Page 62 of Walking the Edge

Cath scanned the street ahead for a parking space, the occasional streetlight making blurry halos on the rain-streaked windshield. Mitch had been cruising the area for forty-five minutes. “Did you know there’s a parking lot along the inside of the floodwall?”

“I know about that, but it’s exposed. Anyone on the wharf can see us park there. Give me a chance. I’ll find something.”

“Take all the time you want, but I don’t think we’re going to get anywhere early.” She shifted in search of a more comfortable position. The big bulletproof vest bit into her thighs, and she squeezed her fingers underneath to relieve the pressure. Nothing would lighten the load of cement in her stomach.

“Any phone messages yet?” He slowed to negotiate a street of parked cars.

From her brother. “Nope.”

She set aside the cell and ran her sweaty palms down her jeans. This had to be the craziest idea she’d ever come up with. Not completely insane, because then Mitch wouldn’t have agreed to come along. He had good self-preservation skills. The man must have lived through a horrible situation to get that Purple Heart.

“I appreciated your help yesterday afternoon. After the office break-in.” Leaning forward, Cath searched through the blurry windshield for a parking spot up ahead—or anywhere. “And when you kept me from charging into my apartment after the ghost walk. Not to mention all the other times.”

She grimaced. Her ears burned. “You must think me a damsel in distress.”

“I haven’t seen you in distress.” Mitch turned the wheel with those big, strong, capable hands.

“You don’t have to compliment me because I know it’s been obvious.” She swallowed hard. “I wanted you to know. In case”—we don’t make it out alive—“in case something happens.”

“No problem.” He squeezed her hand, showing his sweet side for a fraction of a second.

She ran a fingernail along the seam of her seat. “I think it’s important to let people know when you appreciate them.”

His brown eyes settled on her for so long, Cath shifted position and gripped her armrest. “Look out. The light’s turning red.”

He braked. “I’ll never deserve all this appreciation if I don’t find a parking spot.”

What a strange thing to say. “You missed the point. I’m already grateful. Just letting you know.”

He nodded and minutes later pulled to the curb beside the fence surrounding Washington Square. Only a few blocks from the edge of the French Quarter and their destination. “This is great.”

Cath flipped up the hood of her rain parka and stepped out and looked around. “Maybe it isn’t. This is a no parking zone. I’ll bet it’s for street cleaning.”

Mitch shielded his eyes against the drizzle and squinted at the sign on the pole. “Right. But only from nine to noon tomorrow. We’ll be done long before then.”

They walked past a couple of bars before cutting past the French Market arcade and through the paid parking area. Yellow stripes painted on the asphalt glistened in the light of the empty riverfront streetcar kiosk.

The wharf Justin had named loomed ahead above two sets of rail tracks. Freight ran on one side; trolleys, on the other. Mitch pulled his rain hood to cover his face. “We need to get up on the wharf where the freight containers are lined up.”

Cath took in the deserted area. “Will anyone really be here in this weather?”

“No one’s around. This could be the best time to sell drugs.”

The base of the wharf rose a good seven feet above the rail trench. She frowned. “I should have practiced my pole vault.”

“I’ll give you a boost up.” Mitch descended from the walkway to the tracks.

Cath gripped the wet rail of the streetcar platform. Lonely tracks disappeared into the rain in one direction. In the other, they went around a bend heading toward the city’s downtown skyscrapers. “If the drug dealer is around, he’s going to spot us.”

“Not if you get a move on. We can’t hang around on the tracks either. The streetcar is still running and will be coming back soon.”

She should have checked the timetable, but that wouldn’t have made any difference. Justin had told them this wharf. She and Mitch hadn’t had a choice.

“I don’t want my cramp to act up again.” She pointed to the end of the wharf. “There’s a road entrance down there.”

Mitch hauled himself to the platform in front of the wharf warehouse. “Let’s not get separated.”

A trolley headlight shone through the rain. Coming closer, catching her between the tracks. “Give me your hand.” He reached down to her. “I’ll pull you up.”

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