by Nancy Gideon
Amusement rumbled through the massive belly. “I always liked you, Creed. Oh, it’s MacCreedy. Have to remember that.”
Cee Cee wedged between them. “You know the drill, Manny. Give us something to take up the chain, and we’ll come back with an offer you can’t refuse.”
Lids lowered over that reptilian gaze. “Be careful, Detective Caissie. You might be uncovering things close to home. Brady won’t go down alone. He’s just the head of your department’s ugly zit. Covering it up might be in your best interest. Just a suggestion, seeing as we’ve got such a close professional relationship.”
When Cee Cee hesitated, Silas stepped in smoothly. “Cut the crap, Manny. What are you holding? Put ’em down or fold.”
Blutafino’s focus remained on the former Ms. Pepper. “Talk to Savoie. He knows. Ask him before you pop the cover off Brady’s blemishes. Your man’s a smart one. He’ll want to protect his own. Once you start picking, you’re going to uncover a pus of ugly doings no Band-Aid will be big enough to cover.”
Cee Cee did a quick mental catalog of her mate’s earlier activities, a resume of dark deeds immortalized in his NOPD jacket. Never proven.
What did Blutafino have on him?
“We’re waiting, Manny.” Silas checked his cheap watch. “Don’t waste our time, or you’ll be doing a lot of it right next to your pal.”
“Cummings. Start there.” Puppeteering the situation, Manny bestowed a cold, smug smile upon Charlotte. “And you might want to talk to your other partner, too. Him and Simon have been rather chatty lately.” Again, the smirk. “Do your homework, especially in his development deals with the Vantour brothers and, oh yeah . . . your father.”
That blast of information two-tapped her brain. Cee Cee blanked. Babineau. And her father?
Chuckle low and dark, Manny laced doughy hands atop the blotter as he mused, “Might be in your best interest to let them sleepin’ dogs lie and Warren retire quietly with full pension. Your choice, Detective. Start digging at your own risk.” A dismissive sneer. “Come back when you have a deal to offer, and I’ll tell you the rest.”
– – –
Out in the drizzle of midday under the neon flash of The Sweat Shop’s Bourbon Street claim of “Full Nude Girls,” Cee Cee hurled up her late-morning breakfast from Café Beignet. A total waste of crawfish omelet and powdered sugar. After mopping her face with a quickly offered handkerchief, she carefully straightened, hand on her spasming middle.
“We’ll chalk that up to your condition,” her partner offered, ever the diplomat.
“Dammit, Mac, I can’t let it go, and you know it.” Grateful for his steadying hand on her elbow as her world pitched and yawed, Cee Cee blinked away the burn in her eyes.
“He’s just trying to rattle you.”
She shrugged off the gentle handling of both words and support. “The only thing he’s going to be rattling is bars right next to his pal, Brady.” She started to walk toward MacCreedy’s car, fighting her way through the uncertainties of body and mind the way she did gawking tourists crowding the banquette for a salacious peek at the dancers inside through the club’s open door. Geez, even families with kids! What was wrong with people?
Her head bass-drummed. Was it true? Was her sainted father’s professional life as much a sham as his role as parent?
“Whatever you want to do, I’ll back you, Charlotte.”
She smiled tightly as Silas opened the car door for her. How pathetic she must look to earn that solicitous smile. “Thanks, Mac, but I can’t let it go.”
He nodded. “So, where to?”
To the source.
CHAPTER FIVE
Max smiled as his assistant Marissa held the door open for his unexpected visitor. “Detective, this is a surprise. A little late for lunch, but never for conversation.”
His brow furrowed as MacCreedy followed in her low-heeled footsteps to advise, “You’re not going to like this one, Savoie.”
“A professional call?”
Their hesitation initiated a gesture to comfy chairs on the other side of his desk. They settled in, looking far from at ease. When MacCreedy took a breath, Charlotte’s hand upon his forearm stayed him so she could take the lead down a path neither wanted to travel.
“We paid a visit to one of your associates,” she began. At the raise of a heavy brow, she elaborated. “Carmen Blutafino.”
