by Nancy Gideon
“Move in with me, Charlotte,” he said urgently. “Come live with me, stay with me, be with me. I’ve been alone all my life, and now I can hardly bear it.”
In spite of her assurances and the passionate way she’d been nibbling his lower lip, there was no mistaking the quick objection in her eyes. “I’m practically there all the time already.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I need to be close to the city.”
A bitter twist of temper got a hold on him. “It’s less than a twenty-minute drive, detective. It’s not like it’s on the moon. There’s a telephone and even e-mail, now that you’ve managed to break into Jimmy’s computer.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly at the jab and her tone toughened. “Maybe it wouldn’t be a good idea to have me underfoot, since I’m so untrustworthy.”
“Isn’t that the other way around, cher? Are you sure it’s not because you like knowing you have someplace to run, should your job frown on you keeping house with a criminal?”
“That’s not fair, Max.”
“But it’s also not untrue. Is it, detective?” His stare grew hard and cold. “Or is it because you only want to roll about with me when it suits you and doesn’t interfere with work? Would having me underfoot be too big an inconvenience? Too much of a drain on your precious time?”
When she finally spoke, her words were like shards of ice. “We’re not going to talk about this anymore, Max. Obviously we’ve got a few too many issues to settle before we can take that big a step. Or maybe any steps for the time being.” She shoved off his knees into a combative stance. “I have to go back to that all-consuming job that seems to threaten your delicate ego. I’ll see you later. After I go home to my place and change, I’ll come by as your guest—if you still want me to be here.”
“That’s your choice, detective. You prefer to come and go as you please. Far be it from me to make a claim on your freedom.”
“Don’t even think of trying, Savoie. But don’t worry, I’ll play hostess for you. And if the mood hits me, I might even want to roll around with you afterwards. If you’re not full of quite so much shit by then.”
His sudden laugh startled her, a big boom of sound that never failed to make her jump when it lunged out from his stillness like an unexpected “boo!”
Her eyes darkened with fury until they were as deadly as the bore of her weapon. “You think this is funny?”
He tried not to grin. “I think this is ridiculous in a purely terrifying way. Charlotte, come here.”
Her gaze grew suspicious. “Why?”
“Because I want to hold you while I beg for your forgiveness.”
“Well, in that case.”
His arms banded her hips, tugging her in tight so he could rest his head just below her breasts. After a second, she threaded her fingers through his hair.
“My apology, please.”
“I’m sorry, sha. I’ve no cause to say such things to you. I don’t mean to push, and I don’t blame you for being reluctant to commit to me. It’s all right—it really is. I haven’t been myself for these past few days. I couldn’t rest while you were away, and now I’ve got this headache that’s beating at my brain as meanly as you’ve been kicking me in the ass. Seeing Philo’s brother in that drawer has me so scared of losing you, I’m bleeding from the ears.”
“That’s a delightful visual.” She bent to kiss the top of his head. “Max, you’re not going to lose me, because I don’t want to be gone. I want to be with you. I don’t have any doubts about that or about you. I just need for us to go slow. We’re going in the same direction, only I’m traveling the speed limit and you’re in warp drive. I’ll catch up. You just have to be patient.”
“Twelve years is a lot of patience, Charlotte. I’ve been ready for you since that first time I saw you.”
“I know, baby. But just think of how long it took for civilization to go from the Dark Ages to the Industrial Revolution. Then once we got there, things progressed at a pretty fast clip.”
“You’ll stay with me tonight?”
“And every night I can. I sleep better when I’m not alone, too. And you never know when I might get the urge to roll about with you.”
His hands slid down to cup the firm contours of her rump for a fond squeeze. “Like now?”
His intercom crackled, then Marissa’s efficient voice said, “Excuse me, Mr. Savoie. You have a meeting with the planning board in fifteen minutes.”
He freed one hand to press a button. “Have Pete bring the car around. Thank you, Marissa.”
