“You got it, Detective.”
Micki made her way into the club. The Hustle was just the type of establishment someone who did business with Marty the Smarty would frequent. Sleazy with a capital ‘S.’
But she wasn’t getting her hopes up. No way Harris could get this lucky.
She held up her shield for the bouncer; he rolled his eyes and motioned her inside. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. When they did, she saw the Hustle’s owners had tried to spiff it up a bit—mood lighting, potted palms—but a sticky floor pretty much said it all.
Welcome to the Big Crazy. No cover, one drink minimum.
Micki looked at the stage. The dancer shedding what looked like a Catholic schoolgirl’s uniform was forty if she was a day. Seriously? She wished she could bust somebody just for the suggestion that it was appropriate—let alone sexy—but the law only stretched so far.
She caught sight of Harris. He met her eyes, then nodded toward a big dude at the bar. Shaved head. Tattoo of a dragon on his neck. Piercings.
Micki studied him a moment, recalling the grainy image from the surveillance footage. The suspect in the footage had been wearing a ball cap. And not any ball cap: University of Florida Gators. Here in Tiger-land, totally uncool.
She drew her eyebrows together. Was this the guy? Maybe. Would she have recognized him on the street, after only viewing the footage? No. But after a little crime lab image enhancement? She thought so.
Harris might be just that lucky.
Harris looked at her. She inclined her head slightly to let him know they were a go. The trick now, was to approach the suspect with finesse, avoiding any kind of commotion. The last thing they wanted was a scene in a crowded tourist spot.
She started toward the suspect. Nonchalantly, she unbuttoned the first three buttons of her shirt, then tugged the elastic pony from her hair. The waves tumbled to her shoulders and, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, she fluffed them.
Plan A: Distract Mr. Wonderful and, while he’s staring at her tits, Hollywood cuffs him.
She tried to signal Harris. Unfortunately, he seemed to have forgotten she was lead here. Like a nightmare unfolding in front of her eyes, she watched him pull out his shield and start for the target.
She darted forward. The perp caught sight of Harris. She saw him slide his hand into his jacket, going for his weapon. Harris was too green to even notice.
“Get your hands up, Baldy,” she shouted. “Police!”
He jerked her way. She didn’t know if she was close enough to take him down. She better be, she decided, and dove.
Pain shot through her side as she connected with the barstool. Glass shattered, folks screamed. She knocked Baldy backwards, sending them both crashing to the floor.
The landing knocked the breath out of her. It felt like she might have broken a rib. She supposed she should be thankful she hadn’t just taken a .45 caliber slug, but she was too damn pissed off.
The stars cleared, she realized she was on top of the perp, breasts in his face.
“Nice jugs, pig.”
He was bleeding. She liked that. “Shut the fuck up.”
Micki twisted him onto his side and wrenched one arm behind his back. “You have the right to remain silent—” She snapped a cuff on his wrist. “Anything you say or do will be held against you in a court of law—” She flipped him the rest of the way over, snapped on the other cuff. “You have the right to an attorney . . . if you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you—”
Backup arrived. Officer Petron, from outside. A couple more of the guys. Cameras flashed. Micki suddenly realized what they were seeing. Harris, his weapon drawn, trained on the suspect. The picture of cool competence. She on the other hand, was on her knees, straddling Baldy, breasts spilling out of her half unbuttoned shirt, hair a dirty-blond rat’s nest.
She looked like a crazy person.
She hopped off him and yanked him to his feet. “Do you understand these rights as I have just read them to you?”
“What’re you pigs bothering me for?” he whined as another bar patron snapped a photo. “I’m just a regular Joe, out for a good time in the Quarter.”
“The murder of Martin Ritchie,” she ground out. And Lord help me if you’re not our guy.
Chapter Thirteen
Tuesday, July 9
8:28 A.M.
The squad room was unnaturally quiet when Micki and Zach arrived the next morning. Micki saw several heads turn her way, and she frowned. She was tired, cranky, and sported a bruise the size of a grapefruit on her right side. She was not in the mood to be screwed with.
They’d already met at headquarters and debriefed the inner circle. To describe Chief Howard as over-the-moon would be an understatement. Agent Parker had even cracked a smile.