“I can’t think of any business I currently have with him, nor do I plan for that to change.” Leaning back with unconcerned ease, he looked between them, eye contact direct and only mildly curious. They’d set the tone, so he’d abide by it. “What’s this about?”
MacCreedy was Max’s friend and also his closest confidant, but in his current guise as good cop, he revealed nothing, cool in attitude and stare. But Charlotte, Max knew intimately. Agitation quivered from her like a tuning fork’s discordant tone. Though outwardly relaxed, he tensed, awaiting the blow she readied to deliver.
“Not business with Manny. With Cummings.”
Brows high-jumping in genuine surprise, Max drawled, “I don’t believe I have any doings with him now that the Riverfront project is complete. And certainly nothing that would account for this interrogation.”
“Just questions,” MacCreedy reassured, adding a smile.
Tired of the cat-and-mouse dangle of pungent cheese, Max leaned forward, palms flat on his desk, regarding them silently until both fidgeted. Whatever it was—and he had no idea what they suspected—it was bad. “Ask away.”
“You, Cummings, the Vantours,” Cee Cee began, then after a pause, quietly added, “and my father.”
Expression a careful blank, Max shook his head. “I’ve never had any dealings with your father, other than the few times he fitted me for handcuffs. I don’t believe we exchanged any words other than the Miranda rights. What are you fishing for, detectives?”
“A link.” Now, she wouldn’t meet his stare, becoming fascinated instead by a loose thread on the sleeve of her jacket as if by tugging at it she could ravel his complicity in whatever ugliness she suspected.
“I’m afraid I don’t know of one. I wasn’t privy to every deal Jimmy negotiated, and none involved your father. Could Carmen be amusing himself, sending you on a goose chase to give himself more time to cover whatever it is you’re looking for?”
Silas’s broad shoulders relaxed. A narrow smile prefaced his summation. “That’s probably it.” He tapped his partner’s arm as he stood. She rose with him, reluctance bowstringing her movements. Right or wrong, she’d never apologize for doing her perceived duty. “Sorry we’ve wasted your time.”
“Not wasted,” Max assured them, also standing. “Always a pleasure.”
That wasn’t quite true, not for any of them.
Once the door closed, leaving only the lingering scent of his mate, Max slumped back in his chair, brow furrowing. Tommy Cassie . . . a complication he hadn’t considered for a long time, not since an early morning conversation in Simon Cummings’ kitchen.
If Carmen was leveraging that particular topic, he might have to pay a visit to his persistent nemesis. And it wouldn’t end well for the smug criminal.
– – –
They’d almost reached the Quarter to the sound of slapping wipers before Silas ventured, “Is he lying?”
“How would I know? He’s had a lifetime of practice learning from the best.” Cee Cee puffed out a breath. “Maybe Manny’s playing us while he buries whatever he thinks we could use to tie him to Brady. If that’s his play, it’s gonna bite him in the ass.” Her brittle chuckle drew, for a dangerous moment, her partner’s glance away from the heavy vehicle and foot traffic.
“Wanna elaborate?”
She sighed. “Not yet. That’s my high card, and I’m holding it close to the chest.”
Instead of being offended, MacCreedy shot her an approving nod as one who appreciated guile. “So, what next? Think Manny was just pulling our chain by throwing Babineau at us?”
Cee Cee didn’t want to consider the question. She and her other frequent partner had had many a tense go-round over why cops and criminals shouldn’t mix. Had he done something about it? Something stupid?
Something illegal?
She gnawed her lip, studying the dusty dashboard as if it had become a crime scene before saying, “I’ll talk to him, Mac. I don’t want to drag you into the middle of our dirty laundry, if that’s all it is.”
“I’m very good with laundry, you know.”
She scowled at both tone and insinuation, the air in the car thickening dangerously. “Want to explain that?”
Silas never flinched, always the cucumber of cool. “You two go way back. Partners are like family. We protect our own even when . . .”
“When what?”
“Even when one of them does something they regret.”
