by Nancy Gideon
“Yes.”
“And how did Detective Caissie react to that information?”
“She was very upset with me.”
“Why was that, Mr. Savoie?”
“She thought I might have been involved.”
“With the murder and the fire?”
“Yes.”
“And why would she assume that?”
“I have no idea, detective.”
“Really?”
“I was very fond of Sister Catherine. I had no reason to harm her.”
“Did Jimmy Legere have a reason?”
“I don’t know.”
“Were you that reason, Mr. Savoie? You and your relationship with Detective Caissie?”
“I don’t know.”
“Wasn’t that one of the things you argued about with Mr. Legere? He didn’t like the fact that you were in a relationship with a policewoman?”
“He didn’t like the idea of me keeping bad company.”
“Why would he think that?”
“He thought Detective Caissie was only after information that might incriminate him.”
“Was he right, Mr. Savoie?”
He never blinked. “Yes.”
“So he assumed Detective Caissie was banging you to put him away?”
Nothing changed about Max’s attitude or tone but suddenly he seemed to bristle. “You speak of Detective Caissie disrespectfully again and we’re done here.”
“I apologize.”
“Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to her.”
“I will when I see her.”
“Do it now.”
Hammond hesitated, then swiveled toward the camera. “That was out of line. I apologize.”
“Yes,” Max continued in the same neutral tone. “That’s what Jimmy assumed.”
“And that upset him?”
“Very much so.”
“So why not just whack her, if you’ll pardon the expression? Why would he want you dead?”
“A trust issue.”
Hammond chuckled. “I understand Mr. Legere was one who reacted with extreme prejudice if he thought trust had been compromised?”
“I don’t know about that, detective.”
“Right. You don’t know that he killed his own cousin, Mr. Petitjohn’s brother?”
“That was before I came to live with him.”
“Mr. Petitjohn didn’t elaborate on what other trust issues Mr. Legere might have had with you. Could you shed more light on that for me?”
“No, I’m afraid not. I don’t know what he was thinking. He’d told me just before his death that he wasn’t well, that he didn’t think he had much longer to live.”
“Do you think he might have been trying to hurry that along by having this confrontation with you? By attacking Mr. Petitjohn? A sort of assisted suicide?”
The dampness that welled up in his eyes was dispersed with a blink. He didn’t wipe it off his immobile face. His voice was without inflection. “I don’t know.”
“Do you know of anyone else who might have a grudge against Sister Catherine or Benjamin Spratt?”
“Who?”
“The janitor who was murdered.”
“I’d forgotten his name.” Max’s brow furrowed. “Both of them were killed?”
“Just Spratt.”
“And Sister Catherine?” he whispered.
“She’s critical in ICU, with burns and a bullet in her brain.”
“She’s alive.” He looked disconcerted; then, with a blink, his expression blanked once more. “That’s good. That’s good to hear.”
If Hammond were an astute investigator, he would have jumped all over Savoie’s quiet surprise. Charlotte never would have let him back away without demanding an explanation. Why did he expect to hear different? What did he know about the attack on the church and its true target? Why had he been there earlier that evening talking with Mary Kate? On Legere’s business, or his own?
But Hammond veered off onto another road altogether. “Mr. Savoie, do you know who Jimmy Legere passed his business interests to?”
Max looked him straight in the eye and said flatly, “According to my attorney, he gave them to me.”
Hammond stared, mouth unhinged.
Cee Cee had the same reaction.
Antoine D’Marco stood up. “I think Mr. Savoie has answered all your questions. If there’s anything else, you can reach him through my office.”
As the two made their way through the column of police who regarded them in a stunned silence, Cee Cee tried to approach, but D’Marco put himself between her and Max. His smile was cold and condescending. “Mr. Savoie has other matters to attend, detective. I’m sure you understand.”
Matters involving the largest criminal empire along the Gulf Coast?
Why had he come to her if he knew he’d be stepping into Jimmy’s shoes, where he’d quickly be over his head in everything she despised?
“Max?”
