It wasn’t Lily, but she wasn’t much older than his teenage daughter, and she was running scared. Tanner reached out and grabbed her arm as she rushed past him. She clawed at him with long, fake fingernails painted a bright red.
“Let go of me.”
“Right after we have a little talk.”
She twisted to see behind her, then tried again to pry his hand from her arm. “I’m not working now, so get your rocks off with someone else.”
“I’m looking for Lily Harrison.”
“That’s your problem.”
“I just made it yours, too. Lily Harrison. She’s seventeen, blond and pretty, with a British accent. I know she worked for Gaspard for a while.”
“Seventeen. You’re sick, man. You know that? Sick. Leave the girl alone and get a life.”
“She’s my daughter.” Tanner pulled out the picture of Lily, frayed and bent from being carried around in his sweaty pocket. He handed the photo to the woman, then tugged her under the streetlight so she could see the details. “This was taken six months ago. If you’ve seen her at all, I need to know where and when.”
“I don’t know nothin’. So let go of my arm.”
But Tanner figured she did know. Like the rest of Gaspard’s women, she was just too damned scared to talk. No one squealed on the sleazy, revengeful pimp.
“Who are you running from?” Tanner demanded.
“I’m not running. And if I was, it’s none of your damn business.” She threw in a few gutter words for emphasis. “Look, man. I don’t know your Lily, but there’s a young girl in that courtyard back there, and she’s hurt bad. If you want to do something, go help her, just leave me out of it. Please, leave me out of it.”
“Which courtyard?”
“Half a block down. You’ll see the break between the buildings. There’s an iron gate, but it’s not locked.”
Tanner released his hold on the young woman, then took off running. He reached the gate in seconds, pushed through it and into a courtyard illuminated only by moonlight. The victim was lying in the middle of the enclosure, sprawled across the hot concrete, one leg dangling over a fountain that was dry and green with slime.
Tanner knelt beside her and brushed the long, blood-matted hair from her face, then felt the breath explode from his lungs in relief when he realized the half-dead woman wasn’t his Lily.
He checked for a pulse. It was weak, but it was there. He grabbed his cell phone and called for an ambulance. The young woman opened her eyes and stared at him.
“Don’t…hit me. Please. Don’t hurt…”
“I’m not the one who attacked you. Just lie still. There’s an ambulance on the way.”
Her face was swollen two sizes too big, her arms were scratched and bleeding and there was a long gash running across her forehead, possibly made by the cracked flower pot that lay next to her.
Tanner lifted the woman’s head. “Who did this to you?”
“No one. I…fell.”
“Like hell you did! Was it Gaspard?”
She shuddered and closed her eyes without answering.
“I’m looking for Lily Harrison. Do you know where I can find her?”
She didn’t open her eyes or show any indication she could hear his pleas for information. Still he knelt beside her and monitored her pulse and labored breathing until the shrill cry of the sirens pierced the night.
Tanner put his mouth close to her ear one last time as he heard the footsteps of the paramedics approaching. “Do you know a girl named Lily Harrison? She’s British.”
The victim’s eyes fluttered open as if she were trying to focus, then rolled back in her head before closing again.
“One word will do. I’m begging. Do you know where I can find Lily?”
There was no answer. Tanner moved out of the way as the paramedics loaded her onto the gurney. He had his doubts she’d live to see the hospital.
GEORGETTE DELACROIX jerked awake and sat up straight in bed, then grabbed the ringing phone. “Hello.”
“Ms. Delacroix?”
“Yes?”
“This is Amos Keller.”
It took her a second or two to place the name. “The ambulance driver?”
“Yes, ma’am. You asked me to call you if I picked up another beating victim who appeared to be a prostitute.”
Her 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