by Nancy Gideon
“What the hell is he doing here?” Cummings’s voice rose with fury. He crossed the reception area with angry purpose, shaking off restraining hands to demand, “What are you doing here?”
“You’re avoiding my people’s calls, so I thought I’d take care of business personally. I’m Max Savoie.” His cool facade was a glaring contrast to the red-faced rage of the other man. He didn’t offer his hand.
“I know who you are, you son of a bitch. Get out of my office. If you think you can bully me—”
“I’m here to do business. I have the property and I have the money. And I have a condition. You can talk to me right here, right now, or I walk away and the matter is closed.”
His inflexible chill finally reached through Cummings’s anger. His seething breaths slowed. “What condition?”
“You can have your riverfront reclamation project. I have no objections to it. But I do insist on one thing. The housing has to provide a percentage of subsidized units.”
“How many?”
“Half.”
“Half? Are you insane? That will lose millions . . .”
“I already have all the money I need, and I have a place to live. I also have employees who can’t find decent housing. Their families live in other parishes in poverty, while my employees stay in one-room dumps or trailers during the week to earn a wage. I don’t like that. They are my responsibility. I want them taken care of so they will take care of me. Good business, Mr. Cummings. It’s not all about money.”
“With Legere, everything was about the bottom line.”
“I’m not Jimmy. I want some of my people on the board that decides on eligibility for the units. I don’t want to control it, I just want it to be fair. A fair shake is all some folks need.”
“Since when is someone like you a champion of the people, Savoie?”
“Since I was forced to become someone like you.” Max took a deep breath. “My attorney has the paperwork prepared. It’s sound business and good PR.”
“I don’t want to get in bed with you, Savoie.”
“Frankly I haven’t been without a woman long enough to find you appealing, either.”
Cummings’s veneer of civility snapped. He took a quick step forward, pushing his face up into Max’s. “You mean since you were with my daughter and my friend?”
“I never—”
Cummings’s fist hitting Max’s mouth ended whatever he meant to say.
Cee Cee was immediately between them, shoving Cummings back. “That’s enough of that,” she said sharply.
“Don’t you mock my pain, you animal,” Cummings shouted into Max’s expressionless face. “You have no idea how it feels to lose something so precious. And now you stand there, hiding behind your whore with a badge, smug because you know she’s going to let you walk without so much as a slap on your wrist. Where’s the justice in that? Where’s the justice for my little girl?”
The blinding glow of camera lights announced the arrival of a furiously scribbling Karen Crawford and a grim Alain Babineau. The detective gripped Cummings’s arm and hauled him none-too-gently to a safer distance, out of Charlotte’s striking range.
But it wasn’t Cee Cee who retaliated.
“How can you stand there screaming about justice when you’re the one who refuses to let it be done? You’re a fool, Cummings.”
“Max, stop.” Cee Cee turned to press her palms against his chest. He swept her out of his way with his forearm without a glance.
“You disgust me,” he told the other man with a deep volcanic rumble. But his fury didn’t explode; it just kept building, venting steam that scalded. “Not because of your grief. I know how it feels to be gutted by the loss of someone you love. Not even because you’re greedy enough to let your family suffer for your careless vanity. You were warned what might happen, but you chose to ignore it for the sake of earning more popularity as an underdog. That’s politics, and I suppose acceptable. I despise you because you’re stupid.”
They all just stared. It was the last thing any of them expected to hear. But Max was far from finished.
“You cry about avenging your daughter’s death, and then you cut the investigation off at the knees by letting that woman”—he gestured at Karen Crawford—“smear the reputation of the only person who can help you uncover the truth.
“I don’t need to hide, because I have nothing to be afraid of. I didn’t harm your loved ones and I didn’t order it done. If I wanted something from you, I wouldn’t be that subtle. It would be you and me with no one in the way. That’s the way I do things.
