by Nancy Gideon
Was that why she felt so scared, so lost? Because Max suddenly felt out of reach?
“What do you think?” Babineau asked as they got into their police car and pulled away from the Schoenbaums’ home.
“I don’t want to think she’s the latest vic, but I can’t ignore the timing.”
“I’m sure Manny Blu’s connected. I’d love to bring him down.”
“We have to get closer. That means working with Vice.”
A growl of distaste. “They’re not gonna let us have a piece unless we’ve got some pretty convincing circumstantial evidence to stick on him.”
“Then let’s find something.”
_________
HER PROFESSIONAL NAME was Cocoa. Her rap sheet identified her as Tonya Michaels, and listed her bad habits as ranging from uttering and publishing to solicitation. She’d done time for nickel-and-dime distribution. Alain Babineau had helped her out when an abusive pimp had beaten her boyfriend to death and left her with a broken jaw and too many bruises to count. He’d put the pimp away without bringing her into the mix. She had a four-year-old son she’d been terrified of losing. Babineau had gotten her into a program to kick the drugs and helped her set up a decent home for her boy with a maternal aunt. She’d told him if he ever needed anything, just ask.
Now he was asking. “Manny Blu.”
He and Cee Cee met her at Daisy Dukes on Chartres, close to where she plied her trade, and sat in a booth by the kitchen, trying to look inconspicuous. But then, a six-foot purple-haired hooker wasn’t that unusual in the Quarter.
She picked up a Cajun fry drenched in hot sauce. “That fat fuck? Whatchu want with him?”
“We want to know what you know, Tonya.”
The flamboyant black woman froze up at Cee Cee’s use of her real name. “Why? You lookin’ for a book deal to retire on?”
“I’m looking for the animal who slaughtered three of your sisters of the streets, before he has the chance to make it number four. Could be someone you know.”
Tonya drew her straw distractedly through her iced tea. “I knew JoJo.”
“Marjorie Cole?”
“Yeah. Nice kid.
“How about these girls? Did you know them?” She set the photos of the other two victims down.
Cocoa took a look, then winced away. Then looked again. “Maybe. Lordy Lord. What did he do to them?”
“Terrible things you don’t want to know about. Where do you know them from, Tonya?”
“I don’t know their names. I seen ’em around.”
“Around where, Cocoa?” Babineau coaxed, nudging the photos closer. “You don’t want your little boy to have to ID you from one of these, do you?”
“That’s harsh. That’s just harsh.” But moisture welled up in her heavily lined eyes. “I think I seen ’em at Manny’s club. I can’t be sure. They didn’t look like that.” She shuddered and pushed aside her food. “I only worked there a couple a weeks.”
“Do you still have friends there we could talk to?”
She laughed. “They ain’t gonna talk to no cop.”
Cee Cee leaned forward and put her hand over the other woman’s. “Could you get me inside, so it’d be between us girls?”
Cocoa laughed again. “You a tad old, ain’tcha, sugar?”
Cee Cee refused to let go of her hand. “Yeah, but I’ve got all the right equipment.”
Cocoa gave her a scrutinizing once-over. “Could be you’d do okay. Got nice perky tits.”
“I’m perky all over, and I can remember a drink order.”
A low chuckle. “Who said anything about drinks, sug? Manny ain’t hiring no waitresses.”
A very bad feeling got hold of Cee Cee. “What’s he hiring?”
A huge grin. “Dancers.”
Ten
CEE CEE EXPECTED to see Max in his power suit, but he was dressed all in black—a long-sleeved tee shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes. He looked as sleek as a jaguar, and too sexy for her own good.
“Heya,” he said.
“Hey yourself.”
“You’re early.”
She gestured behind her. “I could go sit in the waiting room. I’ll bet you’ve got a better selection of magazines than we do at work.”
“Sorry, no Soldier of Fortune or Handguns R Us catalogs.”
