by Nancy Gideon
Kip opened his mouth to argue ‘awful’ didn’t cover the magnitude of leaving mutilated bodies for him to clean up, but respected Phe’s subtle elbow to his ribs and changed the topic.
“What’s she planning here, Olivia? You know she means to kill us all.”
Blue eyes went wide. “No. That’s not true. I made her promise you wouldn’t be touched.”
“Can you say the same for my brothers and their mates? For Dr. LaRoche who helped you recover? For those children and mothers you and Phe helped find better lives? What about them?”
Her mouth pursed in an impatient frown. “We helped them help themselves. We’re not responsible for what happens to them for the rest of their lives.”
“Yes, we are, Liv,” Phe argued gently. “That’s what Mama would have wanted.”
“She wasn’t my mama!” A dangerous glint flashed through Olivia’s glare. “Or yours, either.”
“Who was, Liv? Do you know?”
Taking a calming breath, she smiled, ignoring that tortured question. “I’m not here to fight with you or take sides. I wanted to let you know you’ll be protected. You don’t have to be afraid. You and the children will be fine.”
“Fine?” Kip laughed. “We’ll be prisoners. The children will be reprogrammed into monsters.”
“Like me, you mean.”
His silence spoke that answer.
Olivia reached out to squeeze Phe’s arm. “If you want to keep them safe, keep them here. Keep them close to you. I can’t make any promises for what goes on in the city.”
“What’s going to happen there, Liv? When will it happen?”
She hugged her sister tight, whispering, “I don’t know. But it’ll be soon. Please, please stay out of New Orleans.”
“What about Dad?”
Olivia leaned back, expression tight and fierce. “Let him burn.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Something was off.
Max’s belly clenched into a fist as he forced slow, steady breaths.
He’d insisted Cee Cee wait in the car while he scouted the clinic around the corner. Nothing seemed awry. A typical overcast morning. Beat cops strolling the banquette with cups of brutally strong coffee nodded to one of the very pregnant patrons of Bright Haven as she left the careworn building. Nothing to warrant a ripple of electroshocks to the hair along his arms.
He smiled as his mate, sporting the huge artificial belly, struggled awkwardly to get out of the car. He didn’t dare help. She’d let him drive, unable to fit comfortably behind the Camaro’s steering wheel, and had held her breath the entire time, watching him shift gears with a protective scowl. And was still glowering as he approached.
“All clear, Daddy?”
Daddy. Max grinned wide. “So, it would seem, little Mama. But even New Orleans’ finest patrolling the streets doesn’t make them safe enough for the cargo you’re carrying.”
She sniffed at that. “Stop smothering me, Savoie, or I’ll show you just how helpless this little mama really is. You’re here as a condition, not a necessity.”
“Understood.” His tone might be firm, but his gaze softened with concern. “Be careful. Something’s not quite right here.”
“Must be your pregnancy hormones working overtime,” she grumbled, trying to push him out of the way. He held firm then just held her, as close as she’d allow in broad daylight. Her strong body melted slightly but didn’t completely thaw as he whispered, “I adore you, sha. Is that a crime?”
“Not in my book.” She gave his ass a quick squeeze then shoved him away. “Stay put. I’ll let you know if I need backup. I’m wired for sound, so you can relax.”
“I am relaxed.”
“Liar.”
After she did a mic test, he couldn’t resist planting a kiss on those tightly pressed lips, pulling back before they softened. She made a firm stay put gesture and was off to work.
Leaning a hip against the screaming orange car, Max enjoyed the view as she lumbered in her disguise across the busy street. A sneak peek of four months from now? No. Charlotte Caissie would never look ungainly even if she got what she disparagingly called big as a Mardi Gras float. She disappeared around the corner, putting him instantly on point, not relaxing even when she relayed via earbud, “Looks clear. Couple of the city’s finest loitering around, so you’re off the hook.”
Not quite. She was his job, not theirs. He wouldn’t relax until she was sharing the bucket seats with him on their way back to River Road.
