one out, and lit it up.
“What can you tell us about Rowan?”
She took a long drag and blew the smoke up, as if her mouth were a chimney or a steam whistle. “He was like all the rest of them here. Messed up. Violent. Surly. Angry at everything and everyone. Paid his rent late.” She shrugged.
“Did you ever see him with women?”
Her eyes darted to me and back to Wash. “A couple. They try to sneak them by me because they know I don’t allow them to get carnal in my house. Besides, if those truck stop trixies from down on Snow Street are going to stay here, they need to pay rent like everyone else. But I don’t rent to women.”
I itched to inform her of the flat-out illegality of her statement. I remained silent. More flies with honey.
“Snow Street?” Wash had slipped into his friendly interrogation mode, leaning back in his chair, one hand on the table, one in his lap—completely at ease.
“Yeah, two blocks over. Truck stop over there is where all the hookers hang around, trying to put their sin on any man who drives up or walks by.” She shook her head and took another drag. Her sallow skin seemed even yellower as she smoked, as if the smoke added an extra layer of age to her wrinkled face.
“You think Rowan picked up some girls there?”
“I think so, yeah.”
“He ever get violent with them that you know of?”
She shifted in her seat with a grunt. “There was one. Ambulance came.”
“When was this?”
“I don’t remember.” She grinned, several teeth missing or crooked. Her gaze moved down to Wash’s front pocket where he’d stowed the money. “I might need some help to get the details right.”
Wash drummed his fingers on the table. “One-fifty. That’s it. Now tell me.”
She took another drag and spoke through the smoke. “Been about six months ago. One of the girls from the truck stop. She’d come with Rowan and that other one, the one with all them tattoos.”
“Who?”
“Graves. Lived in 2B. Rowan lived in 1B. Anyway, Rowan had brought her home with him one night. It was about three in the morning, and the damndest racket woke me up. Screaming and banging. I didn’t investigate. I never do whenever it gets like that. Someone called the cops. I tried to keep them out, but they came on in anyway. Ran up there, found the woman. She’d been hurt pretty bad. Took her out on a stretcher. They arrested Rowan, dragged him down the stairs while he kept yelling he didn’t do nothing, that it was Tyler in 2B.”
“You know the woman’s name?”
“No, and I don’t care to. Women like that don’t belong in my house.”
I stifled my eye roll at the intensity of her hypocrisy—housing murderers and rapists yet looking down her nose at prostitutes.
“I know what you’re thinking, young lady.” She stared at me, and I got the distinct feeling she saw more than she let on. “But there’s a reason I don’t let women room here and don’t want the boys bringing them home. What happened to that poor girl that night is what I’m trying to prevent. These aren’t good men. I know that. But they have to live somewhere when they get out, don’t they? You want them in your neighborhood?” She cackled and snubbed her cigarette out in a cracked ashtray.
Good point.
“Did you tell the cops about that incident?” Wash snagged her attention again, to my relief.
She snorted. “I wouldn’t tell the cops if I was lying on the floor dying and one of them could save me.”
“What hospital did they take her to?”
“I think they said St. Paul’s, but I don’t remember.”
“Any other women for Rowan or Tyler, either one?”
“None that I knew about, but I suspect they brought some, yeah.”
“I take it Tyler doesn’t live here anymore?”
“No. I booted him after that incident. I don’t like cops in my house for no reason. I have enough trouble with them as it is.”
“Any idea where he went when he left?”
“No. Probably living under a bridge somewhere.”
“Was he friends with anyone else here, besides Rowan?”
“Yeah, I seen him talking to Gene. Lives in 3C.” She lit another cigarette.
“Got a last name? He still a tenant?”
“Rourke. He still lives here. If he keeps paying his rent late, not for long.” She took a puff and closed her eyes, as if pulling on the fresh cigarette were the height of her day.
“Is he home now?”
“Maybe.”
“What’s his story?”
“Rapist, thief, drug addict—same as all the rest of them.” She waved her hand, indicating the entirety of her house.
“Anyone else?”
She shrugged and pushed herself up with a labored breath. “I don’t know anything more than what I just told you. Now, I’m going to need you to pay up and get out.”
“I’d like to look at Rowan’s and Tyler’s rooms while we’re here.”
“Cops already looked through Rowan’s. Got a new tenant in there now. Tyler’s ain’
t been leased yet. You can look, but it ain’t free.” She turned on the water as if she were about to do the pile of filthy dishes.