He leaned back in his chair, pulling Cee Cee between his knees and trapping her with the press of his thighs. “You are going to find me so very, very grateful tonight. This will mean a lot to Philo. And it means everything to me.”
She bent down until her breath caressed his lips. “You’re so hot, Savoie. I want you right now. You think about that for the rest of the day, and hopefully that’ll keep anything else from leaking out of your ears.” She gave him a quick kiss, then strode out of the room.
It took him a long moment to exhale. Then he was smiling, this thoughts prowling ahead to having Charlotte Caissie naked beneath him, on top of him, or in any creative combination between the two.
“Marissa, tell Francis I’d like him to ride along with me.”
He grinned wickedly as he gathered up the necessary papers to stack neatly in his briefcase. A big, healthy dose of ego had him looking forward to tangling with the conservative members of Cummings’s committee.
He would devour them.
Four
HEY, LAROCHE, THERE’S a cop here to see you!”
Jacques LaRoche looked up from his clipboard, annoyance, then surprise crossing his heavy features. He set his work aside and leaned back against the stair railing that led up into the trailer he used for an office. In his own rugged element, with his bare arms bulging with muscle, he exuded raw, brutal power. His smile was wide.
“Detective, I understand you’ve been instrumental in getting my friend a proper burial. I appreciate that.”
Because she’d come straight from her manipulation of Devlin Dovion, Cee Cee brushed aside his gratitude. “It was no big deal.”
His smile faded slightly. “What can I do for you this afternoon? Here for a professional or a personal courtesy?”
“A bit of both, I think, at least for now.”
“Come on in. I think I have some coffee burning in the bottom of the pot.”
She followed him up the narrow stairs into an office as different as day to night from the one he had at the club. Here it was all about work, with no flash or sophistication. Heavy-duty file cabinets, a rickety table covered with cup-stained manifests, and a couch strewn with stacks of rather potent dirty clothes.
Seeing her gaze land there, Jacques winced. “Sorry. Missed laundry day.” He cleared the cushions with a sweep of a bulky arm, shoving the clothes onto the floor. “I live here,” he explained gruffly.
That, she didn’t expect, but she made no comment about his obvious poverty. “Ever think of hiring a maid?”
He grinned. “The females I bring here aren’t interested in cleaning my house.”
She raised a brow. “You’d probably have to hold them at gunpoint if you brought it up. Ever consider just setting fire to it and moving someplace else?”
“Every morning, detective. I’ve got one of those apartments reserved in that fancy place Max is putting up with Cummings. That should raise the quality of my potential companions a bit. Now, I’m guessing you’re not here to discuss my social life. What do you want, Charlotte?” He dropped down on the saggy couch, while she brushed the crumbs off one of the chairs before taking a seat.
“I’m here officially looking into the death of Tito Tibideaux.”
Though he was still smiling, an unmistakable curtain of caution drew across LaRoche’s face. “And why does the NOPD give a damn about some no-named corpse no longer in their possession? Why do they ca
re what happened to him?”
“I care. I asked for the assignment.” She’d had to practically beg for it, with man-hours at a premium and an unidentified body low on the priority list. She’d been given a narrow window to find evidence or let it go.
“You didn’t even know him, detective. He wasn’t one of your kind, not one of your tax-paying citizens. Who would miss him?”
“You do. His brother does. So I give a damn.”
A slight crook of his brow. “That would make you a minority.”
“I’m used to it. Tell me about him, Jacques. He have any bad habits that would bring this kind of trouble to his door?”
A flash of fury and regret crossed his expression. “Tito was a good kid. He wasn’t like a lot of us, content with what we have, figuring it was all we deserve. He had big dreams. He wanted to live in your world. He wouldn’t let Philo make it easy for him by getting him a job on one of the crews. He was going to make it on his own. And he would have; he had that fire. That I’m-going-to-burn-up-the-world fire.”