“Ha-ha. Have you been sitting here thinking up funny things to say?”
“That was pretty much the only one I came up with. Sorry I couldn’t be more clever.”
He was plenty clever. And sly, as well as amusing, when he wanted to be. Which of those was he being now, as he regarded her with a small smile? “What’s on your mind, Savoie?”
“I’ve got some information for you. You asked me about Manny Blu, so I asked some questions.”
“This is about my case?”
“Maybe it would be better if I just showed you. Here, put these on.”
She stared at the stack of dark clothes and jogging shoes he pushed across the glossy desk top. “Is this a date or a B and E?”
His teeth flashed. “Can’t it be both?”
Curiosity and excitement warred with objection. “Savoie, what the hell are you up to?”
“No questions. Don’t ask for my help if you don’t really want it. Now hurry. We don’t have a lot of time. Pete’s waiting to drive us.” He stood and circled the desk to approach her.
“A chauffeur to take us to the scene of our crime?”
He grinned again. “Why not?”
She toed off her heels, grumbling, “I must be crazy to go along with this.”
“Then don’t,” was his mild response. “I’m not forcing you.”
She scrambled to change her clothing. He was maddening, watching her with that half smile, his eyes mocking and smoldering. Getting her heart knocking with anticipation and, yes, lust. This was the Max Savoie she’d fallen for. Cagy, clever, taunting, provoking her into doing what she knew she shouldn’t. And she couldn’t hurry after him fast enough.
Max lounged in the comfortable backseat of the town car, as relaxed as she was edgy.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” He slid a glance at her from the long slant of his eyes, a look that was daring and playful and hot as hell.
She was about to press the issue when his hand settled over hers on the seat between them. His fingers threaded through hers and curled into her palm, possessive and protective. And as she remembered the Schoenbaums’ linked hands, she almost lost it right there.
“What’s wrong, Charlotte?”
The quiet question made her jump. “Nothing. I don’t know.”
“Have I done something? Tell me.”
She couldn’t look at him, twisting with misery. “I don’t know what’s wrong. I’m all balled up inside. I can’t think. I feel off balance somehow.”
“Is it this case?”
“Maybe. No. Not really.” Ridiculous tears burned in her eyes. “I thought for a minute that you asked me to your office for The Talk.”
“What talk?”
“About why dogs and cops shouldn’t live together.”
His blow-your-hair-back laugh burst out before he could catch it, before he realized she was serious. His other hand scooped under her chin, turning her face toward him. His voice was exquisitely tender. “Why would I want to do that, Charlotte? What possible reason would I have?”
She regarded him somberly. “A lot of them, both two- and four-legged.”
A small, mystified smile. “But you’re the reason my heart beats.”
And she forgot everything she’d planned to say to him as emotion pooled deep and hot.
Max’s fingertips brushed over her cheek. “When this case is over, we’ll go away somewhere.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “What do you mean?”
“You and me, on a vacation.”
“A vacation?”
He almost laughed at her tone. As if leaving her city unguarded for even a week was unconsc
ionable. “Yes. I’m sure you’ve never taken one. Where do you want to go? Anywhere you want.”
“The beach.” Her mind began to work, imagining it. Warming to the idea of lying on hot sand with her hot lover, warm seawater splashing over her toes. Nothing but the sound of waves and wind and gulls. “We could go to one of those private resorts, wear next to nothing, rub lotion on each other, and have big fruity drinks the size of goldfish bowls. You’d like Sex on the Beach.”
“I like sex anywhere, as long as it’s with you.”
She grinned. “It’s a drink.”
The car stopped, and he opened the car door and got out. “I think I’ll like the beach. You pick the place, I’ll make the reservations.”
He told the driver, “Wait for us discreetly.”
Cee Cee glanced up and down the tree-lined street. The neighborhood was old money, big houses, high security. She followed Max as he strolled casually down the uneven stone walk, sticking to the deepest shadows. Then he slipped down a narrow lane behind a row of well-fortified homes.