“Detective Caissie is just trying to do her job and you hamstring her by throwing scraps and bones of gossiping nonsense to that barracuda so you’ll have more press. That’s not going to get you a killer, you idiot. You’re the one standing in the way of solving this crime.”
His tone throbbed with intensity. “You had no cause to make this a personal attack on someone I hold in the very highest esteem. You are a coward, as well as a fool, to think you could damage me by ruining her. I don’t give a damn about scandal. I’m not going to apologize for things that don’t concern anyone else. I’m not ashamed of anything I’ve done or with whom.”
His gaze met Cee Cee’s, holding it, probing it, searching for something he didn’t find in her wide, alarmed eyes. And then the moment was gone.
“But you”—he turned to the reporter with a withering contempt—“you would sacrifice truth and an impeccable career for the sake of a few more seconds on the air. Detective Caissie puts her job and her integrity above everything else, and she would never tarnish it with a personal compromise. I wouldn’t let her. And I’m not going to let you, either. So I’m walking away from the best thing I’ll ever have because our private life is suddenly the measure of her professionalism. So cut her some slack and let her do what she does best. You want a picture? Take one.”
His hand forked under Cee Cee’s chin, tipping her head up as he swung in to plant a swift, hard kiss that rocked her to the soles of her feet. Breath rasping fiercely against her shock-slackened lips, he said in a husky whisper, “I was never ashamed to tell the world I loved you, Charlotte.”
He straightened and looked to his people. “We’re done here. Tony, give those papers to Cummings. He can be smart and sign them or he can stick them up his ass and light them on fire. I don’t care.” He turned and his stare grew glacial. “Out of my way, Ms. Crawford, or I’ll make sure there isn’t a tabloid in the country that will touch your poisonous byline.”
She jumped aside.
As Max left the office, Cee Cee started to go after him. Babineau grabbed her elbow.
“Let him go. He just gave you the opening you’ve been waiting for. Take it. Take it, detective.”
Cee Cee sucked a quick breath, struggling to tear her frantic gaze from the sight of him disappearing into the elevator.
“Detective!” Babineau snapped.
Her head jerked up, her shoulders back. For a moment, her gaze was wild and despairing. Then that cool professionalism locked down tight. She nodded to her partner, then said in a clipped tone, “Mr. Cummings, let’s talk.”
Once they were behind his closed office doors, Charlotte rounded on him like a pit bull. “All right. Let’s cut the crap. Why are you going out of your way to keep me from finding out the truth?”
To her surprise, Cummings’s arrogance crumbled. In its place was the terrified expression of a haunted man. “I can’t help you, detective.”
“Why not?”
“Because Sarah isn’t my only daughter.”
That cracked her cold veneer. “Has she been threatened? Tell me who’s doing this. I can protect you.”
His eyes shimmered with fear. “You can’t, detective.”
“What’s happened?”
“She was getting into her car, in broad daylight, in a crowded parking lot. And he was right behind her. He leaned over her shoulder and he told her that in the time it took her to scream s
he’d be dead. And then he was gone. He put his hands on her, on my other little girl. I can’t lose them both. I can’t.”
Cee Cee bullied ahead, fierce and relentless, forcing him to surface from his shock. “Mr. Cummings, what did she say about the man? Anything specific? Anything that might help identify him?”
He stared at her, his expression numb beyond comprehension. Sitting in his posh office, in his trendy suit, surrounded by his efficient staff, with his well-oiled political machine primed for business, he floundered helplessly, a lost and frightened father. “She said he wasn’t quite human. What does that mean, detective? What does that mean?”
Cee Cee didn’t answer. What could she possibly tell him that he’d believe?
They got into the car, Giles behind the wheel with Teddy beside him, Rollo sliding into the back beside Max. D’Marco had left in his own car after dropping the contracts on the reception desk.
“So,” Rollo drawled, “that was your girl.”
Max didn’t respond.
“I can’t say that I was very impressed.”
