On a scale of one to ten, Micki’s headache came in at a solid ten—a sanity-stealing combination of sledgehammer and screw vice. It hadn’t been brought on by hours of staring at the minutia of videotaped images, or too much caffeine or junk food. This one was all Harris.
Almost two freaking hours. Where the hell was he?
“Sure. Whatever you say. Major Nichols made it clear you’re lead on this case.”
“I’m just going to grab a sandwich. Be right back.”
Hocus pocus poser.
And she was the jackass who had fallen for it.
She supposed she should be worried about him. After all, he was her “asset” to protect. Ironic, but if he had been Carmine—or any of the other guys—she’d be concerned for his safety. But they were real cops.
He wasn’t. He was on Hollywood fiddle-fucking-around time.
Besides, if he got himself kidnapped or shot, it wouldn’t be her fault. He’d been going across the street for a sandwich, for God’s sake. Surely, babysitting him didn’t mean every moment of the day or night? Did she have to follow him into the crapper? Watch him while he slept?
She dropped her head into her hands and massaged her aching temples. Why’d she have to pull the lucky straw? She’d worked hard to get where she was. This wasn’t a game to her; it wasn’t some out-of-this-world experiment.
It was her life. Her career.
Dammit. Thirty more minutes and she’d call out the cavalry.
Micki refocused on the monitor. Reviewing security camera footage was one of the most tedious parts of the investigative process. Tech folks couldn’t do it because they didn’t know what to look for. So it fell on the detectives, hours piecing frames together, establishing a timeline from the various time-stamped tapes, manipulating and comparing blurry images.
Even without another pair of eyes, tonight had been productive. In just two hours she had a face—albeit a grainy one—a vehicle, and a partial plate.
Take that, you mothers. Mess with Mad Dog Dare, you’re gonna get bit.
Her phone pinged the arrival of a text.
I’ve got him.
She didn’t recognize the number and frowned.
who is this
Hollywood.
Micki rolled her eyes. He really did like that nickname. She’d have to come up with something new. Like Annoying Bastard.
where r u
Bourbon
Bourbon Street. Of course he was.
get back here
Ritchie’s killer is here. Before she could respond, another text arrived. No joke.
how do u know
I just do.
And that was supposed to reassure her? Micki jumped to her feet. Hollywood could do anything, crazy bastard. He had a gun, for God’s sake. A shield and handcuffs. He was a danger to himself and civilians.
She pictured him arresting some poor sucker from Topeka. The charges of police brutality and lawsuit that would follow. The truth about him leaking out.
And who’d be the one taking the hit for it? Not him. Oh, no. It’d be his hardworking partner.
She dialed his cell.
He answered. “It was so cool, I bumped into him on my way to get sandwiches. Telegraphed the murder, clear as a bell.”
“Where are you?”
“The Bourbon Street Hustle. It’s a club.”
“A strip club. Dude, really?”
“Not my choice. I followed the suspect inside.”
“Have you been drinking?”
“I don’t drink.”
Figured. She’d thought maybe they’d have that in common. Made worse by the fact that she’d be doing a whole lot more of it now, because of him.
“Do not approach the UNSUB until I get there.”
“No worries, I’m being totally stealth here.”
She grabbed her jacket. “I’m on my way.”
“Wait. What if he tries to leave?”
“Follow him, but do not make contact. Understand? You might have the wrong guy. And even if he is our guy, without back-up, you’re putting yourself in harm’s way.”
“He’s our guy, no doubt. Oh, crap, I’ve got to go.”
He hung up and her heart lurched to her throat. Maniac could do anything. What, did he think bullets would bounce off of him?
She reached the Nova in record time. Called for assistance.
The Bourbon Street Hustle was located at 410 Bourbon. Fellow Eighth District Detective Stacy Killian had pulled an undercover drug task force gig there a few years back—a bartender dealing meth. Ended up becoming much more, typical Big Easy dust-up.
Micki reached Bourbon Street and turned onto it. Except for police and emergency vehicles, Bourbon was pedestrian only, six P.M. to six A.M. The cruiser had already arrived; it sat in front of the club, cherry lights spinning. She eased her way through the throngs of partiers, stopping behind the cruiser.
She climbed out. The patrolman headed her way. Joey Petron, she saw. Good guy, solid cop.
“Hang here,” she told him. “Homicide suspect is inside the club. My partner has a bead on him.”