by Nancy Gideon
“What I’d be is dead meat.”
“She keeps you on a short chain, my friend.”
Max admitted the truth without shame. “It’s one I have no desire to escape.”
LaRoche’s big hand slapped down on his shoulder. “I don’t know if I should envy you or pity you for that.” His stare skipped back to Amber. “Tonight I think I’ll simply be grateful that you prefer captivity to the chase. If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go see if she’ll settle for second best. Be careful, Savoie.”
“What do you mean?”
“There isn’t a one of them who wouldn’t kill to mate with you.”
Surely he meant that figuratively.
“Why? Because of what I am?”
“No. Because of what you can give them.” He walked away, muttering, “Lucky dog.”
CEE CEE STOOD over Devlin Dovion’s shoulder as he weighed what was left of Sandra Cummings’s internal organs. The sound track from Guys and Dolls played in the background. Dovion was nuts about Broadway, traveling with his wife and daughters to New York once a year just to sit in a narrow seat at the Majestic or Lycium and lose himself in song. He was humming “Sit Down, You’re Rockin’ the Boat” as he scooped up half the usual length of small intestine in gloved hands.
“So, how are things going with you and your fella?” he asked.
“What?”
“Don’t look so shocked. Gossip eventually travels downstream far enough to reach me here in my little pond. What’s his name? Savoie?”
“Max Savoie.”
“Seems to be a decent-enough sort.”
“Max?” she blurted in surprise. Who would have told him that? “Most would characterize him as a mobster and a murderer.”
“I seem to recall hearing he was involved in the messy business with Legere. Could you pass me that bowl, darlin’?” He spilled the entrails into it as if they were pasta. “Does he treat you good?”
“Yes. Yes, he does.”
“Has he killed anyone we like?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Then why should I have a problem with him? It’s the opinion of some that the police are mobsters and murderers. I don’t always put stock in what folks are saying. It’s those upstanding citizens you have to worry about—them and their secrets. Professional criminals are usually the most level folks. They raise good families, pay their parking fines, give generously to charities, love their wives, children, and dogs. They’re scrupulously honest and cry at sad movies. It’s not personal, what they do. It’s business. When it’s not business, when it’s not up front, that’s when it gets ugly.”
Cee Cee had never considered it quite that way.
“When do I get to meet him?”
She gave a start. “You want to meet Max?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I? You’re as close to me as my own daughters. If you’re serious about him, I want to give him the once-over to see if I need to kick his ass to set his thinking straight where you’re concerned.” When Cee Cee simply stared at him, he began to frown. “What? Has he got something against your friends? I mean, other than the obvious.” He paused. “Are you serious about him, Lottie?”
“Yes.”
Dovion grinned. “Miserably said, like a woman in love.”
She didn’t argue.
“Bring him on down with you next time you visit. He’s not queasy, is he?”
She snorted a laugh. “Not hardly.” A moment’s thought. “You’d probably like each other. You both have that rather twisted sense of the macabre.”
“Wonderful. I’ll let him put on gloves and get his hands dirty.” He made it sound as though they were going to play in modeling clay instead of chest cavities.
Cee Cee scowled a bit jealously. Dovion hadn’t let her touch anything until she’d made First Grade. “It’s probably just the kind of date activity he’d enjoy.”
“Good. I like him already. Now, what is it you need to know about this poor little lady?”
“The basics. Causation, for starters.”
Dovion half closed his eyes, viewing the scene through the science, as if her death was a play unfolding before him. “She was at her car, her keys in her hand. Her assailant approached her there from behind. The keys were found beneath the vehicle. Signs of a brief struggle. She fell, scraping her knees, but was able to get to her feet and run. There are no signs of any offensive wounds, so I’m a bit puzzled as to why she was able to just run away from him. Maybe he got distracted by something or someone. Anyway, she’d gotten three blocks when he hit her from behind, tackled her, and brought her down, face-first on the sidewalk with him on top of her.”
Cee Cee tensed, her stomach clenching, her breath coming soft and quick as she imagined the panic, the pain, the terror.
“Do you want me to go on?” There was an expected kindness in Dovion’s voice. He’d been the one to pick her up at the hospital when she was the same age as his eldest girl. He’d been there because her father was out on the Gulf somewhere following a lead. There were no secrets between them. He knew how difficult it was for her to stand there and speak of this atrocity with a degree of distance.
“Yes, of course,” she told him. “Go ahead.”
“He raped her. And then he killed her.”
“Come on, Dev. Don’t be shy with the details. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.” It was nothing she hadn’t experienced before.
“It was a particularly vicious assault, lots of tearing and internal bleeding. But at least it was quick. He bit her shoulder and her neck, severed her jugular. She bled out in minutes. I don’t think she was aware of the rest of what he did to her.”
“Thank God for that.”
He nodded, looking sadly at the still face of the victim that he’d never seen flushed with life.
“You mentioned bites. Human bites?”
Dovion studied the dead girl, his features looking perplexed. “No. Not exactly. No.”
“Are they the same type of wounds you found on those two down in the Quarter?”
“Gautreaux and Surette? Yes, same type.”