“Two hundred.”
The water turned off just as swiftly as it turned on. “Done.” She fished around in yet another hidden pocket and dug out a key ring. She plucked two keys off the ring and palmed them. “Money first.”
Wash and I rose, and he got his wallet back out and added another hundred to the one he’d already earmarked for her. “What about the tenant in Rowan’s room?”
“He’s day-working someplace. Won’t be back till you’re long gone.” She held out her empty hand.
Wash placed the cash in it and took the keys from her other one. “You have a phone number I can call if I have any more questions for you?”
She turned the water back on. “I have a phone. Look it up in the phone book. Can’t promise I’ll answer if you call.” She looked over her shoulder and grinned. “Probably won’t.”
“Fair enough. Thanks for your help, Ms. Barnett.”
“Just leave them keys next to the front door when you’re done.”
“Will do.” Wash motioned for me to walk ahead of him in the hall. I tucked my notepad under my arm and led the way as Ms. Barnett began singing in an oddly pleasant voice as the clatter of dishes arose at our backs. Her voice must have been beautiful when she was younger, though now it was rough from too many cigarettes.
I took the stairs carefully, some of the steps more creaky than others. They were almost soft, the wood so old or so ill used that it was breaking down.
At the landing of the second floor, a stained, threadbare runner covered the length of the hallway. There were six doors on this floor, each marked with a room number in Sharpie.
“Let’s take Rowan’s first.” Wash approached the door marked 1B and inserted the key. The lock turned with a squeak, and the door swung inward. A musty smell floated into the hall, mixing with the already unpleasant odors that seemed to permeate the house.
Wash felt around on the wall inside until he found a light switch. Mental note: hand sanitizer as soon as we leave. The light was a bare bulb hanging overhead. The windows were covered with some frayed black fabric, almost completely blocking the sun.
Wash moved inside, and I followed. There was an unmade twin bed, a dresser I recognized from the police photos, and a few other pieces of furniture. Whoever was renting the room had meager belongings, just two pairs of shoes and only a few items hanging in the small closet.
“Look around. We probably won’t find anything, but it’s worth a try.” Wash bent down and peered under the bed. He pulled a mini-flashlight from his pocket and clicked it on.
I went to the closet and flipped on the light. There were two simple T-shirts and a couple of pairs of pants. I pushed them aside, not really sure what I was looking for. Then I got to my knees and examined the floor, thinking there could be a Nancy Drew–esque loose board hiding a psycho treasure trove of prostitutes’ fingers. Nope. Nothing. The wooden boards were tight.
“Ow!”
I looked behind me. Wash had a hand in his hair, rubbing his scalp. He was looking right at my ass. He must have hit his head on the bed.
I sat back on my haunches and gave him a “that’s what you get” look before I got to my feet. He stood, too, and went to the bookshelf next to the window, searching it as I took on the dresser, going through it drawer by drawer. I opened and immediately closed the underwear drawer. I wasn’t about to touch some guy’s grubby underwear. I finished my examination. Still nothing.
I peeked behind the mirror and saw a blood smear at the same spot where Rowan’s T-shirt had been stuffed in the police photo.
“Anything?” Wash asked.
“Nope.”
The room was a bust.
Wash checked behind the door for any last-minute clue finds—nothing there—and we left. “Let’s try Tyler’s room.”
We reentered the hallway and stopped so Wash could relock the door. As he turned the key, a shuffling noise caught my attention. I turned. It was coming from the door to 3B, Gene Rourke’s room.
“I think he’s home,” I whispered.
Wash dropped the keys into his pocket and took the few steps to Rourke’s door before knocking. “Mr. Rourke, would you mind speaking with us?”
Only silence. Wash knocked again, louder. “We just want to know about some former neighbors. You aren’t in trouble.”
“If you don’t get the fuck away from my door, you’ll be the one in trouble, motherfucker.” The voice was menacing, and a chill ran down my spine.
Wash tried again. “Mr. Rourke—”
“I said back the fuck up!” Rourke pounded the door as he yelled, rattling it on its hinges.
Suddenly, I had no desire to interview him whatsoever, and took a step back. Wash, unfazed, took a card from his pocket and slipped it under the door. “Call me if you change your mind.”
I stared, not sure whether he was brave or foolish.
He rose and smirked. “I’m used to it. Come on, let’s check Tyler’s room.”
