by Nancy Gideon
He crumpled the stained tissues in his fist and said coldly, “No one else will work with you.”
He walked back to the abandoned car and waited stiffly behind the wheel for her to join him.
And an hour and a half later he sat still and uncommunicative at the morning briefing, his nose obviously swollen, while Cee Cee relayed what they’d learned from Devlin Dovion.
“Marjorie Cole, sixteen. Reported missing by her mother in Corydon, Iowa, eighteen months ago. Whatever she thought she’d find down here in the Big Easy, I doubt that she found it dancing at a strip club. Was picked up in a drug sweep three months ago, and got her prints on file.
“We need to know everything that took that kid from singing in her Pentecostal church choir to turning tricks. We need to know who she saw, personally and professionally, from the time she worked her last shift until she had a garbageman puking up his po’ boy.”
“I’ll take the strip club,” Junior Hammond offered with a leering grin. He was a squat bully of a man who could have changed uniforms from NOPD to neo-Nazi without any major alterations in character. But he’d fit right in where he asked to go.
“Take Boucher with you.”
“Awww, that’s no fun.” He gave the young officer a poke in the ribs that was a little too sharp to be playful. “One look at his fresh face and they’ll clam up tight.”
“One look at his fresh face and they won’t be thinking cop, they’ll be thinking quick cash,” Cee Cee countered, earning Joey’s grateful nod. “The press is now calling our boy the ‘Tides That Bind’ killer, since he keeps them for a cycle of the moon before discarding them. If that has some significance out in Woo Woo World, we need to know about it. He had this one for a full cycle, just like the two before her. We don’t have IDs on them so let’s focus on Miss Cole. Babineau has the stats. He’ll answer your questions while I talk to the next of kin. Let’s get this guy.”
Cee Cee waited to catch Hammond and Boucher at the door, motioning them to join her off to the side.
“Thanks for the confidence,” Boucher began, fairly quaking with excitement and pride.
“I want you guys to meet me at Newton’s tonight at nine-thirty,” Cee Cee ordered.
Hammond groaned. “Shit, Caissie, the pole dancing action will just be going full throttle.”
“I’m sure you’ll get more than an eyeful between now and then.” She patted Junior’s beefy arm. “Make sure Joey has plenty of dollar bills. Bring back info, not something communicable.”
Hammond wrapped an arm about the younger man’s shoulders. “C’mon, kid. Let’s go pop your cherry. Got any ones on you? Where do you bank?”
AFTER AN HOUR pummeling the speed bag brought no relief from his restlessness, Max took to the pavement. He’d spent a deskbound morning unable to concentrate through the anxious fog clouding his mind. Time to suck in some fresh air and burn off his aggression and fear with a good run.
He took the level path between the streetcar rails that cut through the Garden District, his pace brisk. The sun was warm on his head and, aside from walking tour clusters and hurrying students, he had the just-past-lunch hour to himself. He matched the tempo of his running shoes to his heartbeats and refused to think of anything else. Not easy when he was sure disaster was racing up behind him in the form of a posse led by Alain Babineau.
Breathe. Don’t think.
Gradually he became aware of a matching set of footfalls on the other track. Solid, even, untiring, like his own. He didn’t glance over, letting his senses reach out instead. Nothing unusual. Just another jogger out enjoying the day.
He increased his stride.
And so did the other runner.
It was just the challenge he needed to clear his head.
He took the turn into Audubon Park and, once hidden within the leafy lanes, Max let the beast he’d kept bottled up go. His movements blurred, making him almost invisible to the human eye as he raced beneath the shaded nave of oaks. He heard the shadowing steps right behind him, never faltering.
His breathing quickened from excitement. Another of his kind—had to be. Yet, he picked up no trace, no scent, no sign from this mysterious other who now pursued him. No Shifter that he knew had the ability to mask their presence, to conceal the glimmer of their psyche.
