pulse quickened. “Yes. Did you?”
“Yes, ma’am. Picked her up in a courtyard on Chartres Street.”
“How long ago was that?”
“A few minutes ago, but if you want to see her while she’s still alive, you better hurry down here.”
“I’ll be right there. Thanks for the heads-up on this.”
“Glad to help. Whoever did this deserves to be locked away.”
Georgette threw on a pair of slacks and a white cotton shirt, buttoning it as she slipped her feet into white sandals. After slapping some cold water on her face, she rinsed her mouth with antiseptic mouthwash and ran a brush through her dark hair. Good enough for a predawn trip to the hospital, she decided, not bothering with lipstick.
Twenty minutes later, she was rushing through the emergency ward, looking for someone to point her to the right room. It was always faster than dealing with the admitting nurse and her legalese and protocol.
“Code blue in room twelve. Code blue in room twelve.”
Georgette dodged a nurse wielding a crash cart, then followed her to room 12. A man in jeans and a blue T-shirt stepped out of the room and Georgette slipped past him only to be ushered out by a thin, middle-aged nurse with a no-nonsense expression.
“No visitors. Not now.”
But the quick glimpse Georgette got of the activity in room 12 was enough to know that they were fighting desperately to save the life of a young woman who’d obviously been beaten. The clothes thrown over a hook were a good indicator that the woman had been working the streets.
Georgette had no firm evidence to back up her suspicion that the skinny, weasel-looking pimp with hair that looked like black wire dipped in axle grease was responsible for this, but odds were that he was. All she needed was one breathing, talking, witness to help her take Maurice Gaspard to trial. Judging from the sounds coming from room 12, she wasn’t likely to get that witness tonight.
She studied the man slouched against the wall opposite her, the man who’d come out of the victim’s room as she’d walked up. A friend? Or one of Gaspard’s flunkies sent to make sure the woman 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
