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An ugly picture is starting to develop, and I don’t like how this puzzle is piecing itself together. I make a note to pull all the cases Maddox was appointed to before I jot down all the lawyers’ names and relieve them of my company.
I meet Carson at the door. “Looks like our vic was a high dollar call girl,” he says as we exit the bar. “At least, that’s what I gathered from the bartender. Once he recognized her in the pic with some rich lawyer, he claimed she catered to big names in the city.”
A prostitute murdered—or possibly an accidental death, according to Avery—and dumped in the alley where her possible rich clients frequent.
There’s too many possibilities, too many weak theories in that scenario, and not enough substantial evidence to make a case. Without a murder weapon, we’re just pissing in the wind. And that stank breeze is blowing around a lot of key players.
Which never ends well.
“We need to have our shit in order before we take this to Wexler,” I say. I click the key fob and open my car door, turn toward Carson. “I want files on Maddox. Keep any investigation into him low-key. If the press gets word of this—”
“I got it.” Carson holds up a hand. “These upper crust douchebags will make the department look like idiots.”
“That would be the least painful consequence,” I mutter as I climb into my Crown Vic.
I sit for a minute and watch Carson track back through the alley toward his car. When I see his taillights fade, I pull onto the main road, confident I’m making yet another mistake.
But with where my career is heading, what difference does one more make?
* * *
Avery’s porch light is on. The lights inside are off, but the glow of the TV pulses against the drawn shades. I should wait until tomorrow. There’s no new evidence, not really, and she was exhausted earlier.
I should back out of her driveway.
But I don’t. The state she was in last night has me con
cerned. And so here I am, watching her house. Making sure she’s safe. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I sit here sipping a fresh cup of coffee at nearly ten o’clock at night. Staring at her windows, checking for signs of life. Like a fucking stalker.
I groan and shift in my seat, setting the cup inside the holder. This was easier when I had a legitimate excuse, like visiting her in the hospital. What the hell am I doing here now?
I grip the door handle, deciding that I do have new evidence to present. Avery can confirm if the vic was a pro. There are telltale signs that every prostitute exhibits; drawbacks of the job. Prostitution has its own occupational hazards.
And if our vic was a pro, that’s going to open up a huge investigation into her johns. I should get started on that right away. Get ahead of the press.
I’ve made my decision and am slowly making my way up the front porch when the door opens. I stop on the third step, shove my hands into my pockets.
“Quinn? What the hell?”
Avery stands in the doorway, a black silky-thing of a robe draped around her body. Her blond hair is pulled up in one of those messy buns, loose wisps falling around her eyes and shoulders. I get a glimpse of her legs through the cracked doorway, and have to force my gaze up to meet her eyes—which are glaring at me something fierce.
I clear my throat. “Had a break in the case,” I say, which is a clear exaggeration for what Carson and I uncovered. “Thought we could go over a couple of things before tomorrow. Get a jump on—”
“You’re so full of it.” She shakes her head. “A break in the case, huh.”
“Yes.”
Her deep brown eyes don’t waver. “And just how is this case any different than the others?” At my obvious loss to her question, she clarifies. “You’ve never shown up at my house in the middle of the night before. Actually, you’ve never shown up at my house ever. Even when we were working the serial murders,” she says, glancing down before lifting her gaze to mine again. “Go home, Quinn.”
Her harsh assessment stings, but it’s dead on. This isn’t about the case. I’m not entirely sure what it’s about…but the case hasn’t brought me to her door tonight.
“Sorry to have bothered you.” I step down, ready to end my humiliation, when the signs stop my retreat. Fresh makeup. Not worn or removed, like someone getting ready for bed. Dangly, silver earrings showing through her loose tresses, and a bra strap peeking from beneath the robe.
I might be clueless when it comes to women in general, but I’m not completely blind. I knew when Jenna was lying, and I don’t need my keen detective instincts to see that Avery is hiding something now.
My mouth pops open to inquire, but a loud noise coming from inside snaps it shut. I’m already marching up the porch and pressing against the wood paneling of the door. “Let me in, Avery.”
Her eyes widen. Whether in fear or hesitancy, I’m not sure. But she’s desperate to keep me from entering. I tower over her and pull my stubborn gaze away from her to stare into the darkened living room where two guys are hustling to get their shit together.