After cornering to the left around a sharp turn, Max came to an abrupt stop and whirled to face his challenger. The other dodged by without breaking stride and sped on. There was no way to identify the figure wearing large dark glasses and a baggy black sweatsuit with concealing hood. But now Max knew what, if not who, he was dealing with.
His pulse shuddered in alarm and anticipation.
Someone like him—a pureblood, or close to it. A Tracker sent down from the north for a purpose as hidden as his face.
The second Max started after the other Shifter, the agile figure darted off the path. Grinning ferociously at the thought of some rugged competition, Max plunged through the thicket of dazzling fuchsia azaleas, sending petals fluttering in a bright pink rain as he gave chase.
Up steep hills and through thorny hedges that tore his flesh, over impossibly high rock walls and into pretty streams, he pushed himself until his lungs burned and his muscles cramped. Still he couldn’t close the distance between them. He’d never had anyone best him, ever, at anything!
They came to a deep culvert that split the path into a T. Max gathered his strength, certain the shadowy figure would have to slow to make the sharp turn. Instead, without breaking stride, one sneakered foot went up onto the rail edging the gully and pushed off with a fluid motion, clearing the distance of close to twenty feet with a jaw-dropping hang time.
Max would never have attempted such a jump, wouldn’t have thought it possible. But fueled by the competitive chase, he went up and over, concentrating on the other side. Time suspended itself as he stretched in defiance of gravity, to touch down lightly on the opposite rail. He grinned. Learn something new every day.
His pulse quickened with excitement. This was someone who could teach him about his unknown abilities. Someone who had knowledge and skill, whether friend or foe.
The chase took on new meaning.
They approached two buildings set a sidewalk’s width apart, with a brick wall creating a dead end. Again, Max’s certainty that he had the other Shifter trapped was met with a stunning contradiction in physics. Unable to go through, the other went up, bouncing from wall to wall off powerful legs to the roof three floors above.
Amazed, Max hesitated, losing the momentum needed to replicate the climb, forcing him to go around the building. He spotted the lithe figure coming down the fire escape—not taking the zigzagging steps, but swinging straight down from level to level like a child’s Slinky springing down a stairway.
Racing forward, Max was stunned when his target avoided interception by running onto a good-sized pond. Onto. Max stared, dumfounded, as his adversary ran across the surface, barely making a ripple.
How was it done? He had to know!
By the time he rounded the pond he’d lost sight of his opponent, who’d gone over a grassy knoll into a landscape of flowering bushes. Giving chase, Max burst through a tangle of rhododendrons to find himself on a collision course with two women and their baby strollers. He hurdled the first to the astonishment of the twin tots inside, then had to cut sharply to the right to avoid the second. By the time he recovered his balance, the mysterious Shifter was gone, leaving him to placate two outraged mamas.
And leaving him to wonder if the encounter had been a coy getting-to-know-you ritual or a test of dominant strength that he’d just failed.
Alain Babineau was no longer the greatest threat to those he loved.
THERE WAS NOTHING worse than watching a mother’s face as the sheet was pulled down from her child for identification.
Cee Cee threw down her Jack and water and signaled for another, wondering how many it would take to erase the bitter taste from her mouth, and pain from her soul.
It was more than a wailing Iowa housewife weighing on her thoughts.
Anger at Babineau was easier to handle than the guilt underneath it. She’d had no right to out Tina as one of Max’s kind. What she’d done was inexcusable. Babineau had blindsided her with the puppies crack, startling her into a vicious defense that shamed her as much as it wounded him.
Definitely not one of her finest moments.
As she started on her second glass, Hammond and Boucher entered the bar.
Newton’s, founded by former desk sergeant Isaiah Newton when an auto accident led to his early retirement, was always filled with off-duty cops and companions in the medical and emergency fields. Dark wood, dartboards, and honky-tonk and heavy metal in the jukebox created a haven to unwind in, to ease back into normal life.
The two men headed to her table at the wave of her hand. Boucher was all bright-eyed; Hammond sported lipstick stains and had a feather boa looped about his neck.
“Have fun on your boys’ night out?”
