“I won’t.”
She gazed at him a moment, uncertain if she believed him, then motioned the door. “You gonna use that key, or what?”
A moment later, they were inside. Martin Ritchie had not been what you’d call organized. The place was a pigsty.
They made their way further into the room, a suite concept: bedroom and bath, a small living room, bar area with mini-fridge and microwave.
Micki decided the place gave pigsties a bad name. Fast food wrappers and cartons littered every surface. A Popeye’s Fried Chicken box with the remnants of the meal still in it, a pizza box growing something fuzzy and green, near empty beer bottles Ritchie had used as an ashtray. Disgusting.
She looked at Harris. “If I was going to sell drugs for a living, I’d do it to afford the good life. Not to live like . . . this. Just sayin’”
“No joke. Bedroom or bathroom?”
She made a face. “Give me another choice.”
“Sorry, I’m clean out.”
She chose the bedroom. Her search of it turned up nothing of investigative value: no drugs, weapons, little black book of names. Nothing.
Zach poked his head out of the bathroom. “Take a look at this, Mick.”
“What the hell,” she said, stepping into the room. It was spotless. Even the towel hanging over the shower rod was perfectly folded.
“Marty used it as his office. Check it out.” He opened the cabinet under the sink. A small safe: scale, adding machine, plastic bag, the whole shebang.
Her cell phone went off. “Dare,” she answered.
“Where the hell are you?”
Hollister. Coroner’s detective. “Hello to you, too. A few blocks away. The vic’s residence.”
“That’s unusual, detective.”
She glanced at her partner. He was staring intently at the safe. “You have no idea. Start your thing, we’ll be there ASAP.”
She re-holstered her phone. “That was the coroner’s man. He’s waiting at the scene.”
She squatted down beside Zach. The safe had a classic combination lock. She reached for it.
“Don’t touch that!”
She looked at him, startled. “What’s up? Marty wasn’t the brightest bulb, I doubt it’s booby-trapped. It might not even be locked.”
“It is. Locked.”
“All-righty then.” She sat back on her heels. “What’s your plan?”
“To open it.” At her frown, he added, “Combination locks have a memory.”
“A memory?”
“And I have really sensitive fingertips.” He held them up and wiggled them. “It’s like magic.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Even with gloves on?”
“Crap. Right, gloves.” He dug them out of his jacket pocket, fitted them on, then flexed his fingers. “I hope these babies still work.”
“You didn’t explore this during your training?”
“Can’t train for everything.”
Micki bit back the retort that jumped to her lips, and watched as he placed the fingers of his right hand lightly on the wheel. He closed his eyes and sat unmoving for long enough that she wanted to push his hand away and give the wheel a spin herself. Finally, eyes still closed, he slowly turned the wheel to the right, one full revolution, then another. He stopped, then spun it smoothly to left for a full revolution, then again to the right.
The tumbler clicked and the safe door popped open.
“Un-fucking-believable!”
He grinned. “Anybody ever mention you have a potty mouth?”
“Yeah. I’m working on it.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Fudge you, Harris. See?”
She peered into the safe. The contents were pretty much what she expected. Drugs. Cash. Gun. The holy trinity of small-time dealers.
What she hadn’t expected was the stack of credit cards, driver’s licenses, and a Louisiana ID card—issued to one Angel Gomez.
Chapter Nine
Monday, July 8
4:47 P.M.
By the time Micki and Zach reported back to the Eighth, most of the guys were packing up for the day, talking about cold beer and a game of pool at Shannon’s Tavern. CSI had processed the scene, collected evidence from the French Quarter Inn, and acquired video surveillance footage from the Rouse’s and other businesses surrounding it. Marty had been bagged and tagged and was now at the morgue, awaiting his turn on an autopsy table. She and Zach had canvassed the neighborhood, interviewed potential witnesses, and begun tracking down Ritchie’s known associates.
She was hot, sweaty, and tired; she would give her right breast implant for an ice-cold beer and a cheeseburger. The left one, too, come to think about it.
But that wasn’t going to happen. Crime scene techs had delivered copies of surveillance videos for analysis. It was gonna to be a long, frickin’ night.
“Hollywood—” she said, pushing away from her desk, “—making a vending run. Want anything?”
He didn’t respond. He had the New Orleans White Pages open on the desk in front of him and was scrolling through.
“Yo, Harris.” She snapped her fingers. “Vending machine. Want something?”