by Nancy Gideon
Her tone had grown hard and fierce, vibrating with the passion that made her job more than just that. She hadn’t meant it to take over; she’d wanted to concentrate on him—and here she was shoving him out of the way.
It was a vendetta she had against those who harmed the innocent. She and Mary Kate Malone had gone after their demons in different ways. She became a cop. Mary Kate became Sister Catherine. And both used Max as a tool toward that personal and spiritual vengeance. And what a fierce, avenging tool he was.
Max stepped away from the temptation of Charlotte Caissie. He held her gaze with a flat stare, giving her what she wanted.
“I went to the club last night after I left your apartment. I went to see to my promise.” He told her the gist of his conversation with Jacques LaRoche, perhaps unintentionally confining the information to the dock clan—not including the spooky unknowns of the North. Nor did he share the disturbing contacts he’d had from that unidentified source. He wasn’t sure he wanted her exploring those areas, for the protection of all involved.
Her expression grew thoughtful, her attention focused beyond the room where she stood naked beside his bed. She might as well have been wearing a uniform.
“Do you believe him? Did you get the sense he was trying to cover up for someone?”
Max shrugged. “Yes and no. I don’t think he was lying to me, but I’ve no reason to think he’d be entirely truthful if it wasn’t to his advantage.” He quickly skimmed her sleek nudity. “You should get dressed, detective, since you’re already on the clock.”
She eyed her rumpled clothes. “Can I borrow a shirt?” Then she added a bit shyly, “Maybe I should start leaving a few things here.”
“If you like,” he murmured with an astonishing lack of enthusiasm, after he’d campaigned so ardently for her to claim a small portion of his closet. “I have to go.”
“I can give you a lift in, if you can wait for me to grab a shower.”
“Thanks, but I’m in a hurry.”
Piqued by his gruff rejection, she jerked a T-shirt out of his dresser, grumbling, “I don’t remember Jimmy Legere running into the city every day.”
“Jimmy had people there that he trusted. I don’t. I have to be on top of things or they’ll get pulled out from under me. I’ll let you know if I find out anything else that might interest you.”
She slipped his shirt over her head. For a moment, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“Good-bye, detective.” His words were soft and tight-throated.
As he started to turn away, she said, “Max? When will I see you?”
“I don’t know. It seems like we’re both too busy to find time for each other.”
Something anxious swelled within her heart and filled her uplifted gaze. “Find time.”
He smiled faintly. “I’ll try if you will.”
She waited until she heard the front door close before going out onto the balcony, leaning against the railing. He emerged from the shadow of the house to stride across the lawn toward the carriage house where Legere’s marvelous collection of cars was kept. Cars Max didn’t know how to drive. One of which he’d given to her as a gift.
She loved watching him. He moved differently when he thought he was alone. Quicker. So quick, sometimes he seemed to blur. The irony of him going off to work at LE International troubled her. Jimmy Legere’s teasing, relentlessly lovelorn leg breaker was now a somber executive in his designer suit and Italian leather. Something gave way in her chest, like a lynchpin holding the gate to her emotions closed.
Gripping the rail, she leaned out and said softly, “I love you, Savoie.”
He stopped.
For a moment he just stood there in the damp grass, the slant of early sunrise gleaming off his dark head. Then he turned, gaze lifting. Nothing changed in his expression as he touched his fingertips to his mouth and waved the kiss her way.
His image shimmered, forcing her to blink rapidly. “Wait!” she called.
She darted back into his room, returning in seconds.
“You forgot your shoes.”
He caught the red high-tops she tossed down, holding them to his chest in bemusement.
“You’re mine, Max. I’m not going to let them have all of you.”
He levered off the shiny shoes that had become a frightening symbol of the changes demanded from him. Then he slipped into the Converses—the footwear of her savior of twelve years ago, of the man who’d courted her with unflagging determination and simmering innuendo, of the lover who’d stolen her affections and filled her dreams with a sense of safety. He laced them quickly, then straightened.
