Masked by Moonlight

  “YOU KILLED THOSE MEN.”

  Her voice quivered between accusation and awe.

  He didn’t admit it. Not exactly. “I’m sorry. Did you want to get to know them better?”

  “You rushed in to take on armed men with your bare hands? You expect me to believe that? Are you insane?”

  “Should I have just kept walking?”

  His gaze locked into hers, his eyes darkening with something she’d never seen in them before.

  “Step back, Savoie.”

  Her gruff command must have lacked conviction, because his head lowered until his breath feathered against her lips. Soft. Warm.

  “Don’t.” Not quite so tough.

  He tasted her slowly, riding the jerk of her chest, gentling his hold on her hands, finally releasing them. Her palms came up to rest against his shoulders, motionless at first, then beginning to push. He lifted off her by a scant inch, his stare delving into hers, his breathing hurried.

  “Max, stop.”

  “I will if you mean it.”

  And for one startling moment, she didn’t.

  He stood back from the impossible temptation she’d become. “The next time you come chasing after me, sha, you’d best be sure you really want to catch me.”

  Masked by Moonlight is also available as an eBook

  NANCY GIDEON

  Masked by Moonlight

  The sale of this book without its cover is unauthorized. If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that it was reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed.” Neither the author nor the publisher has received payment for the sale of this “stripped book.”

  Pocket Books

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2010 by Nancy Gideon

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  First Pocket Books paperback edition June 2010

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  Designed by Jacquelynne Hudson

  Cover design by Min Choi

  Cover art by Craig White

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN 978-1-4391-4963-8

  ISBN 978-1-4391-5540-0 (ebook)

  For Patrish. Thanks for seeing me through the rough spots on the way to a dream.

  Masked by Moonlight

  Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Prologue

  IT WAS A steamy night, the kind New Orleans is known for. The heat of the day rose off the pavement, becoming a dense mist as it met the evening drizzle. Brilliant flashes of lightning strobed across the still Mississippi, warning of a storm that would settle in tight and wail through the early morning hours. Low clouds scudded past the pale moon that hung heavy and full. It was a miserable night for T-Bob Gautreaux, who had empty pockets as he drove his ancient Caddy home along the slick cobbles.

  Fifty bucks. That’s all he’d needed. A sweet fifty to throw down on a wager that couldn’t miss. He’d told Dolores that, but being a woman and an ignorant Cajun to boot, she hadn’t understood. She’d cursed him soundly and swore she’d leave him if he sold off any more of her dishes. They were all she had left of her mama—as if her mama was the one paying the bills.

  Fifty lousy bucks. She’d started crying, saying he’d promised her he wouldn’t gamble no more. Funny how she believed that promise every time; you’d think she’d catch on that he never meant it for more than a day or two. Well, maybe a week that time he’d knocked her down the stairs when she’d tried to stop him from going to the dog track. She’d said their baby needed to go to the doctor. Their baby. He wasn’t even sure the brat was his.

  He’d stepped over her sprawled body at the bottom of the stairs. How was he to know she’d busted three ribs? It wasn’t like he’d meant for it to happen. Things like that just did, when he was drinking . . . the way he’d been drinking earlier this evening when she’d tried to claw his face as he fished their last twenty out of her purse. He’d hit her once, just hard enough to shut her up. She should have known better than to go at him like that.

  But he’d needed more than twenty, and could come up with only one way to get it if he was to make post time. What was he supposed to do? Pass up the chance to get rich? She’d get over it in time—like always.

  He frowned slightly, thinking back to the way he’d left her with her face all swollen up with tears, her voice hoarse from pleading with him not to leave her with his friend Telest. But thirty bucks was thirty bucks, and Telest, who’d always fancied her, was quick to pull it out of his pocket. She should have been flattered the man thought she was worth it.

  Now that the liquor had mostly worn off, he felt a twinge of guilt. But it was just this one time, because he’d been so close to hitting on a sure thing. It wouldn’t happen again. After all, it wasn’t like he was selling her off to a stranger—Telest was almost family. And it was the least she could do, after all he’d done to take care of her and the kid. It was probably no more than a couple of minutes, anyway, considering how drunk Telest was when he’d shown up at their door.