He strode to 2B and unlocked it. I eyed 3B, but thankfully, the door didn’t open. Though I didn’t want to meet Gene Rourke, he’d done more than enough to add himself to my list of possible Bayou Butcher suspects. I’d find out all about him—but from a safe distance.
“Ready?” Wash asked and gripped the door handle.
“Lets see what’s behind door number two,” I said with my best game-show-host intonation.
The corner of Wash’s lips quirked a bit. Gotcha.
Tyler’s room was a little larger than Rowan’s but emptier. The bed was stripped down to just a mattress, and the dresser drawers hung half open. The windows were framed with dingy floral curtains that let in a decent amount of light. I’d stared at the few pictures I had of Tyler, mostly mug shots, trying to figure out if his close-set eyes were those of a killer. I tried to imagine him here in this room, shuffling around or playing with knives, or reading the newest issue of the Sociopath Gazette.
Wash hit the floor and inspected under the bed as I went to the closet again. Bare wire hangers and some dust bunnies were all I saw. I stomped around a bit in my heels, looking for the secret compartment again. No dice. Again. I stood on tiptoe to see if anything was on the closet shelf. I saw something brown in the far back corner.
I stretched up and reached for it, my fingers barely touching whatever it was.
“Let me.” Wash was at my back, his body pressed into mine as he brushed my hand with his and grabbed what turned out to be a small brown paper bag.
I relaxed back down into my heels and ignored the fire along my skin his nearness caused. My ass was against his upper thighs, and all I could think of was how close his cock was to me, how easy it would be for him to lock the door and throw me down and—Focus.
His breath tickled through my hair. “What do we have here?”
The bag crinkled in his hand as he brought it down.
“Somebody forgot his lunch?” Why did my voice have to quaver and give me away?
“Could be.” He took our prize to the dresser. “But I’m hoping it’s something a little more sinister.”
I followed him, trying to calm myself. “Like hooker fingers?”
“Yes, something like that.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of gloves. I still wasn’t creeped out, just impressed.
He pulled them on and opened the bag. Gripping the bottom, he dumped out the contents instead of reaching inside. Smart. Could be needles or something worse in there. I held my breath as the contents spilled out.
“What the hell?” I cocked my head to the side.
“Definitely not hooker fingers.” Wash picked up one of the small, carved wooden pieces, seven of them total in the bag and nothing more.
“That one looks like a mongoose or something? Maybe like a ferret?”
“It’s a fox, Ms. Montreat.” He put the piece down and picked up another.
&nb
sp; “What’s that one? Looks kind of like a bird.”
“This”—he twirled it in his fingers—“is an egret, I believe.”
“Yeah, an egret’s a bird.”
“Well done, Ms. Montreat. I’ll call the bar the moment we leave and tell them about your spectacular lawyering abilities.” His lips quirked, and I couldn’t decide if I wanted to kiss him or hit him. This was a problem.
He went through the rest of the pieces—a snake, a rabbit (could have been a cat), a deer, a wolf (could have been a hyena), and a bear.
“So, call me crazy, but I don’t think these are made of human bones or anything, so what the hell are they?”
“Luke said he came from a long line of woodworkers.”
“Right, the desk. So, maybe Tyler is a whittler in his spare time or something? Family tradition and all that?”
Wash picked up the wolf (hyena), clicked on his flashlight, and aimed it at the wood. “Maybe, but, unless I’m mistaken, each of these tokens has been stained with blood. See?” He flipped it over and shone the light on a divot in the bottom. The natural wood was clearly a light maple or something similar. But the rest was stained a dark rust.
“What makes you think it’s blood?”
He held it up to my nose. “Take a sniff.”
I tentatively inhaled. Copper and something sickly. I stepped back. “Okay. I’m convinced. And, for the record, that’s fucked up.”
He clicked off his flashlight and stuffed the tokens back into the bag. “Excellent analysis.” He handed me the bag. “Hide that, would you?”
I stuffed it into my purse, cringing at the thought of human blood stored inside my Kate Spade. Wash gave the room one more sweep before we left, locking the door behind us, and left the keys next to the front door on our way out. Ms. Barnett was nowhere to be seen, but the scent of cigarette smoke lingered. She couldn’t have been far.
Stepping outside was like being reborn. I took a few deep breaths of air, finally free from the closeness and stench of the halfway house. I felt like I needed a shower. Wash helped me across the broken walk and even opened my car door for me. I sank inside and gave the house one more look before we pulled away from the curb.
Hardass (Bad Bitch) Page 10