Her desire for him began to simmer. “You are so hot.”
He smiled. “Get some clothes on before I’m tempted to come back inside.”
Boldly she gripped the hem of the T-shirt and pulled it up to her chin.
He blinked, then his sober expression split with a wide, wicked grin.
“See you soon,” she called down to him, restoring her modesty and his ability to breathe.
“Yes, you will.”
He strode away, leaving the shiny shoes in the grass. She could hear his low chuckle, and was able to let him go.
Max entered the garage, still smiling foolishly, to find Giles St. Clair, his quasi bodyguard, lounging on the hood of a BMW, slurping up a bowl of grits with red-eye gravy.
The big thug grinned and nodded toward the house. “Nice way to start the morning, with breakfast and a show.”
Max drew up short, a dangerous glitter in his eyes. At one time, that look would have reduced the larger man to quivering. Now he simply set his bowl aside with a good-natured laugh.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. You’ll eat my eyes on toast. Might be worth it, if that’s the last picture stuck on my brain.” He opened the car door. “You’re a lucky man, Max.”
He considered that with some surprise, then answered quietly, “Yes. Yes, I am,” as he got in the car.
WITHOUT MAX IN it, the huge house held no appeal. Cee Cee pulled on her stale clothes and snatched up her keys. Cup of coffee in hand, she went downstairs, slowing when faced with the austere glare of the housekeeper.
She hoisted her cup. “Great coffee. Thanks, Helen.”
“Is there anything else I can get you, detective? I was just about to straighten up Mr. Legere’s office after Mr. Savoie slept there last night.”
Oh, what a not-so-subtle jab to the kidney that was. Cee Cee regarded Helen with reassessing eyes. “I think I’d like some eggs hussarde. You can bring them to me in the study. Thank you, Helen. You’ve made me feel right at home.”
She stepped inside Jimmy Legere’s office, hesitating just inside the door because she could feel the old bastard’s disapproval of her presence vibrating through the room. The gloating sense of victory she allowed herself faded when she saw Max’s coat on the red leather couch, where he must have slept beneath its drape instead of coming upstairs to share the sheets with her.
Why hadn’t he come up? Why hadn’t he stayed with her in her apartment? Things had been going so wonderfully well, in her inexperienced estimation. Why all the tension and mixed messages now? It wasn’t her fault the city had pulled the plug on their idyllic vacation week. It made her head ache, trying to decipher his almost invisible signals and to second-guess how he might interpret her every word. He was pissed off about her questioning him—that much she got. And, okay, she didn’t blame him. But he knew that was her job, so what was the big deal?
She needed to get him back into bed. They never had any trouble understanding each other there.
She made a wide circle around the rusty stains on the floorboards, remembering the harsh pang of horror she’d felt when she’d expected that gruesome splatter of blood and brain to be Max’s instead of Jimmy’s.
“You’ve lost, Jimmy. Let him go. Let him the fuck go.”
“Excuse me, detective. Did you want one egg or two?”
Cee Cee gave a guilty start, then faced
the scowling housekeeper. “One.”
Helen began to turn, then confronted Cee Cee with a level stare. “Mr. Legere doted on him, you know.”
“I know.”
“And Mr. Max loved Mr. Legere like a father. You’re the reason he’s dead. Max may care for you, but he’s never going to forget that. Not ever.”
“I know that, too.”
“Show some respect when you’re in this house.”
“It’s Max’s house now.”
“You think so? Then you’re a fool. Did you still want your egg?”
“Yes. Please. On second thought, make it two. I find myself wanting to tear into something substantial.”
Her combative manner fell away when the older woman left. Because Helen was right. Jimmy Legere, living or dead, would always stand between any complete happiness she might have with Max. As long as he lived in this house, he would belong to the man who had raised him on that short leash. And by letting her job drive an even bigger wedge between them, she was playing right into Jimmy’s selfish hands.
