Page 22 of Girl Between (Dana Gray FBI Mystery Thriller #5)

George kicked his motorcycle to life, the roar of the engine echoing off the old buildings on Royal Street. He’d ensured the evidence from this morning’s crime had been properly cataloged and sent to the proper departments for analysis.

Now it was a waiting game.

When he’d first started at the NOPD he’d been consumed by the overwhelming anxiousness that accompanied investigating a crime. But like the city itself, investigations moved to their own slow rhythm. Especially when done thoroughly, which was the only way George operated.

That’s why he was filling his time by following up on another investigation. This one was less urgent and didn’t involve a corpse.

George savored the breeze drying the day’s perspiration from his skin as he tore down Canal Street.

It was the very reason he opted to drive his bike when the weather permitted.

It wasn’t just that parking in New Orleans was as much an issue as the levees, but there was nothing quite like the feeling of the sultry Louisiana air wrapping around him.

It was like a lover’s embrace as he cruised the streets of the city he adored.

Reluctant to arrive so quickly to his destination, George took one more lap around the block before parking on the street. He stowed his helmet and adjusted his sunglasses before striding up to the ornate mansion doors.

After a brisk knock and brief explanation, he was invited inside. Savoring the cool interior, he followed his guide into the labyrinth of rooms housing antiques from a bygone era.

This was certainly the home of past slave owners. Always the consummate professional, George forced himself to swallow the bitterness that came with the history of his hometown.

His family had fled Haiti’s oppression generations ago and been fortunate enough to make a good life in New Orleans. But it didn’t erase the atrocities others had faced in the early days of the settlement.

That was another reason George took his job so seriously.

He’d joined the NOPD to make a difference and maybe even make up for past mistakes— his own and others.

The older gentleman guiding George finally led him into a brightly lit salon. “Pardon the interruption, but you have a guest,” the man said, announcing their arrival.

The woman who’d been bent over a desk straightened and swiveled in her chair to face them. Her mask of flawless professionalism shattered the moment her gaze settled on George.

The reaction elicited a chuckle from him. “Well, well. It seems we were destined to meet,” George said, unable to believe his eyes.

He cocked his head to the side, studying her.

Shocked expression, glasses, wild brown mane barely tamed in a bun at the nape of her neck.

Not a trace remained of the woman he’d spent last night with.

If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was someone else entirely.

Yet, behind her surprise, he sensed the familiar spark that had been there when they first met.

The spark that said this woman was trouble.

Try as he might to avoid it, George had always been drawn to trouble.