A ghost of a smile touched Max’s lips. “You’ve never seen her in action.”
“Where to, Max?” Giles called from the front.
“Take us to the club,” Rollo ordered.
But Giles was looking in the rearview mirror, studying the tragic set of his boss’s face in the brief instant before he put his dark glasses back on. “Max? What do you want to do? Do you want to wait for her?”
Rollo slapped his hand down on the back of the front seat. “The club,” he insisted, voice rough because he wasn’t used to having his commands questioned.
Again Giles ignored him. “Max? What do you want to do?”
“The club’s fine.”
Max settled back against the seat. It didn’t really matter where they went. Not now.
He’d handled things badly. He’d let his frustration and worry and loneliness force out words that shouldn’t have been spoken in front of the press, in front of Cummings. He’d gone with the intention of anchoring a business deal with Cummings, and in doing so maybe getting the chance to open up a tentative communication. Perhaps if he established a truce with the man, he’d be willing to ease off on his crusade against Charlotte. Noble intentions, until he’d seen her. Until he’d inhaled her scent. Until he’d touched her. Then nobility went out the window in a suicide dive.
He couldn’t blame her. She was passionate about her work. Caught up in office politics, hamstrung by official orders, their separation wasn’t her idea, and he could tell in that crowded elevator that she was just as miserable.
But beneath the understanding, behind the mask of nobility, rumbled a pure animal fury that something of his was being withheld from him. A possessiveness he didn’t fully fathom, an anger he couldn’t quite control. At circumstances, so unfair. At seeds being subtly sown that would tear her from him in the name of duty and public opinion.
And because of the irrational, inconsolable part of him that hurt because she’d chosen pacifying the whining politician over him. After all he’d sacrificed for her.
Even though he’d given her the opportunity to say “To hell with all of you” and walk out the door with him, he was very, very glad she hadn’t. Fragile emotions would mend. But cold, hard logic could not be ignored.
Cummings was only part of the problem, and the one he worried about least.
To keep her safe, he needed her away from him. If she got wind of what he was doing, of what he suspected, there’d be no dragging her out of it. She’d wade hip deep into his trouble, making it her own. And she’d make it impossible for him to both protect her and bring her the truth she needed.
So he’d keep her at a distance.
Then he’d stand back and have the pleasure of watching her work. That had always been a pleasure, even when she was chasing determinedly after him. He’d been chasing her, too, but not for the same reason. And catching her had led to his greatest reward. One he had no intention of losing.
Not impressive? He slanted a look at the man beside him. Underestimating Charlotte Caissie was going to be one of the biggest mistakes of Rollo’s life.
Underestimating Marie Savoie’s son was going to be the other.
ALAIN BABINEAU GLANCED at his partner. She hadn’t spoken since they’d left Cummings’s building. She accepted his choice of a dinner spot without comment, then ate next to nothing. She listened to him moan and complain about his mother-in-law without calling him a wussy whip. And she let him drive her car. That was the kicker.
“He talks a pretty good line, doesn’t he?”
“Who?”
“Your fella.”
“Savoie?”
“Have you ever had any other fella?”
She looked out the side window. “No. Just him.” Her voice was low and flat.
“I’ve never seen anyone leave Karen Crawford speechless before. Even Jimmy never got in the last word, on or off film. I wonder what she’ll run tomorrow.”
“Probably something like ‘Lead investigator indulges in hot sex with chief suspect in the office of grief-stricken father.’ It wouldn’t be so bad if we were actually enjoying the hot sex.” She tried to laugh, but the sound was devoid of humor.
The fragile glimmer in her eyes kept his tone gentle. “What about a guy like Savoie did you think was going to be easy?”
She had no answer.
“Is the problem him or you?”