She picked up Max’s coat, bringing the battered brown leather up to her nose. She slipped her arms into the sleeves and wrapped its generous bulk around her, enjoying its weight and warmth. Comforted, strengthened by the feel of him about her, she crossed to Jimmy’s antique desk, plopping into the chair from which the old bandit had played puppeteer with the strings tying him to the interests he controlled throughout New Orleans. Interests on both sides of the law. Interests Max and Jimmy’s vile cousin, Francis Petitjohn, who’d killed Legere in hopes of gaining his power, now managed in a precarious truce. She glanced at the blank computer screen, let her fingertips run over the silent keys. What secrets were held on its hard drive? What answers to the mysteries plaguing her life?
Would she find the truth behind her father’s death?
The computer was probably passworded.
Her forefinger tapped restlessly on the space bar.
Who would know it?
Max had told his household staff to grant her access to anything and everything in it. All she had to do was ask. Open sesame. She moved the mouse around, imagining Jimmy directing the rise and fall of companies, of lives, with the same movement.
Would she find a connection between Legere and the death of Sandra Cummings in some innocuous file with a simple double click?
And if she executed that double click, would she be irreparably damaging the fragile trust that bound her and Max together?
Yes. She pushed the mouse away, and pushed away from the temptation.
She stalked out into the hallway, nearly colliding with Jasmine, the pretty young servant whose duties she hadn’t yet determined.
“Would you tell Helen I’ve changed my mind about breakfast? I have to go. Thank her for her trouble.”
“Yes, detective. Is that Mr. Savoie’s coat?”
“Yes, it is. Tell him I’ll take good care of it. He knows where to find it. And me.”
MAX WOULD NEVER have guessed her destination. If he’d suspected, he would have put a stop to it.
It was late afternoon, happy hour in most Big Easy establishments. Cheveux du Chien was no exception; alternative species were apparently equally eager to shake off the dust of labor with a cold one. She’d parked her car at a discreet distance to watch the comings and goings, while sipping coffee and taking pictures. It still amazed her. Here was a totally unknown race living, working, and breeding right in the heart of the city, under the very noses of its citizens and law enforcement officials. A race with its own culture, its own community, its own rules. And its own predators.
She was all about “live and let live,” but one of them had ended that right to live for one of hers, and that could not be ignored. She had a plan in mind. Not a great one, but it was a start. She’d show the pictures to Sandra Cummings’s friends and see if any of the images looked familiar. Maybe she’d get lucky. Maybe it was as simple as an imagined slight on the sidewalk, a discouraged advance at the bar that had triggered the attack.
She glanced down to put her empty cup into its holder, and turned back with the camera’s viewfinder to her eye. But instead of the group of laborers on the opposite sidewalk, her screen was filled with a row of sharp canine teeth.
“Oh, fuck me!”
She lunged backward, trying to scramble over the gearshift column as hands reached through the open window to grip Max’s jacket and drag her toward the door. Three of them stood next to her car, and none of them looked like they were there to ask her to join them for a drink. With her elbows pinned between the seat and the wheel, and her holster at the small of her back, there was no room to grab for her gun. She went for the automatic window. Before it had whirred halfway up, one of them smashed it off the track.
Writhing and cursing, she was pulled against the window frame with enough force to split the skin on her forehead. The feel of blood beginning to ooze sparked her temper and determination. She popped the door handle and threw herself against it, knocking the one who’d had a hold of her off balance. She came out low, in a roll, slipping between them to come up to her feet, her pistol quickly wedged up beneath one’s chin.
“I’m a detective with the NOPD. Back off,” she snarled at the other two. When they didn’t heed the warning, she nudged the barrel more meaningfully. “Whaddaya say, sport? Wanna take one for the team, or do you tell them to stand down?”
The one she held on to dropped and feinted to the side. A jarring blow to her forearms from another numbed her fingers and her pistol clattered to the ground. Blood dripping into her eyes, she’d assumed an aggressive stance, ready to take on the three of them, when her elbows were suddenly clamped from behind.