She couldn’t stand it anymore. “What are we doing here?”
“Paying a courtesy call before you go for a warrant.”
“On who?”
“Carmen Blutafino.”
She jerked to a stop, gripping his elbow. “You’re going to break into his house? And you expect me to go with you?”
“And you didn’t think I could plan a date we could both enjoy. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”
“It sounds like forced entry for unlawful purposes.”
“Only if we get caught. Here we are. Formidable, isn’t it?”
A high iron fence made a bristling defense between where they stood and the large pre–Civil War stone house with its moody balconies and most likely haunted past. Despite herself, Cee Cee was sweeping the perimeter with a careful gaze.
“He’s got cameras and motion detectors. How do you expect—”
The lights went out for a few blocks, plunging them into darkness. She could see the flash of Max’s grin.
“Jimmy had some very talented and influential friends. One has a very nice job with the power and electric company. I suggest we make use of our time. Up you go.”
He gripped her waist, hoisting her high enough to catch one of the branches of the giant live oak that draped across the fence boundary.
“Can you stand up on my shoulders? Hey, you’re pretty good at this.” He held her steady while she got to her feet. “Were you ever a cheerleader? I’d have quite an eyeful now if you were wearing one of those short little skirts.”
“Horn dog,” she hissed, using the top of his head as a step to boost herself up into the tree. Crouching on the branch, she put down her hand. “Let me help you—”
Suddenly the limb bounced as he landed right beside her. “Thanks. I got it.”
“Now that we’re up here playing Tarzan and Jane, you want to tell me what we’re after?”
“Ooh, now you’ve got me distracted by thoughts of you in leopard skin. Keep your mind on the business at hand, Detective, and your hands to yourself.” He swung around her and began to climb.
She sighed, aggravated and intrigued. And having fun. She started after him. “If you were Tarzan, I’d be looking up your loincloth.”
“And enjoying it, you naughty girl.”
The centuries-old oak covered the entire side yard, topping the three-storied house by a good fifteen feet. Max moved with the confidence of an aerialist to the end of one of the gnarled branches, then had Cee Cee’s heart in her throat as he leaped across a seemingly impossible distance to grip the roof’s overhang with one hand, then twisted to land effortlessly on one of the upper galleries. Then he beckoned.
She eyed the six-foot gap from tree to porch and the distance to the ground below. And shook her head, whispering, “No fucking way.”
Max laughed at her, his hands reaching out. “Jump. I’ll catch you,” he whispered back.
She looked down again. Way, way down. She swallowed hard. “What if you miss?”
“I’ll apologize.” He beckoned again. “Come on. Jump. Don’t be such a girl.”
She growled and took a huge breath, then she jumped.
Time seemed to hold her aloft as she stretched her hands out to Max. His were so close, ready for her.
Then gravity kicked in, and she started to drop like a brick.
The air squeezed from her lungs as his arm cinched around her, scooping her up and tossing her as if she was weightless. Her feet touched down next to him, and her knees gave way.
Her arms locked around him, hanging on as if still in mid fall. Nothing had ever felt better than his hard, lean body.
“Safe and sound,” he said smugly.
“That was easy,” she wheezed, pushing away before she went all soft on him. “Okay, what the hell are we doing here? Come clean before I cross that threshold into criminal activity.”
“Carmen doesn’t trust anyone, so he keeps all his important papers here under lock and key. He keeps a file on everyone he’s ever interviewed, complete with pictures. Including the girls who work in his clubs.”
“He’s got pictures?” Oh, this was too good to be true.
“Shall we take a peek and see if we recognize anyone?”
“Oh, baby, you know how to plan a date.”
“You can thank me properly when we get home.” He drew out two pairs of thin surgical gloves. “I remembered protection.”
“What a guy.”
He disabled the security items on the door with ease, then waved her inside. “Jimmy brought a famous second-story man down from the East Coast to teach me how to gain illegal access to just about any place, for times when skill is more expedient than brute force.”