There was a slight hesitation in his stride. But he didn’t stop and he didn’t turn around.
And that’s when she noticed his shoes. Black, glossy, and a perfect match to the suit.
Fifteen
THEY CONDUCTED BUSINESS informally in one of the double parlors. Max refused to go into Jimmy’s office. He sat still and silent while Francis Petitjohn paced in agitation.
“Tony, this is ridiculous. He has no identity, no papers, nothing. And you’re going to put him at the top of a multimillion-dollar business?”
“I’m not,” Antoine D’Marco drawled softly. “Jimmy did. We discussed it quite frequently over the last few months. I have all the paperwork prepared: birth certificate, Social Security, voter’s registration, etcetera. By tomorrow, Mr. Savoie will be a registered, tax-paying citizen in the state of Louisiana, on his way to becoming one of its richest men.”
Petitjohn snorted. “A few pieces of paper won’t change what he is and what he isn’t. What he isn’t is capable of handling things.”
“I don’t know, T-John. He handled himself with the police and with the press. And he has a better education than you or Jimmy.”
“But he’s not family. He’s a nobody. He’s a—”
“Thug in a silk tie,” Max supplied.
“Exactly. No one is going to take orders from him. Vantour’s people think he killed their boss.”
“But we know differently, don’t we, Francis?” Max interjected softly.
Petitjohn stared long and suspiciously at Max, but couldn’t read anything on his stoic face. “Jimmy was fond of Max, that’s true. But he wouldn’t have given him control of our family business. Not if he was in his right mind. Tony, you know I’m right. It should go to me. That’s the way it was supposed to be. Blood is blood, and Max is just hired muscle. Jimmy was about to put a bullet in his head.”
“But you were faster, weren’t you, Francis?” Max murmured. “In self-defense.”
A slight flicker passed through Max’s eyes, glowing hot and red, and Francis Petitjohn knew a sudden, sharp terror. He hurried on.
“I’ll take care of Max. That’s what Jimmy would have wanted. He’ll always have a place here—but not in charge. He doesn’t want that kind of responsibility. He has no experience in negotiating or diplomacy. No one’s going to listen to anything he has to say.”
“Jimmy thought they would,” Antoine remarked as he shut his briefcase. “He had the utmost faith in Mr. Savoie.”
“But he doesn’t want it. Right, Max?”
Max was seeing Frankenstein’s monster in that flaming windmill. “I haven’t decided yet. Thank you for coming out, Mr. D’Marco, and for getting me through today.”
“My pleasure, Mr. Savoie. You did very well. I’ve always thought Jimmy was right about you.”
It took Max a moment to master speech. “I’ll let Francis see you out. I’m going to go upstairs to change. My feet hurt.”
He started from the room, the pinch of the new shoes not nearly as painful as the one ab
out his heart. He’d reached the hall when Jasmine, the girl from the kitchen, approached him hesitantly.
“Mr. Savoie, there’s a call for you.”
“No calls, Jasmine.”
“It’s Charlotte.”
He took a shaky breath. “No calls.”
“Yes, sir.” She paused and then lightly touched the back of his hand. Her voice was shy but sincere. “I’m very sorry for your loss, sir.”
Swallowing with difficulty, he managed, “Thank you.”
When she hurried off, he stood in the hall, head hanging, shoulders slumped, drowning in all the emotions he’d been struggling to suppress all day.
“Mr. Savoie?”
He looked up to see the two burly men he’d faced down over their game of cards with the threat of eating their eyeballs for breakfast. They looked uneasy, but not afraid.
“Me and Teddy,” one of them began gruffly, “we wanted you to know how bad we feel about Mr. Legere. If there’s anything we can do for you, you just let us know.”
“Thank you.”
Their driver came in to let D’Marco know the car was ready. He paused on his way out, hat in hand. “Mr. Savoie, it was my pleasure taking care of Mr. Legere. I’d feel privileged to do the same for you.”
“Thank you, Pete.”