That was easy. Max had no problem with who she was. He’d announced her as his girlfriend in front of the entire crème de la crème of criminal society with a possessive pride that had shocked her as much as it did them. He hadn’t asked for favors or excuses, hadn’t demanded she make choices. He’d accepted her as she was, personal baggage, consuming career and all. And all he asked in return was that she love him and believe in him.
She’d never been one for public displays. She kept her emotions closer than her sidearm. That’s why she and Max understood each other so well. They had both gone through life shut off from actual contact with others. She’d hidden behind her badge, and he’d stood in Jimmy Legere’s shadow. Somehow passion had gotten them to drop their guards long enough for that first scorching kiss, and they’d let it carry them away, consequences be damned.
“Everything’s different now.”
She didn’t know she’d said that out loud until Babineau asked, “What things?” trapping her into coming up with an acceptable answer that didn’t involve criminal loyalties and a responsibility to a preternatural clan. Maybe a generality would suffice.
“I don’t know how to reach him anymore, Alain. He’s not the same person I fell in love with.”
“Is that a reality or an excuse?”
“Max is . . . complicated.”
“And you’re an open book. Right.”
“I don’t know what he wants from me, and I’m afraid that when he tells me, I won’t be able to give it to him.” That truth was like a slide of her soul clipped beneath a microscope. It made her queasy to look at it that closely.
But the truth her partner spoke was even harder to take without flinching. “Charlotte, someday you’re gonna have to draw a line—one that you’ll never be able to cross again—and you’re gonna have to be able to live with whichever side he picks for himself.”
She was very afraid that that day was coming soon.
Ten
THEY STOOD AT the marshy water’s edge. The swollen moon’s reflection dropped into the center of that smooth surface like the opening to another world. As if all one need do was jump in and have faith.
Night sounds filled the still humid air. Frogs, nutria, birds, insects, a symphony of mating calls and conversations hummed about them.
And Max stood with head back, eyes closed, his bare toes digging into the coarse damp grasses, breathing it in, tasting it all in every sense, that wildness of the night. He canted a glance at his father when he chuckled.
“A night like this was
made for letting the hair down. But you wouldn’t know about that, would you? Jimmy never let you run loose, did he?”
“I wasn’t tied up in the yard.” A prickly defensiveness sharpened Max’s tone. “I could come and go as I pleased.”
“But on your hind legs, like a good trustworthy imitation of a man. Am I right?”
Jaw tightening, Max stared back out over the water as Rollo laughed at him, at the tame limitations of his life. At his lack of freedom and his willingness to accept it.
“You don’t know what you’re missing, boy, if you’ve never been one with the night. If you’ve never shed the domestic lie we lead to fit in, to howl at the moon in your natural form.”
Max inhaled slowly, and suddenly he was there again, in the putrid swamps, surrounded by the stench of death and danger. “You’re wrong,” he said tersely. “I do know.” He clenched his shaking hands into fists, letting his nails grow until their sharpness pierced his palms. The pain shocked him from drowning in horror. “I do know,” he repeated softly.
Watching him curiously, Rollo nudged his arm with the bottle of Jack Daniels.
In his oddly agitated mood, Max took it. He took a quick, burning swallow that somehow warmed the cold residue of terror left by his memories. And because it did, he drank deeply, desperate to escape that awful fear.
Rollo said nothing for a long while, taking back the bottle, taking another casual swig as Max wrestled his tie loose and stuffed it into his coat pocket. Holding to his smile as the younger man flung himself out of his jacket and tossed it carelessly to the ground.
“Bad day at the office?” Rollo asked mildly.
“Every day at the office is a bad day. I don’t want to be there. I don’t know what I’m doing there.” Frustration growled through his words as he snatched the bottle back for another long pull. “Jimmy didn’t teach me how to do those kinds of tricks, but everyone looks to me, expecting me to perform on cue.”
“That’s not what you were meant to do, boy.”
Max turned to him, demanding, “What am I meant to do, then? I don’t know. I don’t know anything about who or what I am. Only what Jimmy’s told me.”