– – –
Cee Cee couldn’t see him, but the feel of her mate close by was as reassuring as a bullet-proof vest. She’d never asked for special protection on the job, not for herself, but baby-on-board changed everything except her determination to bring closure if not comfort to those mothers and babies who’d died. Or worse. This was her chance. A hurried call from Dr. Jones advised that an unexpected visitor was arriving to talk with her about funding her programs. No particulars. All her cop instincts vibrated. Someone was snapping up the bait Leo Pomerelli had planted with his life.
In her raggedy guise as Sondra Thomas, she entered Bright Haven for Women for her ‘appointment.’ Kinesha Jones was talking in back with an unknown man. Staying out of sight, she spoke his description quietly into the wire that reached out and touched her small team of Joey Boucher and Junior Hammond, as well as Max Savoie.
“White male business-type, approximately thirty-five, five-ten, one eighty, black over blue. Left-handed, Ivy League ring. Mole under left eye. Not previously known to doctor.”
In a louder voice, she called out while advancing into the clinic, “Dr. Jones? It’s Sondra. I be here for my 11:00,” drawing their attention. The doctor offered a careful smile.
“Miss Thomas, we were just talking about you.”
The hair under Cee Cee’s wig prickled at her nape. The affable doctor always called her clients by their first names. Smiling as if nothing was amiss, she pretended excitement. “About adopting my baby?”
The slickly handsome man came around the desk to offer his hand, smile wide and pretty. Blue eyes gleamed like soulless gems. “Miss Thomas, my name is Jeffrey Maitlin. I operate a clinic in Chicago, like this one only on a much larger scale. One of our clients has been searching for someone like you.”
“Like me?” Cee Cee pretended delight while thoughts scrambled. Chicago. Pretty damned confident to act so bold on her back steps.
“Just like you. We need to do some very specific tests. Just to make sure. Would that be all right? A little blood draw to get started if you don’t mind.” He took hold of her elbow, leading her toward the back of the office. At the same time, his smile ebbed and those ice chip eyes went glacial. That cold stare lifted to focus behind her as he tapped his ear.
Blue shirted uniforms sporting the Star and Crescent patch appeared beside her at either shoulder. Street cops?
As Cee Cee took an offensive step forward, strong hands gripped her arms, and her mic was stripped away. Maitlin’s smile never faltered. Another shadowed figure stepped up behind Dr. Jones, abruptly felling her with a blow to the back of her head. She crumpled without a sound.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Detective,” Maitlin drawled, cold stare contradicting him. “You have caused us considerable time and money, but the result will be worth it.” To the others, he ordered, “Burn it down. I have what I came for.”
– – –
Though only static came though the headset, Cee Cee’s voice was clear in his mind.
“Max, I need you. Hurry!”
By the time he reached the clinic at a dead run, smoke seeped from under the door. Contact with the knob burned his palm as he flung it open to find flames had fully engaged the file room and raced across sagging ceiling tiles into the waiting area and down the outer wall. An acrid fog made visibility all but impossible. He could sense her but couldn’t see her.
“Charlotte!”
As he pushed into the caustic smoke, he could just make out t
hree shadowy figures engaged in vigorous hand to hand. As one went down hard and another reeled backwards, Cee Cee’s raw shout reached him, “I’ve got this handled. Get Dr. Jones. In back. She’s hurt.”
Though instinct growled for him to protect her first, he heeded her wishes over his pride, advanced rapidly into the thickening haze. “Dr. Jones!”
Covering his mouth with the flap of his coat, he heard nothing over the snap of flames except the wail of approaching sirens and his own heartbeats thrashing in his ears.
The sight of a body stretched out on the floor snatched away what little breath he had left. Scooping the limp figure into his arms, Max made a hurried retreat as heat and smoke filled the waiting area with noxious fumes and the sickeningly sweet odor of burned flesh. He couldn’t see anything through the blanketing haze.
“Charlotte!”
“Out here!” her mental call directed.