One by one, as D’Marco and Petitjohn watched from the parlor, Jimmy Legere’s people approached Max Savoie. He responded to their condolences with a quiet thank you. None extended the same courtesy to Jimmy’s cousin. After the last of them paid their respects, a weary and mystified Max went upstairs.
“I guess that answers that,” D’Marco said, his smile small and satisfied.
Francis Petitjohn scowled after the retreating figure. Time to rethink his strategy.
His room was dark and cool and so very empty. Max levered out of the tight leather shoes and flexed his toes. He’d taken three steps when he jerked up sharply to sniff the air.
Voodoo Love.
Charlotte had been in his room.
Of course—she’d come with the police investigating Jimmy’s death. But the knowledge that she’d stood where he was standing acted strangely upon him, making him restless, anxious, angry. And alone.
“Mr. Savoie, Detective Caissie is here.”
“Yes,” he said without thinking. She was. Then he turned in surprise to face one of the older housekeepers. “You said she’s here?”
“Downstairs. Shall I show her into the parlor?”
Anticipation jumped before he grabbed onto it. “No. Extend my regrets to the detective. Tell her that on the advice of my attorney, I won’t be entertaining any private interviews with the police.” He could hear her voice: You’re a coward, Savoie. Yes—in this, he was.
He paced his ample room, half expecting her to burst in with irritation to demand that he speak with her. His brush-off would make her furious and he smiled a bit, imagining how that flare of temper would flash in her eyes.
But she didn’t come up. And after a minute or two, he heard the gears grind in her little sports car as she tore down the drive. He didn’t go to the balcony to watch her pull away.
“Mr. Savoie?”
“Yes, Helen?”
“Detective Caissie left this for you. She said the rest had to be entered into evidence. She said you’d understand.”
He took the plastic grocery bag from her. “Thank you, Helen.”
He waited until he was alone to open the sack, which contained one thing.
His red shoes.
HE WOULDN’T TAKE her calls and he wouldn’t see her. But she saw him everywhere. On the television, in the newspapers, one of which proclaimed, Mob boss killed in quarrel over employee’s affair with policewoman. She was called in and questioned and gave a terse version of her involvement with Max Savoie. She laid it out as cold and concise as the look in Max’s eyes when last she saw him. They’d had an intimate relationship while she was investigating Jimmy Legere. She’d asked questions. He’d given her no answers. They no longer saw each other now that Legere was dead. Case closed. At least on paper.
JIMMY LEGERE WAS buried with full media attention and overflowing attendance. It was tabloid fodder. Francis Petitjohn took center stage as his grieving, murderous cousin, with a silent and emotionless Max Savoie standing sentinel. Cee Cee watched from a distance, wishing there was some way to extend her support. But it was too late for that. Too late.
At the cemetery, a long line of criminal dignitaries filed by to shake Petitjohn’s hand and give Savoie the once-over, wondering who they’d be dealing with once the obligatory mourning was done and the crypt was sealed.
She heard Max inhale sharply when his gaze turned from the person ahead of her to fix on hers. He didn’t take her hand or show any reaction to her whisper of his name. He held himself rigid as she leaned into him, one hand cupping one side of his face as she touched her lips to the other. Longing hit her so hard and fast, she couldn’t tear herself away until he finally spoke in a low, flat-toned voice.
“Step back, detective. There’s no need for dramatics.”
She put distance between them, not expecting the fierceness beneath his blank mask. “Max, I need to talk to you.”
“Why, detective? You used me to get to him, and now he’s dead. Job well done. Move on.” He turned to the next person in line, forcing her on to stand in front of Francis Petitjohn.
She told him, “If you harm him in any way, it’ll be your funeral next.”
Petitjohn smirked at her. “Always a pleasure, Detective Caissie.”
FOUR HOURS LATER, she stood at Benjamin Spratt’s graveside, this time without the fanfare or the crowds. She listened to Father Furness speak of the loss of a simple servant loved by God with her head bowed, her tears falling unashamedly. Warm fingers slipped between her cold ones. Thinking it was Babineau she opened her eyes, then stared at the pair of red shoes next to hers.
