The Beautiful Thief (Stolen Hearts #2)(11)
Melody had never been a fan of traveling. Usually when Isobel had been dragging her all around the country, it was for some job she was trying to pull. She’d never done the whole traveling for fun thing and she wasn’t about to start now.
And nothing about this trip was going to be fun. She slapped at her neck and checked her palm to see whether she’d gotten the bloodsucker. No luck. She eyed the run-down shack in front of her. Even though the structure looked as if it could fall down any minute, every square inch of the decaying wood was decorated with something or another. A confederate flag hung proudly next to the one square window. Crawfish pots were stacked up beneath the window, and a bunch of mismatched chairs were lined up along the porch, as though people would actually like to sit outside in this humid and mosquito-infested air. Though judging from the holes in the wood, the inside of that shack didn’t have air conditioning, so outside was probably better than in.
“I think you’re lost, missy,” drawled someone from behind her.
Melody twisted around and tried to strike a balance between “not afraid” and “not an uptight Yankee.” Ever since she’d come down to Louisiana and started her search, she’d been faced with people who thought she was in over her head and people who thought she was a Northerner who needed to be put in her place.
But every time she tried to control her resting bitch face, she’d get bitten by another damn— She slapped at her forearm as she tried to force a smile, but the newcomer didn’t look convinced at all. “Hi. I’m looking for a man and I was told you could help.”
The guy gave her a good once-over and she was already preparing herself for his refusal. He had a beard that reached out in all directions. She couldn’t tell whether his hair had been bleached from all the sun or whether it was going gray. The wrinkles in his skin seemed younger than his eyes, another sign of the damage the sun had done. His beige, formerly white, tank top had a few holes and didn’t seem to offer any protection from mosquitoes, but he didn’t seem to mind them.
Melody once again swatted at one of the bugs. He’d better not judge her for not liking the little vampires. Not liking mosquitoes was the one thing that could bond every member of the human species.
“I don’t know no men,” he said before he started past her and for the porch.
Oh, how she loved this part of the conversation. She could try to sweet-talk him, but she wasn’t feeling particularly sweet at the moment. She followed him to the porch and fished a hundred-dollar bill out of her back pocket. “I think you might know this one.”
He eyed the money warily as though it might rear up and bite him, but then he took it and eyed her once again. Reassessing what he’d originally thought about her, probably. Now she wasn’t just a dumb Yank, but a dumb Yank he could bleed dry.
Melody reached into her cross body bag and pulled out a letter-sized piece of paper folded in four. It was the printout she’d gotten from Chicago PD. The very pissed-off, sullen image of Blondie staring at the camera in a mug shot photo. And with the photo, she’d finally gotten a name. Adam Smith. It sounded fake as hell, but apparently he’d left his mark on Plaquemines Parish. The hole of an apartment he’d listed as an address for the arrest had almost been a dead end, but one elderly woman in the apartment across from his remembered a bar he used to hang out at. And that bar had led her to another bar he used to frequent, which had led her to a gas station he’d buy cigarettes at, which led her here. According to the attendant at the gas station, Blondie and this guy were longtime buddies. “You are Billy, right?”
She had a hard time imagining Blondie and this guy having much in common. For one, Billy had about two decades on Blondie and probably fifty pounds of beer gut. But desperate times....
“’Dat man don’t wanna be found,” said the man, without confirming who he was.
Melody sighed as she swerved her head to avoid something buzzing in her ear. “Okay, listen. I’m tired and I’m hot and, most importantly, I’m determined. I have a big stack of cash with your name on it. I need to find Adam. Take me to him and I’ll leave you alone and leave you much better off than when I found you.”
“Money don’t make people betta.”
“It don’t hurt either.” She folded her arms in front of her. “Besides, if you’re trying to protect your friend, I want you to take a good look at me. Do I look like I’d be a danger to him?”
“Damn females always trouble.” Billy finished collecting the crawfish traps and headed off down a barely visible path into the brush. Melody could either stand there and hope he came back or follow him.
And she wasn’t in the mood to twiddle her thumbs. “So is that a no?” she called from behind him as she followed.
“’Ow much money you offerin’?”
“You give me information that helps, I’ll give you five hundred. You give me information that takes me right to him, you get a thousand.”
Billy let out a long whistle. “You a shit hustler. Would’ve ’elp’d for less.”
“Like I said, I’m determined. Now are you going to give me an address or not?”
Billy reached the edge of the water, an offshoot of the Mississippi River, and tossed the traps into a shallow metal boat. “Address ain’t gonna ’elp.”
“My GPS would disagree with you.”