I nodded and my hair fell forward, knotted in a half bun, bead free. I had forgotten to take the stone and plastic beads out before I shifted. Dang. Now I’d have to round them up out of the dirt. “So it is,” I said.
“You weren’t here last night.” When I didn’t answer, he said, “I knocked. Walked around. The bike was in the back, I could see it through the gate. But there were no lights on, no sound or indication of movement. You weren’t here.”
It wasn’t a question so I didn’t answer; it wasn’t quite an accusation, but it was close. This Joe was paying entirely too much attention to me and I had to wonder why. I was pretty sure he hadn’t fallen in love with me at first sight when I motored by him yesterday. I let a small smile start and he went on, a hint of amusement now in his eyes.
“When I checked with Tom, he said you had disabled all Katie’s security cameras. In eight minutes flat.” He knew Troll. More interesting. I quirked a brow, his amusement grew, and he said, “Tom said you gave him a nickname, but he wouldn’t tell me what.”
“You got a point, waking me from my nap?” I asked.
“Yeah. Let’s go for a late lunch. You can call Tom for an intro. Fair warning, though. He’ll tell you I’m trouble.”
I rested a hip against the door and considered. Whoever he was, he knew Troll, which made him a local boy; I needed someone with local contacts and connections, and it wasn’t too early in the investigation to start cultivating sources. With his looks and cocky attitude, I pegged him for a bad boy with associations in all the wrong places, making him perfect for the job. And even bad boys have to eat. “What do you have in mind?”
“Crawfish, hush puppies, beer. Salads if you want ’em,” he added, but sounding as if salads were an afterthought. Something he included because girls liked them.
“I’ve never had crawfish.”
“So?” He drew out the word, waiting.
“You got a name?”
“Rick LaFleur.”
“Walking or bikes?”
“Walk. I’ll show you the Quarter. Or part of it.”
I’d seen the Quarter last night, but I nodded anyway. “I’ll get dressed.” I pushed the door and the Joe’s hand caught it, holding it open two inches. I could see more of the tat, four points just above the bloody globes. And another tat on the other shoulder. Black and gray.
“You’re not going to ask me in?”
“Nope.”
“Kinda blunt, aren’t you. Fine. How long?”
“Ten minutes, tops.” Rick’s brows went up in disbelief. This time when I pushed the door, he didn’t try to hold it. He musta wanted to keep his fingers.
I dialed Katie’s Ladies, and when a sleepy-sounding female answered, I asked for Tom. Like Rick promised, Troll labeled him trouble, but then offered more. Rick LaFleur was his nephew, a good kid gone bad. Went to Tulane, got a degree, then went to work for a scumbag as muscle for hire. When his new boss went to jail for tax fraud, Rick started doing odd jobs: unofficial security, protection gigs, strong-arm stuff, and some low-level security jobs for the vampire community, Katie especially. He knew people. He had skills usually cultivated by thugs and thieves. Perfect for my needs. Troll suggested I stay away from Rick. I told him I’d take his recommendation under advisement.
Hanging up, I brushed my teeth and hair and dressed in yesterday’s jeans, a tank top, and my one pair of sandals in four minutes. No weapons. Not in broad daylight. Not in heat like this. I slashed on a swish of lipstick. Red. War paint, of a sort.
I opened the door and pulled it closed behind me, locking it. Standing on the empty stoop, I saw Rick across the street. His bike was in the shade of a low tree and he was chaining it to the trunk. He stood in surprise, tossed his keys and caught them, tucked them in a pocket. I couldn’t see his eyes behind the lenses, but I was pretty sure he was looking me over again.
I pulled my hair back and tied it in a ponytail. The ends hung lower than my hips, curling, kinking in the humidity. I had straight black hair. No curl. Not ever. Not even after I brushed the braids out. Until now. The day was wet and hot. Hotter than I’d ever felt it. And it wasn’t even full summer.
My stomach growled. I pulled on sunglasses and stepped into the street, meeting him halfway. “Rick, your great-uncle said you were full of unrealized potential and info,” I said.
He quirked a half grin, amused by my blunt manner. “A blight on the family name,” he agreed. “And you’re Jane Yellowrock. The out-of-town talent.”