Her heart ached for the boy she’d never met. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” LaRoche sighed. “Me, too. Whatcha gonna do? We bury a lot of our kind without any fanfare. We’re used to our lives having little or no value or impact on how you Uprights go about your day. He was a good kid. It was a sad thing. Maybe you should just let it go at that.”
“Maybe I should. But I’m not going to.”
“This about Max?” His tone suggested she wouldn’t give a damn otherwise.
“This is about a good kid who won’t get a chance to go after a dream. That pisses me off, Jacques, and it makes me want to kick somebody’s ass. Feel like helping me?”
“Yeah, maybe I do.” Then, that caution was back. “Max know about this?”
“Not unless you tell him. I don’t clear my work schedule with my lover.”
Jacques grinned, imagining how the Big Dog would like hearing his mate relegating his authority to the bedroom. Probably not much. About as much as he’d like Jacques encouraging her. And that made him chuckle. “Where do we start?”
After LaRoche clocked out, he led her down to the rib joint where Tito had been offered his last job. It was a greasy dive, not the kind of place CEOs came to for employment recruiting. Outside the door that boasted plastic and duct tape rather than glass, LaRoche gave her an assessing look. She was wearing tight jeans and a tighter tank top under a baggy sweat jacket. Still, he frowned.
“Think you could look a little less like a cop, darlin’?”
She took off the coat and tied it about her waist. No member of any male species would see anything but spectacular boobs, lovingly cupped by stretch knit. Just in case they managed to tear their stares away from her chest, she rubbed her eyes and lips until her makeup smudged into blowsy indifference. For a final touch, she pulled out one of her bra straps to dangle negligently down her arm. Bright purple.
“How’s this?”
LaRoche grinned. “You slut up real nice, detective. I like that about you.” He held open the door to let her saunter in. The up-and-down sweep of every man in the place provided a hormonally charged silence for a long beat. Until she wrapped her arm about LaRoche’s thick waist and dipped her hand into the back pocket of his jeans for a healthy squeeze of his butt. He gave a slight jump, then chuckled. “Careful, cher. Try to remember that I’m just an animal.”
They approached the counter, where LaRoche nodded to the stringy fellow working the place alone.
“Hey, bro. You back there a couple of days ago?”
“I’m here every day. I can’t afford no other help. What can I get you?”
Cee Cee slid a twenty across the sticky counter. “Some information. And a half rack to go.”
The twenty disappeared. “The ribs’ll be extra. I don’t throw in no lagniappe.”
“Make that a whole rack,” she said.
“How are you with faces, friend?”
The owner glanced from Charlotte’s cleavage up to LaRoche. “I’d remember yours.”
“How ’bout a kid, fresh-faced, red hair, probably wearing some god-awful Hawaiian shirt, woulda come in alone. Started talkin’ about a job with some strangers.”
Cee Cee slid another twenty over. “Extra sauce, please.”
“Doan so much remember the boy, but those fellas, yeah, I remember them good. Got an eye for folks that doan belong. There was two of ’em, dark suits, accent from up north, all business—maybe Federal business, and none of mine.”
“Federal? Why would you think that?”
The guy put a dirty hand to his scrawny neck. “You know, strangling on their ties. And cold. Woowee, there was frost in them boys’ eyes. They’d been hanging around all day, scaring my customers off. Noses for the law, you know.” He winked at Cee Cee and she smiled back. “But the kid, he was too green to notice. They got to talking, bought him his meal, gave him a card.”
“Did you hear what they were talking about?”
He gave LaRoche an insulted look. “I mind my own affairs, mister.”
“Right. You seen these fellas since?”
“Nope. Once they chatted up the kid, they was gone. Didn’t even leave no tip, cheap bastards.” He glanced at Cee Cee hopefully when he passed her the dripping sack of ribs.
She gave him exact change.
LaRoche drove, keeping a careful eye on the seat of his Caddy while Cee Cee sucked sauce from bone.
“Don’t you go spilling none of that.”
“And waste great sauce? Not a chance.”
“Where to?”