He stumbled from the building where fresh air triggered a paroxysm of coughing. Max collapsed to his knees between the truck and pumper angled outside the building. Choking, gasping, he surrendered the gravely injured doctor into the hands reaching for her.
A soft, compassionate voice assured, “We got her, sir. We’ll take care of her.”
While paramedics worked over the yet unresponsive figure, Max struggled to his feet, more overcome by fear than by the acrid smoke.
And then he saw her.
One uniformed man lay face down on the wet pavement, hands secured behind him while Cee Cee clapped handcuffs on another kneeling next to him. Her fake stomach was dangling by a single strap beneath an open coat that was as singed as the blues of the patrolmen. Her face wore streaks of soot, the mangled wig laying on the pavement beside her like a small animal victim of a hit and run. Coughing interrupted a terse reading of Miranda rights, but she got through them before finally looking up.
Their stares locked. Her smile broke wide and white against grimy skin.
She was the most glorious thing he’d ever seen.
– – –
After gulping down his third bottle of water, Max demanded, “What have you found out?” He’d been cooling his heels at the Institute for over an hour while Cee Cee was put through an all-points checkup by Dr. LaRoche.
The two detectives exchanged solemn looks. Finally, Junior Hammond put their grim knowledge into words.
“We got nothing. Me and Boucher got rerouted to a potential officer-involved shooting.”
“Leaving one of your own?” Max growled, struggling to contain his inner beast.
Seeing his eyes flash red, the younger officer spread his hands wide. “We were radioed that the op had been called off and were put on the other call. No way in hell we’d just walk off and leave her on her own, Mr. Savoie.”
They’d been lured away.
“No record of that call to us. The guy Charlotte ID’d,” Hammond intoned, “doesn’t exist. No Jeffrey Maitlin, doctor, dentist, or dog catcher in Chicago or anywhere else that fits the description. Na-fuckin’-da.”
Max leapt up, pacing the tiny waiting room. “They pulled you off. What about the uniforms?”
“Bar bouncers trying to make it as bit part actors.” Hammond shrugged. “They was told they were extras in an action flick. Hell, you can’t turn a corner ′round here without tripping over a film crew or folks asking if you’re one of them NCIS TV fellas so’s they can take a picture with you.”
Boucher snorted. “Pity them that got theirs taken with your ugly mug.” He fended off Junior’s swat and added, “Your missus gave ′em a good going over. PR’s talking them outta filing a complaint by getting them a bit part on the series.”
Someone had orchestrated a nice little kidnapping. And he knew damned well who was behind it all.
All three stood as Susanna LaRoche entered the room, preceding a stoic Charlotte Caissie. Before Max could ask, the doctor lifted a placating hand.
“No worries. Everything’s fine. A couple of bruises, a little raw from smoke inhalation, but nothing that won’t heal.”
Dark eyes filled with a fire of their own, Cee Cee snapped, “I wish we could say the same about Dr. Jones.”
“Any word yet?” Max asked gently.
“No.” She sighed and blew out a hoarse breath before leaning in to reward her mate with a quick, tender kiss. “Thanks, Savoie. She’s alive because of you.”
Before he could grab onto her and hustle her home, she was turning away, all business.
“Give me a lift, fellas. Atcliff wants my report ASAP.” She looked back at Max. “See if you can find out anything about a Richard Maitlin from MacCreedy. He has . . . connections in the North.”
“I will, Detective.” He started to offer a smile, but she was already gone.
– – –
Carmen Blutafino, resplendent in an electric blue suit with a gaudy patterned waistcoat straining to contain his girth, regarded his guest with a knowing smile and a smirky, “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
“I doubt it’s unexpected,” Max growled. “Who hired your two thugs to grab her?”
“By ‘her,’ you mean Detective Caissie?”
“My wife. The expectant mother of my child.”
Manny sighed and gestured to a chair. “I’m hurt you’d think me stupid enough to make that move.”
“I know you’re not.” Max sat, but none of the considerable threat eased from his tense form. “Who is?”
“Since you’ve managed to annoy just about everyone in the community and out, that list is very long. It might take you, oh, forever to narrow it down.”