“Here now, what’s this? Easy, Detective Pretty. Nobody’s gonna hurt you.” She recognized the drawling voice of Jacques LaRoche’s second in command, the redheaded Philo Tibideaux.
Contrarily she kicked out at the creature closest to her, the toe of her boot in his kneecap sending him stumbling back with a howl.
Tibideaux gave her an eyeball-rattling shake. “Stop it now.” To the others he said brusquely, “What’s going on?”
Her camera was recovered from the car, a damning bit of evidence quickly crushed between heel and pavement.
Cee Cee demanded, “I want to see LaRoche. Take me to him.”
“Do you now? Does Savoie know you’re here?”
She said nothing.
“I thought not.” Tibideaux pushed her to one of the others, then bent to pick up her gun. “Hang onto her. Careful, she bites. And be careful you don’t go bruising her, or Savoie might just bite off your head.”
With Tibideaux leading the way, they dragged her down the alleyway to the entrance of the Shifter club. Once inside, she realized her mistake. She had no advantage here. She was in an alien world where her badge meant nothing. The only way she was going to get out alive was on sheer bravado and Max Savoie’s name.
LaRoche was tending bar for the first-shift crew, who still wore their work clothes and smelled like the docks. They were immediately aware of her, picking up her human scent and turning almost as one to stare in hostile challenge. The low lighting glinted off ruby flickers in their eyes.
Only LaRoche offered a welcoming smile, a feral showing of teeth.
“Detective, what a surprise. If you’re looking for Savoie, he’s not here.”
“She ain’t here to socialize,” Philo told him. With a lithe move, he vaulted the bar and leaned in close to whisper something to his boss. Though there was no change in his expression, Cee Cee could feel LaRoche tense.
“Take over for me here, Tib, whilst I make some talk with the detective.” He handed Tibideaux the rag he was using to swab out glasses in exchange for the police-issue weapon and circled out from behind the bar. He was huge, easily six foot six or better, and all of it bulky muscle. He took Cee Cee’s elbow, his dinner-plate-sized hand gentle but firm. “Let’s you and me sit down a spell, detective. You want something from the
bar? On the house.”
“No. Thank you.”
“Suit yourself.”
He steered her through the crowd, up into the top tier of tables that were empty this early in the day. From there they could oversee the room and not be overheard, since the sound system was pounding decibels down like a heavy rain. LaRoche held out a chair for her, then turned the opposite one around so he could straddle the seat and lean meaty forearms upon its back as he studied her.
“Are you stupid?” he asked mildly. “You don’t have the look of stupid about you, detective, but I could be wrong. Look down there. That’s no petting zoo, darlin’. With half a reason, they’ll turn you into a bar snack.”
“Is that what one of them did to Sandra Cummings?”
He said nothing for a long minute. When he finally spoke, his tone was rough with impatience. “How you think it is that you knew nothing of us? How you think we live here, right in the middle of all you Uprights, like we was invisible? Because we work to stay that way, cher. You think you can clickety-click your pictures and show them to the world? I don’t think so. What are we gonna do about you, detective?”
“Help me do my job, so others won’t figure out what I know. Others who have no reason to keep quiet about it.”
He frowned at that. “You think if I knew who did this careless, dangerous thing it wouldn’t have been dealt with by now? And believe you me, detective, our ways of dealing with them who threaten our secret are a lot more final than yours. That’d be true even if it was Savoie’s doing, now that he’s one of ours.”
That set her back in surprise, then had her bristling up. “It wasn’t Max.”
“I didn’t say it was, darlin’. I’m just saying that what he done in the past, him and that other fella, brought a lot of attention to things we don’t want considered. You done a right fine job of tidying up after Ben Spratt, hiding what he was behind a bunch of smoke and mirrors. We appreciated that, but know you done it for Max, not us. But if we go down, he goes down. There’s no way to separate him from us anymore.”
“I need to find this killer. If I don’t, someone else will. And that someone else won’t be playing kissy face with Savoie or give a damn about any of you.”