Hammond grinned. “A good time was had by all.” The smug look on his face was faintly disgusting.
Cee Cee turned to the blushing Boucher as he took a seat. “Whatchu know, Joey?”
“Miss Cole worked there for about five months, waitressing at first, then moving to the stage.” Only the tenderhearted rookie would sound so respectful when recounting the life of a stripper and whore as if she were still that choir soloist. “The girls liked her. The clients liked her. The management wanted to keep her on, but she developed a pharmaceutical problem and they had to turn her out.”
“Turned her out doing tricks,” Hammond added.
“She was on the street for about a month and a half.”
“Who’s stable was she out of?” No one worked independently in that neighborhood. Too dangerous with all the predators, from customers to rival streetwalkers and their pimps.
“Manny Blu’s. That’s the unofficial word.”
Cee Cee leaned back in her chair. “Good old Manny,” she mused.
Her father in Homicide and the fellows in Vice had been after Blu for decades. But like Jimmy Legere, Carmen Blutafino had a nonstick coating. Jimmy had relied on shrewdness, Max, and damn good attorneys. Blutafino hid behind missing witnesses, payoffs, and brute force. The same slime with rougher packaging. She’d love to somehow tie him into her case.
She ordered a beer for Boucher and a scotch for Hammond, then listened as they laid out what they’d learned, processing it thoroughly as her gaze lingered on Junior’s feathered boa.
“This may sound strange, but does the club have an aquarium?”
They blinked at her.
“Never mind.” She tossed back the last of her drink. “This is off the clock, guys,” she began, and took a deep breath. “We need to talk about Max Savoie.”
Boucher looked uncomfortable. Hammond stared at her boldly. “What about him? Other than the fact that he hides his illegal activities behind a designer suit these days, is some kind of fuckin’ werewolf, and gets away with both because he’s playing Hide the Sausage with you.”
“Keep your voice down, asshole,” Cee Cee gritted out as she checked the surrounding tables to see if his words had carried above the hammering music and raucous conversations. No one seemed to be paying him any attention.
Hammond’s hard eyes gleamed. “Calling me an asshole ain’t exactly the best way to get me to cover up for your boyfriend. You might try being a little nicer.”
She leaned across the table. “Listen to me, and listen good. I don’t do favors for anyone. I’m only bringing this up because I don’t particularly want to find your empty head four feet away from the rest of your body and have to explain it to the brass.”
“If you’re trying to threaten me—”
“No. I’m telling you to wise up. You have no idea what you saw, and how many innocent lives could be affected by you opening your big mouth. I’m not trying to protect myself or Savoie. I’m suggesting you consider Joey and Babs, along with your own fat ass.”
Boucher went pale at her meaning, but Hammond got even more belligerent. “He’s not going to take down cops. He’s not that stupid.”
“He isn’t stupid at all. But you are, if you think grabbing a few headlines is worth the lives you’ll put in danger.”
He rocked back in his chair. “I always wanted to do an ‘On the Scene with Karen Crawford’ interview. I bet she’d be willing to pay plenty to get goods like this. And maybe even put out.”
“Listen here, you—”
His hands slapped down on the table, bringing attention their way. “You listen, you hard-assed bitch. You’ve been breaking my balls since day one and I’m sick of it. I don’t care if you and the chief are all cozy— if I spill what I know, your career is gone. Gone. And so is that creature feature character you’re shacking up with. So you think about that, and get ready to listen to what I have to say when I get back from taking a leak.”
He shoved up from the table, and elbowed his way to the back of the bar while Cee Cee sat rigid and ice cold in her chair. Not going well. Unless he changed his tune drastically on his return, she was going to have to seriously consider him an unacceptable risk. But could she live with that outcome?
Could she afford to do nothing?
“He really is an asshole,” Joey Boucher summed up mildly after a number of awkward minutes passed. “Maybe I’d better go after him.”
“Maybe you’d better,” Cee Cee agreed quietly.