“Can you tell if it’s the same perp?” Her breath froze as she waited for his reply.
“I haven’t finished all the testing, but it looks like a different bite radius. My guess: not the same attacker. I’ll have to do some casts to be sure.”
Her eyes closed. Not Max. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Real proof of what she’d already known in her heart.
Dovion was watching her. “What’s going on, Charlotte? What do you know that you’re not telling me? What’s killing these people? Spratt wasn’t the only one, was he? I’d say who, but I think it’s more a what, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know what or who killed this girl. That’s what I was hoping you could tell me.”
He scrutinized her for an uncomfortably long moment then sighed. He clearly knew there was more to it, and someday soon, she knew, he would press harder for that truth. But not today.
“Well,” he said at last, “I will tell you one thing. If you bring in any suspects and you do a line up, you’ll want to do it from the waist down, too.”
She blinked. “Why’s that?”
“Because your boy here is, shall we say, endowed beyond a porn star’s wildest dreams. He literally ripped that poor girl apart.”
DOVION’S WORDS STAYED with her, a cold residue she couldn’t wash away. On mental autopilot, she sat in on a meeting with the investigating team, compared notes with Babineau, checked the too-long list of sex offenders for any similarities. By the time she headed for her car, she was knotted up tight from the effort of keeping it all safely contained inside.
It was late, past nine, so she went to her apartment. No messages on her phone. Nothing in her rooms but shadows. She paced those rooms, arms about herself to control her shivering. Finally she pulled an exquisitely expensive men’s suit jacket from her closet and put it on. The weight, the feel, and the scent pro
vided an immediate comfort. But still, it wasn’t enough to hold the mounting worry at bay.
Not Max, but like Max.
In asking for his help, she was asking him to turn in one of his own. If she couldn’t come up with a believable suspect, how was she ever going to clear Max of suspicion? By having him volunteer a bite impression? How could she exonerate him without revealing what he was? She had to convince him that this was about far more than what she believed. It was about what she could prove to others.
She drove out to River Road, and as her car approached the opening in the stone wall surrounding Legere’s estate, the wrought-iron gates swung wide to let her in.
“He’s not here, Detective Caissie,” she was told by the poker-faced woman who met her at the door. Helen was her name.
“Where is he? When do you expect him back?”
“He didn’t say. Of course, you are welcome to wait.”
There was an uneasiness in that invitation. Jimmy Legere’s former staff wasn’t certain how to treat their new boss’s relationship with the law. He’d told them to open all doors for her, but that didn’t make them happy about it.
“Can I get you something, detective?”
Yes. Max. Get me Max.
“No, thank you,” Cee Cee told her with cool civility, well aware of the woman’s dislike of her. And unwilling to suffer it until Max’s return. “I’ll wait upstairs.”
Helen opened her mouth, then snapped it closed to grit out, “Very good, detective. I’ll tell Mr. Savoie you invited yourself up when he arrives.”
“You do that.” Bitch.
She jogged up the wide curve of the stairs, her starched manner lasting only until she closed the door to Max’s bedroom behind her. Then the need for pretense was gone.
She shed her clothes and slipped under the fine sheets covering Max’s bed, burrowing, huddling, waiting anxiously. Afraid to sleep until she’d had the chance to explain herself to him. Afraid to close her eyes lest the dreams be crouched and ready to spring.
Please, Max. Hurry. I need you.
HE WAS SURPRISED to see her car blocking the front steps. She didn’t know how to park in an accommodating manner. There was little she did do that was accommodating. He slipped inside the house. All was darkness at 3 a.m. He stood at the foot of the stairs, eyes closed, reaching up to her with his highly developed senses.
She was sleeping fitfully, warm and naked in his bed, tears long since dried on her cheeks. The need to go up to her rose in an inevitable tide, one he resisted on this lonely, unhappy night.
Had she come for answers or reassurances?
Probably both.
Or just with more veiled accusations?
He wasn’t in the mood to face any of them.
Soundlessly, while everyone slept but the men paid to watch the surveillance cameras, Max went inside the big, empty room Jimmy Legere had used as his office. He rarely went there. Too many ghosts, too many memories; some bittersweet, some monstrous. Tonight it was a sanctuary, a place to escape the expectations of others.
Months ago he’d stood at Jimmy’s back, content to be in his shadow. He’d enjoyed a spirited flirtation with a certain police detective and he’d pretty much lived his life under the radar. He was avoided, ignored, and had no problem with that. Things were so uncomplicated then. He understood his role. He had no great conflicts of heart and soul. But all that had changed.
He went down to his knees slowly, then wearily onto all fours.
“Jimmy, why did you give me all this without teaching me what to do with it?”
He took a shaky breath, exhausted, uncertain, alone. There was a woman upstairs he loved more than his life, who was about to use and discard him. There was a bloodstain on the floor where he’d lost the only guiding force in his life. He’d been pushed from the shadows into the glare of attention—from the media, from the police, from the various corners of the huge empire he now controlled so blindly, and he felt paralyzed with inadequacy. And a wary alarm.
