by Nancy Gideon
“The mother-in-law stopped over.” He made a face. “Tina suggested I bring some of her leftover lasagna down to you.”
“She did?” Cee Cee’s eyebrows flew up in genuine surprise. “That was nice.”
“She is nice.” His tone betrayed the annoyance he rarely displayed regarding his partner’s unreasonable prejudice against his wife. He didn’t argue the point because it didn’t really make a difference. It wouldn’t change Charlotte’s mind and it would only tick him off about it even more. He sighed in resignation and explained as if to a stubborn child, “She’s a nice person. That’s why I married her.”
“How nice for you both. Now, go home and let me get back to work. Leave the food.”
He put the plastic dish down on her desk, then hesitated.
“What?”
“Ceece, there are some things more important than the job.”
“Name one.”
He could have mentioned the circles under her eyes, the downward turn to her mouth, the unhappiness that radiated from her. But if he told her, she’d just deny it. He shrugged. “That’s for you to figure out.”
“Great. Another mystery of the universe to solve. I’m out of time and tolerance.”
“Any leads?” He craned his neck to get a look at her screen. Archived press clippings on Cummings and the waterfront. Again.
“No. I think I need to have a heart-to-heart with Cummings. He knows more than he’s telling us, and I’m running out of patience with secrets.”
And she was running out of patience where Max Savoie was concerned. As enjoyable as it was, she was tired of having a $2.99-a-minute type of relationship with him.
She didn’t want anything coming between them except a good, healthy sheen of sweat.
So she chased Babineau home, brought up another screen on the computer, and began to read.
HE STOOD AT the bar, surrounded by eager women drawn by his dark good looks, rough charm, and blatant desire to bed one or all of them. And by his power. He was never without a drink or a smile, yet Max detected a subtle disgust for those who fawned over him. He remembered Petitjohn’s summation. Rollo loved the adoration, the sense of superiority. The vain, boisterous top dog who wouldn’t like being challenged or pushed or pressured. And that’s what Max would have to do if he wanted to discover what was behind Rollo’s reappearance in New Orleans.
The instant Max let down his guard, Rollo was immediately aware of him, as were the others. He watched Rollo’s expression tighten as attention shifted from his raucous storytelling to the new lord of the Crescent City underworld.
Max paid no notice to those who rushed to greet him, or to LaRoche, who stood silent and glowering behind the bar. Max’s focus was on the man leaning against the bar on his elbows, waiting for his approach.
“Hello, Max. Buy you a drink?”
“No. Let’s take a walk.”
Suspicion narrowed his eyes. “I’m comfortable here.”
“We can’t talk here.” And with the arrogant assumption that he’d be followed, Max started for the door.
Rollo hesitated, debating, then fell in step.
The hole-pocked street was puddled with water from a late afternoon shower. Steam rose from its glossy surface, creating a curtain of mystery before the sidewalk’s end. Noise and music from the tourist traps on the next block dimmed and faded as they moved in silent accord into deeper shadows. Going where no casual fun seekers would dare venture without a wish to lose their wallet. Or worse.
“What do you want?” Max asked without preamble.
“To finish my drink and pick from among those hot little beauties at the bar.”
“Why are you here?” Max clarified, his voice clipped and impatient. “What brought you back here? To my city?”
A pause. Max could sense Rollo’s irritation at the demand to know his business, and at the possessive way he lay claim to all around them.
“I wanted to meet you.”
“You’ve met me. Why are you still here?”
“Not a man of many words, are you, Max?”
“No. I prefer actions.”
Rollo chuckled. “A silent, deadly assassin. When you come up on them, they don’t even know you’re there. Not me. I like them to know. I like them to see me coming. The anticipation is half the fun.”
“You like it, then? The killing?”
“There’s no drink, no drug, no woman that can come close to matching that kind of rush. The excitement. The danger. The power. You know exactly what I mean.”
“Do I?”
Again the soft, mocking laugh. “It’s instinct. It’s what we are. Or did your mother and Jimmy civilize that out of you?”
“No.”
“What about your woman? Your policewoman?”
A prickle of alarm. “What about her?”
“Do you wear the Upright role to impress her? Do you pretend to be less than you are so you won’t scare her into squeezing her knees together?”
Max bit down on his reaction to defend Charlotte Caissie; he didn’t want Rollo to know the depth of his feelings for her. So he shrugged off the crudity. “She’s not that important. It’s hard to carry a torch for someone who would happily set fire to your windmill.”
“What?”
“Never seen any of the Frankenstein movies? You know, where the frightened mob traps and burns the monster? To kill what they fear?”
“Ahh. You think those ignorant villagers are all you have to fear? If you do, you would be sadly mistaken, Max. Sometimes your greatest enemy is the one that knows you, the one that calls you friend.”
“LaRoche?”
“Perhaps. But there’s a bigger picture, Max. A much bigger picture, way beyond the borders of this little city you’re trying to control.”
“Explain.”
“I’m not the only one interested in you. Were you naive enough to think that all of our kind is concentrated here in your swamps, in your city?”