MacCreedy’s brevity was one of the things Charlotte liked most about him. The other was that unflinching honesty that wouldn’t allow him to cover up for Alain Babineau’s possible wrongdoings if they ventured beyond the embrace of their two tight communities. At that point, she’d step back and let Silas do his job, no matter how difficult that recusal was.
And if it was Max leading them astray?
A sudden flutter beneath her palm distracted from that answer she couldn’t find. Massaging the area gently as if to reassure Max Savoie’s heir, Charlotte refused to consider that scenario. Unless she had to.
“Glove box.”
Cee Cee glanced over in surprise. “What?” She followed his gesture and popped the box to find a stash of cracker packets. At her brow arch, he smiled.
“Pick ’em up for my better half. She’s about a month ahead of you. Good for second trimester heartburn and queasy stuff.” He flashed a smug, knowing grin.
“You are the most metrosexual male I’ve ever met.”
He took it as a compliment. “Can I make a suggestion?”
“If it’s about constipation, it’ll pass . . . eventually.” When he didn’t laugh, her mood grew cautious. “What?”
She wasn’t ready to have ‘the talk’ about her fitness for the job. She’d done her homework, gotten the thumbs up from Susanna and her superiors, stuck to the rules and the diet and exercises, and would soon be taking classes . . . hopefully not alone. She’d studied the common side-effects for a pregnant female at twenty-one weeks in prep for any possible scenario-from swollen feet to freaking stretch marks—the way she would an assault plan! Now she had to get clearance from MacCreedy?
“How about a neutral negotiator? Someone a step back from it being personal, who knows the stakes and is smart enough to tread carefully?”
She blinked, downshifting her thoughts into the proper gear. Yes, please! Anything to keep her from having to cross the tentative alliance she and Savoie tiptoed around where her work and his past were concerned.
“And who might this paragon be?”
Silas provided one of his annoyingly tight-lipped smiles. “Leave it to me.”
– – –
Colin Terriot’s first mistake was answering the phone. His second, letting Silas MacCreedy smooth talk him. He should have hung up but hadn’t. And now, it was too late to back out.
“Hey, got your message. What’s up?”
Colin forced a smile as he opened his door wide, issuing his guest in out of the late-day gloom. “Depends on you.”
Caution flashed in Alain Babineau’s gaze, but his easy posture didn’t reflect it as he came inside the small French Quarter home Colin shared with his mate, Mia Guedry, the Memphis clan leader’s cousin. He glanced around, taking in the original brick and hard woods along with the comfortable homey touches and massive sound system. “Nice place. Looks like you’re settling in for the long haul.”
“Not like I have any other options now.”
The detective let that flat remark slide as he followed the guiding gesture into a tidy kitchen area where a fresh pot beckoned. When Colin told him to help himself, Babineau poured a cup and one for his host as he asked, “How’s the family? Missed seeing Cale the other night. He doin’ okay?”
The honest concern allowed a slip in Colin’s purpose. “Better now that Kendra’s with him.”
His guest glanced back toward the bedroom. “Mia here?”
“Naw. She stepped out for a bit.”
It didn’t take an experienced investigator to figure out why. Private business on the agenda. They took opposite sides of the breakfast bar, coffee hot, moods cooling as Babineau got to it. “What’s on your mind, Terriot?”
The impersonal use of his family name opened the way to a conversation Colin didn’t want to have with his half-sister’s husband. Damn MacCreedy, anyway.
“I’m not much for playing games,” the big Shifter began, locking his sniper-scope stare on the detective’s. “Why the hell is a straight arrow like you cozying up to a piece of bad meat like Cummings?”
Baby blues widened. “What? Where’d you get that idea?” Slowly, innocent surprise faded into a murky pool of guilt.
Sonuvabitch.
“Never mind where. Now it’s my problem because you’re part of the family.” Before that term could invite his guest to relax, Colin growled, “Don’t even think of lying to me. Just because we shared some stuff doesn’t mean I won’t tear the heart from your chest and eat it before I’d let you hurt that boy and his mama.”