Someone was stalking him, unseen, for reasons unknown. Someone from his mother’s past, from that mysterious “up north” LaRoche had mentioned? A body lay in the morgue, the nature of death pointing to him in neon. There was no one to trust, no one to confide in. And tonight he could no longer pretend it didn’t matter to him.
He lay down on the cool parquet flooring the way he would if he was in his lowest, most basic form. His hand touched the stain that no amount of scrubbing of wood or conscience could remove. He closed his eyes tightly and whispered, “Jimmy, please. Jimmy, please tell me what to do.”
Four
CEE CEE WOKE to the inviting scent of chicory coffee. It was an effort to drag her eyes open, even more so to recognize where she was. Unrelieved white walls lifting to a twelve-foot ceiling. Cotton sheets as smooth as satin. No roar of road traffic. The sweet tang of mock orange instead of Iberia hot sauce from the crab shack down the street.
“Good morning.”
And a sound like no other: the low seismic rumble of Max Savoie’s voice.
He leaned with his back against the jamb of the French doors that led out onto the balcony. He was dressed in the easy drape of a black suit, his white shirt open at the neck. Short black hair was still damp from the shower and the hard angles of his face were smoothly shaven. With pure morning light reflecting off the green of his eyes, he looked like hot sex in shiny shoes.
She was suddenly wide-awake.
“Why are you already dressed?”
“I’ve got an early meeting in the city and I didn’t want to disturb you.”
Disturb wasn’t exactly the verb that came to mind. “When did you get in?”
“Late. I didn’t know you were going to be here. I’m sorry.”
He didn’t sound it. He sounded . . . wary.
Her confidence jerked to a shuddering halt. “I should have called first. I shouldn’t have assumed I’d be welcome.”
“You can come here anytime. I’ve told you that.”
So why didn’t she feel like it was true this morning? She sat up, keeping the sheet trapped under her armpits. She needn’t have bothered. There was no spark of anything in his steady stare.
“I wanted to see you,” she began carefully. “I wanted to talk to you about the words we had in your office.”
“What words were those?”
He was angry. Or was it something else? Sometimes he was so hard to read. Hell, most of the time she felt like she was stuck with only the foreign language directions that accompanied their relationship. And there weren’t even any pictures to help.
“I know you didn’t kill that girl. I only asked about you being gone because I wanted to be able to eliminate you completely as a possible suspect. I was just doing my job. It wasn’t personal. I’m sorry if it felt that way.”
He didn’t blink. Finally some of the stiffness eased from his expression. “I apologize for feeling offended.”
She smiled. Crisis averted. “Besides, Dovion will be able to confirm that the bite marks on the girl weren’t the same as those on Gautreaux and Surette.”
Max didn’t move. “Was this before or after you decided to have faith in me? Nothing like belief when it’s backed by fact first.”
“Why are you so angry with me?”
That surprised him. “I’m not angry. I never get angry.”
She arched a brow. “Really? Then that must have been someone else threatening to eat that redheaded guy’s face if he didn’t take his hands off me.”
“That wasn’t anger.”
“What was it? Small talk?”
The stern set of his lips twitched.
“If you’re not angry, come over here.”
Caution crept into his gaze.
“Come here. Coward.”
That brought a flash into his stare. He came away from the doorframe and strode to the bed with his strangely graceful yet powerful stride. He stopped just out of reach.
“Closer.”
&nb
sp; He took another step and she stood, catching the lapels of his jacket as the sheet dropped away. She touched her mouth to his, then leaned back. His eyes were closed. He never closed his eyes when they kissed.
“Max, what’s wrong? What is it? Please tell me.”
He rested his head on her shoulder, the breath sighing from him wearily. “It’s nothing. I’m sorry I’m being . . . how do you put it? Pissy? I’m just tired and overwhelmed. I’m not used to having to be everything to everyone, with all of them pulling in different directions.”
“What can I do?”
“Stop pulling.”
She touched the back of his head, letting her fingers trickle through his silky hair. She knew from listening to Babineau that in a relationship, each partner was supposed to be the other’s port in emotional storms. She was at a loss there. Hers wasn’t a quiet, comforting nature; she preferred to wade right in swinging.
Where had Max learned to be so damned perfect at it? All she had to do was hint at an approaching meltdown and he had her wrapped up tight in a cocoon of care. She wanted to do that for him, to be there for him, but she had no nurturing role models to turn to for advice. Babineau’s dewy-eyed wife? No thank you. She’d rather muddle through on her own.
“I’m sorry,” she told him with a cut-to-the-chase candor that wasn’t particularly sensitive, but at least was honest. “I get so caught up in my job that I sometimes forget that you’re in the middle.”
His hands came around her, one sliding between her shoulder blades, one following the curve of her spine down to the small of her back, both making restless, soothing circles. Her body went liquid. Oh, yes. He was damned near perfect.
“It’s okay.”
“If I’m pushing and pulling, it’s because this case is so personal,” she confessed softly. “Everything about it takes me back, makes me feel helpless and scared and angry. I want to nail the man who did this to that poor girl, who made her face all the awful things I had to. Until I have him, I can’t concentrate on anything else, I don’t have time for anything else, I’m no good for anything else. I know that’s not fair, but I’ll make it up to you. I will.”
