by Nancy Gideon
Cee Cee closed her eyes, the image of her father at the breakfast table flashing up before her. His smile as they talked about sports. The sudden shock entering his eyes at impact. The spray on her face that she didn’t notice until hours afterward.
“I need to find him, Alain.” Her words were quiet but determined. “I have to find him.”
She moved quickly back out into the main hall, leaving through the front door to skirt the side of the house beneath the cool overhang of the upper gallery. Francis Petitjohn was settled into one of the wicker chairs murmuring, “My lawyer should be here shortly, boys, then I’d be happy to continue.”
“There are some odd prints in here,” one of the investigators called from Legere’s study. “Do you own some kind of animal?”
Petitjohn smiled as he looked at Cee Cee. “In a manner of speaking. Kind of a family pet.”
He knew she knew.
“Where is he, Francis?” she asked quietly as she stood by the side of his chair.
“The way he looked when he showed up this morning, I don’t think he’s going to be anxious for you to find him, darlin’.”
Her throat knotted up. “Is he all right?”
“I kept Jimmy from blowing his brain out through his eyeballs because of you, and he wasn’t going to do anything to stop it.” He leveled a cool stare at her. “I’d say he’s about the most dangerous thing out there on your streets today. Were I you, I’d be running the other way.”
She found herself wandering the big house where the staff and business employees haunted the halls like uneasy shadows, not quite certain what to do. They didn’t turn to Francis Petitjohn, she noticed.
She observed Max’s room with an ache. How empty and lonely it was, for all its size and sparse luxury. It was as impersonal as a hotel room. Or a posh prison.
She watched as his discarded clothing was catalogued and bagged. The officer raised a brow at the sight of the bloodied, buttonless shirt and waterlogged coat.
Cee Cee glanced about. “Any red tennis shoes?”
“No, just that parking lot of new models there in the closet. Whatever he was wearing at the time of the shooting, he’s probably still got on him.”
Thinking of Max alone outside the safety of these walls, covered in Jimmy Legere, spurred her into action.
She and Babineau returned to the city. Alain went down to the docks to test the atmosphere. Vantour was still missing, probably permanently. When word of Legere’s death reached the other wannabe bosses, the entire area could easily explode in violence until another leader emerged.
Where would Max go?
It was even harder than she imagined to walk up the front steps of St. Bart’s, knowing there was no welcome for her inside. The sanctuary was cold and dark, stinking of smoke and ash. She moved silently up the center aisle, feeling ghosts at her back. The building was empty, waiting for arson and insurance investigations to conclude before reconstruction could begin.
She stopped. There, in the dead layer of soot, was a single print. A tennis shoe.
She looked up and around her. “Max?”
His name echoed. He was already gone.
She prowled the city all day, not knowing where to start, not knowing enough about Max independent of Legere to establish any kind of pattern for his behavior. What he would become without Legere, she had no idea.
A check-in with Babineau provided no relief. The situation simmered. Everyone was restless, nervous, uncertain. No one wanted to make the first move to claim Legere’s territory. The city wouldn’t sleep that night, and neither would she.
Tired, distressed, and drained, she unlocked the door to her apartment, noting a car parked down the block. Someone else was looking for Max, whether it be on her side or his. She waved a hand to let them know they’d been made, and locked her door behind her.
The pigs usually greeted her with greedy whistles for food. Now they were silent, watching her through anxious eyes as she stuffed in a handful of alfalfa. Instead of leaping on it with their usual enthusiasm, they stayed huddled and alert.
Then she noticed red high-tops just outside her bathroom door. She snapped on the light, finding clothes strewn in a bloody trail leading to her shower. The curtain was still dotted with water.
“Max?”
She unsnapped her holster and returned to the hall, cautiously nudging the door to her bedroom wide. The protective grill from her window lay twisted and broken on her bed. The wooden sill was splintered. At first she thought the room was empty. Then she heard the soft snag of his breathing. She circled the foot of the bed to find him huddled, naked, wet, and shivering, with his back to her wall, hugging updrawn knees.
And her heart was gone.
She crouched down, sliding her palm along his shaking shoulders. His head lifted at her touch; an agony of loss filled his unfocused stare. She didn’t say a word, simply joined him in that tiny wedge of space. With a soft sound somewhere between a whimper and howl, a sound that stirred the hair on her neck because it couldn’t have come from anything human, he tipped forward, crawling into her lap like an injured animal, curling around her knees, balling up tight in misery. While she surrounded him with her embrace, with her warmth and care, he began to rock as those eerie wails continued.
She couldn’t see through her tears, lost on the tide of her own remembered anguish, the unforgettable and almost unsurvivable pain of watching a father die. For that’s what Jimmy Legere had been to him.
It was hard to find a place for her hands, with all of him so sleek and bare. She threaded the fingers of one hand through his damp hair, and the other between his own. He clutched tight as her damp cheek pressed to his shoulder.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, her heart wept. Sorry she hadn’t trusted him, that she’d hurt him. Sorry she’d driven out to the violent event on River Road. Sorry she hadn’t been there for him while he wandered lost and in pain, not knowing what to do or where to go.