She couldn’t look up at him. She didn’t dare. Instead she angled slightly, her arm curving about his waist beneath his open coat. He drew her in close, letting her wet his shirt front with her grief, saying nothing since words weren’t what she needed.
When the service was over, she wanted nothing more than to linger against his solid strength. When she felt him press a good-bye kiss to her temple, she resisted the urge to hang onto him with tight desperation. She rubbed her cheek against him to dry it, then eased away, never looking up.
“Thank you.”
His fingertips brushed beneath her jaw, and he was gone.
As she squared her shoulders and stood straight, she looked across the plain casket to see Dolores Gautreaux with her baby in her arms.
Later, with the squad room empty of all but the watch commander, she sat at her desk and emptied the pouch containing Benjamin’s effects. Not much had survived the fire. The remains of a cheap watch, the keys to the church. And the ring she remembered seeing on his hand.
She picked it up, surprised by its weight. A little coaxing from a tissue restored the fiery brilliance of the stone. A ruby; she’d bet her next paycheck on it. Where would Spratt, who was practically homeless, come up with such an impressive piece of flash?
She set the ring down to study Dovion’s report. A professional hit; two taps to the back of the head. As if Ben had been the target, not Mary Kate. As if she’d been struck down after surprising the assassin. Benjamin Spratt’s body was found kneeling before the remains of the altar. Mary Kate was in her quarters with the door shut. A single shot to the temple had rendered her unconscious as flames devoured the church.
“What’s wrong with this picture?” she whispered.
She read through the report again, identifying what was bothering her: the insinuation that Mary Kate was an afterthought. The casual investigator would, and did, agree with everything the way it was laid out in the report.
But that investigator hadn’t grown up in St. Bart’s. That investigator wouldn’t know that with the sanctuary doors and Mary Kate’s
door closed, the way they were every evening when Benjamin was cleaning, she couldn’t have heard anything going on. She would have been in her quarters, exactly where they found her, not wandering about, surprising a killer in his work. If the shooter was going after Spratt alone, he would have had no reason to seek her out and shoot her down. The timing was wrong.
Then she looked at it another way. Mary Kate first, then Benjamin Spratt. But why Ben? To throw off suspicion? But then, why not make it look like an accident? Mary Kate falling while overcome by smoke, hitting her head, perishing in the fire?
Someone went to a lot of trouble to set up this elaborate front to cover up what should have been simple.
Mary Kate knew they were coming for her. She’d taken the time to clear the shelter area, sending the women and children to the Gospel Mission under the pretext of a suspected gas leak. But there was no problem with the gas, according to preliminary reports.
Benjamin had taken the women and children to the mission. Then he’d returned, perhaps against her instructions. She’d wanted to be alone with her God and her memories when Legere’s man came to finish what Max had started.
But why kill Benjamin?
She, Mary Kate, and Max. One, both, or all three. Who had Legere meant to dispose of?
Or was someone else pulling the strings?
Cee Cee leaned back in her chair, rubbing her eyes. Max didn’t know. She believed what he’d said in his statement, or at least what he’d put on record. But he had gone to St. Bart’s. To threaten Mary Kate, to kill her, or warn her? Mary Kate might never be able to tell her tale. Cee Cee took a deep breath to stave off the sorrow.
Dammit, what was she missing?
Max, Mary Kate, and Legere. Were they the only main players, or were more people involved? Maybe she was making it too simple. Maybe that’s what someone was counting on.
Sighing, she looked back at her files, expanding her focus to encompass factors outside the microcosm on River Road. The deaths of Gautreaux and Surette: Those were no mystery to her anymore. The disappearance of Victor Vantour: There was an avenue to explore. The docks were always a site of friction. Control the docks: control the city. That’s what her father had said. She remembered Max’s muddy boots the morning she’d paid a visit to Legere. Had Max been planting evidence in the ever-popular bayou graveyard? Legere had to know he’d be the prime suspect. Would he have been so bold as to openly start a war?