“Education is a wonderful thing.”
By the narrow beam of Max’s penlight, they started tossing Carmen Blutafino’s office—and struck the jackpot when Max finessed the locked drawer of his desk.
Cee Cee pushed him aside in her eagerness and raced through the alphabet. Cole, Marjorie. Her throat tightened. She had no names for the other two, so she hurried through the hundreds of youthful faces, trying to mentally match them to the morgue Jane Does.
Patsy Gleason.
Shawnee Potts.
“Is that them?” Max asked softly, peering over her shoulder. She nodded. “Take them and let’s go.”
“I can’t take them, Max.”
“Why not?”
“Unlawful search and seizure. They could never be used as evidence.”
“Get a warrant and come back.”
“On what grounds? That we saw their files while we were ransacking his house? I have to do this the right way, Max.”
A way that felt almost impossible as she slipped the folders back into place.
“At least you have the names.”
“Which is more than I had this morning. Let’s get out of here.” She moved away from the desk, feeling as if she was abandoning the pleading faces of those four girls in the drawer. Because she’d seen Kelly Schoenbaum’s name in there, too.
Then the lights came on, and with them the wail of the alarms.
Max hustled her out onto the balcony. “No time for delicacy, Detective.” He picked her up and threw her.
Arms and legs pinwheeling, she found herself floundering in the leafy branches. She grabbed on and got her balance before turning back to Max, who’d made no move to follow.
“Go on. Don’t wait for me,” he said.
“Max!”
“Have Pete take you back to your car. I’ll tidy up here. Go on, Charlotte—go!”
Lights were coming on in the lower rooms now.
Cursing, she shinnied down the tree and sprinted through the shadows.
Max smiled to himself, then quickly finished up in the room. He relocked the French doors from the inside, then slipped out into the hall just as he heard rapid footsteps rounding the landing below. Putting on his wraparound sunglasses, he ducked into the
room opposite where a small boy was sitting up in bed, rubbing the sleep away.
Max crossed the room in quick strides, putting a finger to his lips with a quiet, “Shhh. Sorry to wake you.”
Before the child could blink Max was out the window, dropping to the flowerbeds below. And by the time Lena Blutafino rushed to her son’s side, he was gone.
CEE CEE DIDN’T waste any time worrying about Max. He’d managed to evade criminal charges his entire life, and she didn’t doubt he’d slip these as well.
She also didn’t allow her conscience time for browbeating. Instead, she chafed at the restrictions of a job that kept her from doing it as justice demanded.
What was the chance that those files would still be there if she got a warrant? The second Manny Blu was alerted to a B and E, he’d hide every sliver of potentially damning evidence in a new location. But what could she do? She knew the rules, the reason and necessity for them.
Yet, she wondered bitterly, what rules had applied when three girls, possibly four, were being cruelly tortured?
It was late by the time Pete pulled up beside her car. There were no lights on in the building, so apparently Max wasn’t back yet.
“I’ll wait for him, Miss Charlotte,” Pete told her as he held open the door. “You go ahead and leave.”
Maybe some precedent for due cause would come to her weary mind on the drive out. If not, at least she’d have Max to work out her frustrations on.
She was fishing her keys out of her pocket when she noticed a manila envelope wedged under her wiper blade. Pete was waiting to make sure she was safely away, and there was no sign of anyone else.
She unlocked her door and retrieved the envelope before sitting behind the wheel, where she took a minute to see what someone had left her.
And stared at the contents.
Three files. Three photos. And three job applications with notations written in Carmen Blutafino’s hand.
Eleven
BYRON ATCLIFF SAT at his kitchen table in a silk paisley dressing gown and leather slippers, his hair sticking up at odd angles. But being pulled from his bed at three in the morning didn’t lessen his authoritative manner as he glared at his two detectives.
“Why not just request a warrant?”