Max stopped. Was Rollo speaking of those mysterious others from the north? “They will find you. They will hurt you and kill you,” his mother had warned.
“Who’s looking for me?”
“Let me worry about that. That’s why I’m here. To protect you.”
“Why should I believe that? Why should I trust you?”
“Because you are the last of my line, my son, the best of all that came before you. I don’t want that to end. I don’t want you to end.”
“So you would save me from this danger you refuse to describe. That for all I know exists only in your mind.”
“Yes. I need a job. A place to stay. Money. You have no idea how strong, how powerful I am. I can keep you safe.”
“Like you kept Etienne Legere safe?”
Silence.
“If you are so strong, so powerful, why did you run away? Why didn’t you protect him?”
“I don’t risk my life for those not of my kind.”
“You don’t risk anything unless there’s a profit to be made.”
Rollo laughed. “I see you understand me well. Good. Make it worth my while, Max, and I’ll protect you and I’ll teach you the things Jimmy never would.”
“What things?”
“You think this”—he gestured to their physical forms—“is all we are? Do you think it’s just extrasensory parlor tricks and the ability to transform ourselves like a child’s cartoon character? No, Max. You and I are so much more. Capable of so much more.”
A force burst inside Max’s head like a bomb, dropping him to his knees. He struggled and was finally able to fling up a defense against it. A fierce growl rumbled from him as he crouched on the sidewalk, wiping at the blood streaming from his nose.
“I could have killed you, Max. Just like that. And you never knew it was coming. That was a pulse; pure sensory energy. Like a fist exploding on the inside, if you know how to do it. Easily detected, if you know how to feel it coming before it hits.” He put down his hand. Max took it cautiously and
allowed Rollo to pull him to his feet, where he assumed a stiff, offensive stance. “You have no idea what makes you vulnerable, what can cripple or control you, do you?”
“Silver.”
Rollo made a dismissing gesture. “Not if you build up an immunity to it. I’ve been shot four times and I’m still standing.”
“How?”
“I could tell you.”
“So tell me now.”
“So impatient.”
“Don’t play games with me. I don’t like games.”
“I do. Getting to know each other is the first we’ll play. Humor me. Pretend to enjoy it.”
“I’m not good at pretending.”
Rollo laughed. “Then make it worth my while, boy. Make it worth my while.”
Giles St. Clair glanced into the rearview mirror to where Max sat still and straight. “Where to, boss man?”
“Home.”
He’d almost said Charlotte’s. But she didn’t want him there, not while the bodies of Sandra Cummings and Vivian Goodman were laid out between them. She needed to focus on doing her job under a judgmental public microscope, and he needed to think of a way to keep her job from spilling over into his world. At least until he knew for certain what he was beginning to suspect. His suspicions wouldn’t be confirmed until he knew why.
It was better that he keep his distance; he couldn’t let Rollo discover his weakness for her. The only thing worse than living without her would be knowing he’d caused harm to come her way.
He was playing a dangerous game, trying to outmaneuver a master manipulator. How could he get what he needed from Rollo without becoming vulnerable to his treachery? Everything he said could be a lie. Or it could be a truth vital to his survival.
“They will find you and hurt you.”
A shiver of dread started to uncoil inside him. He had no one to turn to, to trust. Not Jimmy. Not Charlotte. The panic just kept building, restrained only by his outer stillness.
He entered the quiet house, where he was alone with the darkness and troubled dreams that awaited. He stood at the bottom of the stairs for a long uncertain moment, looking up toward the old emptiness, unable to make himself move. He wanted to hide himself away, to howl in distress the way he had when he was a child.
“They will take you and hurt you.”
“Some of the fellas and I are going to play a few hands. You can sit in if you like. They’d welcome someone who actually has some cash to lose.”
Max glanced at Giles, startled by the offer. “I don’t know how to play cards.”
“It’s easy. It’s fun. If you’re winning.” He grinned, and Max felt a small degree of his terror let go. “Come on. Jasmine always serves up snacks that are almost as tasty as she is. You can watch for a while until you feel comfortable joining in. Or you can just kick back and let us make fools of ourselves.”
“Are you sure they won’t mind me being there?” That wasn’t said by the man responsible for everything from the roof over their heads to the money they were placing on the table. It was from the shadowy figure at Jimmy Legere’s back who was feared and ostracized from the time he made his killing bones as a teen.
“Naw. They won’t care.”
Max settled into one of the big club chairs set back away from the table. The men at play regarded him warily at first, then finally seemed to forget he was there. While not exactly embraced by their camaraderie, he was able to relax in the congenial atmosphere. He didn’t intrude where he didn’t think he’d be welcomed without an awkwardness he’d rather avoid. Better to just halfheartedly follow the plays, listening to their casual and often ribald conversation on the outer edge of their pack mentality of acceptance. Safe.
And finally, lulled by their laughter and the murmur of their voices, he fell asleep.
He never felt the housekeeper place a light hand on his head after wedging a pillow under it.
Giles turned to Helen with a nod. “Don’t worry. We’ll watch out for him.”
And under that blanket of protection, Max slept without dreams.