“Where did Tito live? Would he have given strangers his home address?”
“Not likely. We Shifters tend to be careful about who we invite in. My guess is the boy told them he’d contact them. Then if things worked out, he’d play it a little looser.”
“He live by himself?”
“Off and on with a girlfriend.”
“Your kind or mine?”
“Yours.”
“That bother you?”
LaRoche shrugged. “Not so much as some.” He caught the subtle edge in her tone and shot her a quick look. “You wonderin’ how I feel about you with Max?”
“Maybe.”
He grinned. “Can’t say I cared for it at first, but you kinda grew on me, detective. And I remember those kinda feelings that put that punch-drunk look in his eyes.”
Cee Cee wondered what had put the sudden melancholy in his. “Are you mated, Jacques?” She hadn’t planned to get personal with him, and she wasn’t sure she should get that involved with any of Max’s preternatural pals. It only pulled her in deeper. As if it could get deeper than body snatching, false statements, and tampering with evidence. But she liked LaRoche for his bold courage and for his protective position at Max’s back. And she was curious about these…creatures who so resembled men.
“Once,” he told her softly. “Long time ago. Things were different then. A lot a things.”
“I thought you mated for life.”
“We do, detective. We do.”
She was silent. His mate was dead. There was nothing to say.
Sensing her discomfort, he quickly changed the subject. “You wanting to poke around in his place?”
“We need something more to go on. Something about who these men are, and what they wanted from him.” And what, if anything, that might have to do with Max. She dropped the last rib into the bag and folded it up tight. “And what if Tito’s problems turn out to be Max’s? Will that be a problem of loyalty for you?”
“I’ve pledged myself to Max. We all have.”
She turned to look at him with puzzlement. “Why is that, Jacques? You don’t know him. You don’t owe him anything. Why this allegiance, this willingness to follow him?”
“It’s because of who he is. He’s the Promised, cher. We’ve been waiting for him. He can give us that dream Tito was after: freedom. Dignity. A future for our young. None of us has ever had a chance for that un
til now.”
Jacques pointed to the lurid row of businesses crowded close to the street, promising fulfillment of any weakness in bright blinking lights. The overcast sky spread a frowning darkness over the area, the moralistic pall somehow suited to these streets and to those skulking about for purposes best left to the night.
“Tito’s place is up there,” he said.
LaRoche swung the big car into a tight alley where there was scarcely enough room to open the doors. He stuck to the shadows away from the street, and entered through a back door. Cee Cee followed.
Tito Tibideaux lived above a tattoo parlor. Not the kind of place that promised colorful artwork, but a seedy spot to stamp the skin with mean prison tats that spoke of gang affiliations. Tito’s two-room flop overflowed with the things that had meant the most to him: family, music, and leftovers. Glaring neon from the bar across the street sent a cool blue and red glow across what little of the carpet wasn’t covered by loose sheet music and take-out boxes. The gaudy Hawaiian shirts he favored were spread over the furniture like exotic foliage.
His trumpet case was open, the gleaming horn resting on the sofa, waiting for him to pick it up to wail out notes he’d never play again. Photos masked blemishes in the wallpaper. Cee Cee recognized Philo in many of them, along with a pretty black-haired girl—the girlfriend, who conveniently slung beer mugs across the street. No sign of cohabitation, she noted.
She spent a few minutes poking around. New carton of milk in the ancient fridge. Bills on the table, stamped and ready to be mailed. The TV viewer face down. No indication that he’d been in trouble; none that he was looking for trouble or expected it to find him. But it had. She frowned at the sadness of a life half-lived.
Several business cards were wedged under beeropener magnets on the refrigerator door, and she looked them over without touching them. Takeout places, mostly. And one with just a phone number—an out-of-state area code. She removed it, careful not to compromise any potential prints. Was this the card passed to a kid anxious for a break? Would it lead to a job he hadn’t been able to finish? Or maybe he had, and he just hadn’t been given the job description that concluded with his death.