But he came to her. He’d come back to her.
She kissed his warming skin as a huge knot of possessiveness swelled in her throat.
Slowly he quieted, and simply let her hold him.
No huge sense of closure came in knowing Jimmy Legere was dead. She’d hated him, respected him, and even half liked him at times. He’d been an irascible adversary who’d filled her with purpose, but now that he was gone, the only things that mattered were those he’d left behind: his vast criminal empire, and this man who meant more to her than glorying in her revenge. She would tear one down and build the other up as a final flip-off to Legere.
“Everything’s going to be all right, Max.” She wouldn’t tell him she was sorry about Jimmy; that wasn’t true. He’d started shivering from the chill and shock, so she pulled the comforter from the foot of her bed and bundled it about him, tucking in the bulky ticking, rubbing briskly through the batting. In consoling him, she found herself comforted. The taut, raw feelings inside her began to ease into a manageable ache of loss.
“You’re safe, Max. I’ll protect you. I’ll take care of you. You’re safe with me. Can you trust me?”
A slight nod, but more telling was the way his body relaxed against her.
“You’ll be all right, Max,” she said softly. “We’ll both be all right.”
SHE AWOKE, STARTLED, not from the clutches of her nightmare but because of its absence. It was early, not even five o’clock. Curiously content, she burrowed back into the cocooning warmth with a sigh. An answering murmur had her eyes snapping open wide.
The sense of security came from the wrap of Max Savoie around her.
Sometime during the night, he must have moved them from the cramped huddle on the floor up to her bed. Under the comforter she was still dressed, right down to her holster and shoes. He wasn’t. They were curled together, limbs tangled, bodies overlapping in an intimate sprawl.
A purely irrational longing overtook her: the desire to have him here in her bed, sharing heat, sharing closeness
and comfort, every night. To wake up each morning lost in the strange beauty of his eyes.
Her lack of resistance to the idea should have scared her to death, the same way all the unsavory and supernatural elements of Max’s life should have scared her. But she found herself oddly unafraid.
Aroused by his proximity and lack of attire, she enjoyed the luxury of not having to act on it. As Max had said, there was no hurry. He wasn’t going anywhere and for a few more hours, neither was she. She dozed happily, putting the sorrow, the panic, the uncertainty aside to simply absorb the fulfilling sense of sharing this space with this man. She thought of him as a man, even though that’s not what he was. It was less complicated that way. The heavy drape of his arm across her middle, the soft brush of his breath against her ear, the warm, comforting hollow created by arm, shoulder, and bare chest. Perfect.
When the room lightened with morning, she reluctantly slipped away to make the necessary calls, then returned, unable to help herself, to sit on the edge of the bed and watch him sleep.
There was no sign of the punishment she’d dealt out on his features. Again, she marveled at his strange regenerative abilities and was glad for them. She couldn’t bear to be confronted with how badly she’d hurt him in her madness and rage. Now those emotions seemed far away, and the only thing that was important was protecting Max from those who would misuse him as Legere had. He had risked everything to rescue her from uncertainty and pain; now she would return that favor.
She checked the time, which was passing much too quickly. Leaning forward, she brushed the back of her hand down his cheek.
“Max, time to wake up.”
His eyes opened to a sharp awareness of everything. She watched the events of the past hours fast-forward through his gaze; flickers of hurt, shock, devastation, and loss. Then his stare was carefully guarded.
“Good morning,” she told him with a gentle smile. “I wish I could have let you sleep longer, but it’s going to be a busy day.”
He nodded. “I’m sure you’ve got lots of work to do.”
She expected an edge of irony in his words, but there was none—just a heavy weariness. Her determination to protect him from the events soon to unfold firmed. “And I have to make sure you’re taken care of, first.”
“Taken care of?” He frowned slightly. “What does that mean?”
“My partner’s on his way.” She put her hand on his shoulder to still his recoil. “He’s bringing some clean clothes for you.”
His tension eased a bit. “Okay.”
“Then I want you to go with him. He’ll take you down to the station to make your statement. He’s going to stay right with you through the whole thing.”
“What whole thing?” He sat up, the covers falling to his lap.
Her breath caught. It was extremely difficult not to explore that newly bared terrain with her gaze, with her touch.
“What we talked about last night: keeping you safe and protected.” She put her hand over his, pressing tightly. The instant her grip loosened, he eased his away.
“And where will you be?”
“All hell’s going to break loose, and I’m going to be in the thick of it.”
He smiled faintly. “Where else? You’ll be careful?”
“Of course.” Her hand rubbed along his arm, along the top of his thigh. She wanted to make that touch more personal in the worst way, but didn’t dare with Babineau en route. And she wasn’t sure she should, with Max regarding her so warily.
“And I’ll see you here later?”
“Here? No. I’ll come visit as soon as they okay it. It may be a while, but that’s because I’ve asked them to go the extra mile with you. I don’t want anything to happen.”
“I thought . . .” He glanced around in confusion, then his expression grew impassive once more. “Where will I be? Are you arresting me?”