Nine
THE SIGHT OF MAX struck Charlotte like an unexpected punch to the midsection. Her breath faltered, then wedged in a huge knot of longing at the base of her throat, burning there until her eyes swam.
She hadn’t seen him or spoken to him in seven days, yet he was rarely out of her thoughts. Her sleep suffered for it. Her work suffered for it. She was edgy, snapping at her coworkers, distracted and fatigued. Unable to focus on anything except how wretched she felt, she stumbled through that lonesome week wondering why the emptiness mattered so much. She’d been a loner all of her life, with the exception being her friendship with Mary Kate. She never went anywhere, did anything; she had no social life, nothing but the job. And she’d never faltered there. Not ever.
But now, what had been a pleasant distraction with an unsuitable male had become an all-consuming obsession, taking control of her life at the most inconvenient times.
Like now. When she was on her way to speak to Simon Cummings about her unacceptable lack of progress.
She stopped abruptly in the busy lobby of the office building with its prestigious Canal Street address. And on the other side of the mezzanine, Max Savoie did the same. Her partner’s restraining hand on her elbow was the only thing that kept her from tearing across the black and white marble squares to throw herself into his arms. That, and Babineau’s quietly spoken words.
“Don’t look now, but Karen Crawford and her camera crew just came in. You go over there, and you and Savoie will be all over the next edition. Then there’ll be hell to pay all around.”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes you do. Take a breath. Look away. You’re jumping the man with your eyes.”
That’s not what she wanted to jump him with.
“Doesn’t that woman ever follow up on real news?” Cee Cee grumbled. She started to walk, a fierce stride that paralleled Max’s toward the elevator banks. He didn’t look over at her again, but she could read his awareness of her in the way he moved. He was wearing his long dark raincoat in deference to the cloudbursts that had come and gone all morning, and impenetrable dark glasses that did nothing to disguise his identity. She’d never seen anyone control the attention of an entire room just by passing through. She could envision him striding in lethally sexy slow motion through a John Woo shoot-’em-up movie, his long coat swirling. The intensely dangerous aura surrounding him was unmistakable.
This morning he was traveling with an all-business entourage, starting with his attorney, Antoine. Giles and Teddy she knew, but the other man, the one she only caught glimpses of, was a stranger to her. It was for effect, she knew. Max Savoie didn’t need anyone to protect him. Not when he was the most deadly force she’d ever encountered.
They reached the elevators at the same time, she and Babineau coming in from the left, Max and his party from the right. Crawford and crew charged down the center of the crowded lobby, trying to reach them before one of the doors opened. The car directly in front of Max came to a stop, its green Up arrow flashing on. A group of three businessmen slipped in ahead of him. By the time Max’s trio of tough guys and his dapper lawyer joined them, Max took the last spot, facing front as the doors began to shut.
As Karen Crawford wheezed up behind Cee Cee on her nosebleed high heels, Cee Cee jumped forward between the closing doors before Babineau could stop her, wedging in at Max’s side.
“What floor, detective?” Antoine D’Marco asked, much too polite to express his annoyance.
“Eleven.”
“What a coincidence.”
Max didn’t glance at her as she settled in next to him. “Nice to see you, Detective Caissie.”
How carefully neutral.
“With those dark glasses, I’m surprised you can see anything.”
He reached up to take them off, and she could see immediately why he’d left them on. His eyes appeared bruised by fatigue when he slanted a look at her. But that
wasn’t what alarmed her. It was the awful regret dragging at the edges of his expression.
“You look good,” he murmured quietly.
“You look like hell.”
A faint smile, then his attention turned back to the closed door. Closing himself off from her. Leaving her so anxious and frustrated, she was about to push for the next floor just so she could shove him out into the hall and throw them both down on the tiles. Standing so close and yet a world away, the need to touch him, to lean into him, to reach up to turn his solemn face toward her, to kiss him with all the fierce, prowling passion that had been building for days and now seethed like a low-pressure system spinning out of control. She was shaking apart inside, while he was all cool and remote.
The edge of his hand nudged the side of hers. Then his little finger hooked around hers, and all the jittery panic racing through her system settled and calmed. She took a steadying breath, wishing for the ride to go on forever just so she could stand next to him, tethered by that fragile connection.
The doors parted on eleven. In order to let him go, she had to move fast and not look back. She was out of the elevator as if from starting blocks.
Simon Cummings’s office took up one entire side of the building. His reception area was behind an expanse of etched glass, its interior cool in soothing pastels and plant life. Campaign posters were prominently featured on the walls. A staff of three elegant women handled the long counter of light wood, where stacks of political flyers were displayed. Two of the women were on the phone. The other offered Cee Cee a welcoming smile.
“Detectives Caissie and Babineau to see Mr. Cummings.”
“He’ll be just a moment, detective. Please have a seat.” Then her professionally cheery expression froze.
“Max Savoie for Mr. Cummings.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Savoie, but I don’t see that you have an appointment.”
“I have what he wants. He’ll spare a minute for that. Let him know I’m here, please.”
“If you’ll wait . . .”