“Cut to it, Manny,” his nemesis snapped, this time without taking any flesh with it. “What do you want?”
Amusement fell away from a hard-edged fury. “A little respect would be nice.”
Max’s shoulders relaxed. He managed a tight smile. “I’ve always had respect for you as a criminal. I learned that from Jimmy. I’ve enjoyed our games of chance, one professional to another. This isn’t a move I’d expect from you. But little goes on in this city that you’re unaware of.”
“I’m supposed to just give you that information out of the goodness of my heart?”
“If you want it to keep beating.”
“Don’t insult me, Savoie. I’m not afraid of you.”
Max bared his teeth, earning Manny’s rapid blink as if doubting the reality of those sharp points. “Yes, you are. Because you’re not a fool, and you don’t want an until-the-end-of-timeshare out in the swamps with Petitjohn’s bits and pieces.”
“That was you.”
The booming laugh relaxed Max’s threatening pose. “Not me, personally, no,” he drawled. “But with you, it’d be personal.”
Ergonomic leather groaned as Manny leaned back to contemplate his next words the way he would a poker hand. Music pounded up from the matinee show in the ensuing silence until finally he offered, “Were I a betting man, I’d put my money on Brady. He has an old friend in town he’s rather desperate to impress, and from what I gather, she’s no friend of yours.”
Genevieve.
“A shame one can’t depend upon one’s friends . . . or family,” Max drawled. “But then you’d know that, wouldn’t you?”
The cool jab at the mobster’s wife’s desertion earned a twitch of pressed lips. “No, you can’t,” Carmen gritted out, “but you can shut ′em up.”
Max stood, struggling not to betray his urgency. “She’s at his house?”
“Don’t know. Put your dogs on it. Or better yet, your own nose on the scent.” As Max moved briskly toward the door, Manny called out after him, “Shame to have something happen to your cop. Always admire a female who’s more than just great tits.”
Max revolved slowly. The smile on his face froze Blutafino’s. “I’ll make sure to relay the compliment.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Collateral damage . . . the hardest thing to justify about her job.
Behind isolating glass, Kinesha Jones fought
for her life, a bandaged mummy threaded with drips and tubes, burned over a dangerous percent of her body.
Telling herself she wasn’t to blame didn’t lessen the ache of it in the detective’s throat. Vowing to restore the destroyed building wouldn’t resurrect the vital doctor to full vigor and enthusiasm if she recovered at all. She’d reached out to the brave crusader, playing upon the doctor’s goodness and tender heart to involve her in what might yet snatch all away.
Where was the win Cee Cee so desperately needed to bolster her own flagging spirit?
The weight of Giles St. Clair’s big hand upon her shoulder startled her back from the edge. A quick squeeze. No words necessary.
He’d been waiting at her desk when she’d finished with Atcliff, there to shuttle her from the responsibilities of her job to the obligations of her conscience, then to take her home, ready to provide anything she needed if asked. Until she did, he remained a quiet, unobtrusive bulwark, ready to support or carry heavy things . . . like her conscience.
Apparently, he believed that time was now.
“She’d want you to finish this.”
Denial stiffened her spine. “How do you know what she’d want?”
A small chuckle. “Because I’ve been around strong, righteous women all my life, and the last thing any of them would want is for a wrong thing to go unpunished. And what these creatures are doing is a very wrong thing. If anyone has a chance of stopping them, it’s you, Charlotte.”
“Max doesn’t agree.”
He snorted at the tartness of her tone. “Yes, he does. He just can’t make himself say it yet. We’re big, dumb animals, Detective, who can take on the villains of the world with an attitude and a toothpick to protect those we love. He just wants you to know that. Sometimes strong, righteous women give us the idea that they don’t need us, that we’re in the way, or that we think they’re not every bit as smart and capable as we are. We know you are, Charlotte, but that doesn’t make us any less inclined to act the hero on your behalf. And I won’t mind a’tall if you happen to share that piece of news with a certain redhead I know.”