She laughed, combing her fingers through his hair. “No, of course not. But you’ve got a lot of awfully valuable information that they’re going to need, especially now. They’re going to want to keep you tucked away from any harm.”
“Who’s they?” he asked quietly.
“The district attorney’s office. When I talked to them, they were ready to make you any kind of deal you wanted to throw their way. Make them give you plenty, Max. You deserve it. You’ll be giving them the city on a silver platter.”
“Why would I do that, Charlotte?”
She paused, really looking at him for the first time. Seeing his genuine confusion and objection. “Because you came here for help. And I promised to keep you safe.”
“I came here because of you—not so you could extend me a professional courtesy.”
A terrible suspicion began to unfurl. “Max, what exactly did you think I was offering you?” He didn’t answer, but she read it in his eyes for an unguarded instant.
Sanctuary. Here. With her. And how much more? Then it was gone behind his impenetrable stare.
She touched his unresponsive hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that’s what you were asking.”
He laughed it off with a careless gesture. “Always the cop first. I was being stupid. It was too much too expect. Don’t apologize. I’ve got to go.”
She was losing him.
She reached for him, catching the covers as he slipped out from under them. “Max, listen to me. Let me help you.”
“Your official help wasn’t what I came here for, detective. I’m sorry for the misunderstanding and all the trouble you went through on my account. I can take care of myself.” He was pulling away quickly, defensively, erecting an insurmountable wall of distance.
“Max, please don’t run. Don’t go back. You don’t owe them anything. There’s nothing for you there.”
“And apparently nothing for me here, either, detective.”
A knock at the door distracted her, and by the time she turned back he was standing naked at the window. The sight of him literally stole her breath.
She gulped, then scowled. “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t run around town like that.”
“Good-bye, Charlotte.”
He turned and jumped. By the time he’d cleared her broken window frame, he’d gone completely from man to four-legged beast.
“Max!”
She raced to the window. Looking out, she saw a big lean wolf loping across her street, disappearing between the parked cars into the shadows of the city.
“I’LL BE DAMNED. Will you look at that?”
The comment dragged Cee Cee’s attention from the mound of paperwork she was shuffling through while waiting for news on Mary Kate. She followed the direction of everyone’s attention and the shock hit her like a blow.
In the company of Legere’s high-powered attorney, Max Savoie strode through the station like a visiting celebrity. In a black, beautifully tailored Giorgio Armani suit with stark-white shirt and silk tie that probably cost a cop’s monthly salary, his black hair slick, his skin taut over aggressive bone structure, and his eyes hard as chips of glass, he was no longer the boy who’d snagged her heart at first sight. But he controlled the room with that same purposeful indifference.
“Mr. Savoie has come in to give his statement,” Antoine D’Marco drawled out in his $1,500-an-hour voice. “He wants to cooperate fully in order to bring this matter to a quick resolution.”
“Mr. Savoie, this way.” Junior Hammond was all cold civility.
The moment they were out of sight, Cee Cee rushed to get a front-row seat at the monitor to watch the taping of the only other witness to Jimmy Legere’s death. Max sat calmly and composed at his attorney’s side, while Junior gloated over the turn his case had taken.
“Not hiding behind Detective Caissie’s skirts this time, Savoie?”
“I went a bit higher up the legal food chain.” His gaze shifted to the camera for an instant. He knew she was there, watching. “I’m here voluntarily, Hammond, so play nice or I’m gone.”
Taking him seriously, Hammon
d launched into his line of official questions. Each was answered completely in a low monotone that broke only slightly when he described the concluding events.
“Let me get this straight, Savoie. You were going to let the old guy take you out without a fight?”
“It was his life to take, detective. I don’t expect you to understand.”
Hammond looked dumbfounded, then shook his head. “You got that right. In his statement, Mr. Petitjohn said that he stepped in to keep Legere from shooting you in cold blood. That when he intervened, Legere turned on him with gun in hand. Fearing for his life and for yours, he had no recourse but to fire. Self-defense, or the gunning down of a helpless old guy in a wheelchair? What’s your take on that, Savoie?”
“It happened very quickly. I heard the shot but I didn’t see what occurred. It could have been that way. Jimmy was armed and determined, and he wouldn’t have taken kindly to being interfered with. There was nothing helpless about him. If Francis went cross-grained of him, he had every right to fear for his life. He would have been foolish not to.”
“History repeating itself, and all. So this was a sort of falling out amongst thieves?”
“If you say so, detective.”
“According to Petitjohn, you showed up yesterday morning after having been in a fight. The shirt you were wearing was covered in blood. Whose?”
“Mine.”
“You don’t look any worse for wear.”
“I heal fast.” A slight smile. “And she hits like a girl.”
“She being Detective Charlotte Caissie?”
“That’s right.”
“And you were visiting Detective Caissie in her apartment on on the night of the twenty-third on official business?”
Another faint smile. “No. It was personal.”
Hammond put his hand over the microphone, leaning forward man to man. “How was she?”
Max leaned in close. “You’ll never know.”
Hammond sat back, annoyed. “So you were in Detective Caissie’s apartment for personal reasons when her partner, Detective Alain Babineau, called to inform her of the events at St. Bartholomew’s?”