Hammond held the future of those she’d promised to protect in his meaty hands, and he knew it.
JUNIOR HAMMOND PUSHED open Newton’s rear door and stepped out into the alley. The men’s room was too crowded and his bladder couldn’t wait.
The weak glow of the mercury light over the back door reached only a short distance through the gathering evening fog. The uneven bricks underfoot glistened with puddles, and he cursed as he caught his toe on one and fell against a ripely scented Dumpster.
Then he heard something.
Squinting blearily toward the heavy shadows, he saw no movement—but something was creeping around just out of sight. Something bigger than the usual rat or stray dog . . . probably just a couple of bums. If they gave him any shit, he’d run ’em in. Right now he had to pee.
Practically dancing with urgency, he ducked behind the Dumpster to relieve himself. He was fumbling to undo his belt when he heard low growls that vibrated with menace.
Dozens of them.
He whirled around to see faint shapes slinking through the mist, their movements unnaturally fluid and quick. Eyes glowed, way too high to belong to a dog. Drawing nearer, huddled packlike, sinister in their caution, predatory in their patience.
He turned to find the other end of the alley blocked by more of the unearthly beasts. His breathing caught, than panted out raggedly. He knew what they were, and what they’d come to do.
Kill him.
His bladder let go as he grabbed for his gun, his sweaty hand almost dropping it in his hurry. The pistol was snatched away. One of them was at his back, close enough for him to feel its hot breath on the back of his neck.
He lurched forward, stumbling into the center of the alley, trying to tear through the effects of liquor and fear to think of how to save himself. Terrifying figures cast shadows that were half man, half . . . something else.
Unarmed, he squared up to face whatever was coming. Bad enough to go out with a stained crotch; he wasn’t about to bite it on his knees.
“Come on,” he shouted at the beasts that encircled him but came no closer. “What are you waiting for?”
It wasn’t what. It was who.
The ring of feral creatures parted, not to give him an escape, but to provide a purposefully dramatic entry.
The swirl of his long black raincoat swept away the ribbons of fog. He approached with an unhurried stride, the rhythmic swagger filled with arrogance and lethal control. Hammond knew who it was even before he could
see the hard angles of his face, even before the dim light glinted ruby red off his unblinking eyes.
Savoie.
Not sure if he should laugh in relief or start begging, Hammond waited, trembling as the animals closed ranks behind their leader. Savoie came to a stop and regarded the quaking detective with barely disguised contempt. When he didn’t come closer, Hammond grew more bold in self-defense.
“You can’t get away with killing a cop.”
Silence, then a low drawl. “I can get away with pretty much anything I choose. But I’m not going to kill you, Detective. I promised Charlotte I’d give her a chance to talk sense into you. She believes you can be reasoned with—but you and I know that’s not going to happen. Let me lay this out simply so that you’ll understand your options. You can agree to keep what you saw to yourself, and you can go home and clean yourself up. Or you can spit in my face, and I walk away.”
“Then what happens?”
A flash of sharp teeth. “There won’t be enough left of you to flavor a bowl of gumbo.”
Soft, hungry snarls sounded from all around him. The movements grew restless, pacing, aggressive. Only Savoie was still. Savoie, who scared him more than any of the others because they moved at his command.
“I think I’d like to go home and clean up.”
Savoie continued to look at him with that flat, penetrating stare. “Should you have a change of heart— say, when you’ve showered away the stink of your fear and get your manly courage back—you might think about speaking to a certain reporter just out of spite. Think carefully. Because there will always be someone not of your kind close enough to hear whatever comes out of your mouth. Always. And they won’t have to check with me before they make sure those words are your last. Understood?”
A jerky nod.
“Oh, and I would prefer you not mention this little discussion to Charlotte. Let her think it was your idea to be sensible. And don’t call her a hard-assed bitch again. It makes me disagreeable.”
He moved in so quickly that they were nose-to-nose before the detective could blink. Savoie’s eyes blazed hot with their unnatural light, and his tone ripped as sharply as his teeth could.