Babineau held his gaze without blinking. “One of the reasons I like you. No bullshit when it comes to business. Or relatives.” A deep breath shuddered from him as he reached for his cup, hand impressively steady. He sipped then put the coffee and his excuses aside. “He approached me.”
“Why?”
“To get rid of Savoie.”
A quick blink. “And why would he think a Mr. Law-and-Order like you would break the rules to help him do that?”
“To get him outta my partner’s life.” He dragged a quick hand through surfer-blond hair. “I knew what he’d done for Legere, and I knew what their association would do to her career. She wouldn’t listen. She wouldn’t let him go. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“You were in love with her.”
The direct summation took him aback, but after a quick swallow, Babineau admitted, “Maybe once, but not then. I had . . . have a good family, and I wanted that for her. I thought Savoie was using her, that he’d drag her down and destroy everything she’d built her life on.”
“And you didn’t want to lose her.”
“No. I didn’t. I’m not ashamed of that. Cummings, damn him, made it sound so . . . righteous. Told me I’d be building a better New Orleans beside him. Said he’d take me with him on his way up, do things for my career so I could give my family what they deserved.” A deprecating snort. “I took his deal. But I never took money from him. Not a dime.”
Colin absorbed that then asked, “What did you give him?”
“Nothing that would harm the department or my partner.” He broke off again, gaze focusing on the contents of a cup as dark as the stain on his soul. “He asked what I knew about Max and Legere, about their business with Blutafino and the Vantour brothers.”
“And?”
“I told him everything I knew. Made it sound like it was all confidential, but it was pretty much common knowledge he coulda gotten from any cop bar.”
The big Terriot was no fool. “So, if you didn’t take money, what did he give you besides empty promises?”
The look slanting up from across the table glittered. “Information on Brady. Didn’t take long to figure Charlotte and Max were a done deal. She convinced me with a really good right hook.” A brief quirk of his smile. “I played along with Cummings to see if he’d offer anything I could use to nail that bastard to the wall. Your little brother dipped his clever fingers into some of it when he was snooping around in my computer. Surprised he didn’t blow the whistle.”
“He wasn’t after you.”
“So, why are you?”
Col
in leaned back, spreading his hands wide, one strong, one hideously scarred by his own foolish choices. “I’ve got nothing riding on this. You’ve done me more than a couple of solids,” like helping him bring his insensible king home, getting his own drunk ass out of jail, and backing his rescue of Rico and his little girl, “and I wouldn’t want to do anything to hurt your family.” When that didn’t satisfy the detective, he caved. “MacCreedy asked me. Some thug name a Blutafino told him and your partner you were compromised.”
Babineau sagged back in his chair, handsome features going slack. “Oh, hell.” After considering his options behind closed eyes for a long minute, he asked, “What’re you gonna tell him . . . and Charlotte?”
“That depends.”
Another cautious look. “On?”
“Whether you’re willing to keep playing the game.” A thin smile. “Brady’s going down.”
A slow smile spread across the pretty-boy face. “Oh, I so want a piece of whatever you’re planning.”
– – –
Determined to delay the drive home for as long as possible, Cee Cee lingered at work, finishing reports, following up on voice messages, and even cleaning her desktop. When she started getting funny looks from Second Shift, she finally shut down her computer screen and prepared to face music she dreaded having to dance to.
It wasn’t like she’d never grilled Max Savoie as a potential suspect before. But he hadn’t been the father of her child then. Not exactly an epic event she’d want to jot down in the frilly pink baby book Mary Kate had given her.
Why hadn’t she waited until they were alone instead of dragging MacCreedy along to back her courage? A simple answer. Because alone time with Max had gotten . . . complicated. He was treating her differently. Not in a bad way. Not in a way she could point to in an argument, but it knocked the rhythm of their daily life and their nighttime whoopie off-kilter. Did married folk go to counseling because the husband treated his wife too . . . nice? Nothing wrong with nice if one was a grandmama or a good neighbor, but it wasn’t what she looked forward to when getting up close and personal after a day in the grimy trenches. Now, instead of constantly stripping her down with his gaze and giving their bedsprings hours of cardio, he’d been treating her more like an invalid than a lover.
