A Father's Duty. Joanna Wayne
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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