  The house was dark when T-Bob cut the engine, leaving the car half in the drive, half on the yard. She’d probably give him the chew rouge about tearing up her ratty flower bed, and his mood blackened.

  He slammed the Caddy’s heavy door and swaggered up to the house. If Telest was still in his bed, he was going to beat the stuff out of him, money or no. For principle’s sake. Mad and feeling that gnaw of guilt, he needed something to make him feel better about what he’d done. Especially since his “sure thing” had left him dead broke.

  The front door was standing open. He couldn’t hear the baby crying, which was unusual enough to make him pause. He stepped in and switched on the light. The first thing he saw was a big empty spot on the wall where Dolores had hung pictures of her folks and the baby. Nothing but faded squares remained on the flowered wallpaper.

  The ungrateful little . . . she’d left him!

  Swearing fiercely, he stormed into the bedroom to see if her clothes were gone, but his gaze never made it to the closet. It was riveted to the river of blood on their tattered carpet—and to what was left of Telest on their bed. T-Bob’s first stunned thought was that Dolor
es had gone crazy and killed him. One step closer told the truth of it. Telest’s mouth was open in a silent scream; silent because his throat was gone.

  A glimpse at the great, gaping hole in his friend’s chest made T-Bob drop to his knees and spew up all his night’s celebrations. Dolores couldn’t have done such a thing. Nothing human could have.

  Then the truth hit him—a truth so horrifying, he could scarcely force his legs to get him up off the floor. But he did, scrambling, sliding in the blood, choking on his moans of terror. His gaze flashed about the room in panic, but all he saw were quiet shadows.

  He never believed she’d do it, even after her veiled threats. He thought he’d knocked that nonsense from her head.

  But it wasn’t nonsense.

  She’d gone back to her own people for help.

  The smell of fear rolled off him as he grabbed frantically for air. Surely Dolores hadn’t asked for his death, too.

  For God’s sake, he was the father of their child! Her husband! She wouldn’t do that for a few little slaps, or a measly twenty bucks. And it couldn’t have been Telest. She’d laid down with plenty of men before him, and he’d never believed that there’d been none after. What had he done, for her to seek out her clan’s retribution?

  Just wait until he got his hands on her . . . she’d be so damned sorry.

  But first he had to get out of this place where death hung thick and sweet in the air.

  He made it to the car, the breath tearing from him in ragged gasps. In his haste he nearly flooded the big block engine, but it finally growled to life. Rubber burned as he backed out of the drive, and he was going close to fifty by the time he reached the end of the rain-dampened street. Something huge and dark suddenly appeared in the beam of his lights.

  What the . . . ?

  He slammed down his foot and the brakes locked, sending the tank of a car into a sideways shimmy. He fought the wheel for control, but there was no regaining it on the wet pavement. The big sedan smashed into a parked delivery truck. The impact crushed the passenger side, sending a shower of glass across the seat. T-Bob’s head hit the side window, making the world go temporarily black. As soon as he was able, he wobbled out of the crippled car and began to stagger toward the closest light.

  Something struck him between the shoulder blades and he went flat out on the wet stones, the wind knocked out of him. He lay gasping for a long minute, then was aware of another sound close by. Too close. A low, raspy breathing, seething between clenched teeth, then a quiet, rattling growl that made him think of one of those guard dogs that could tear a man to pieces on command. With a wild sort of relief, he wondered if that was what had gotten a hold of Telest. Believing that was better than the alternative.

  Then he noticed a sharp, pungent scent, like the musty fur collar on his mama’s best coat when it got wet in the rain. Only this was stronger, hotter. Alive.

  Panting to get control of his fear, T-Bob flopped onto his back to face his attacker, hoping he could be talked out of setting the dog on him.

  But there was no man—no dog, either. Just a huge, hulking shape crouched down on all fours and a horrible gleam of yellow eyes. T-Bob cried out and started to scramble backward on the cobbles as the thing began to rise up and up and up, until it towered over him on hind legs to at least seven feet of massive fur and fury.

  “You won’t ever misuse her again,” came the beast’s harsh rumble. “Prepare to pay for your sins.”

  T-Bob’s last sight was of jowls rolling back from a row of mammoth teeth. Then he was screaming as the wide, gaping jaws reached down for him.

  One

  GLAD I DON’T have to clean up this mess.”

  Detective Charlotte Caissie examined an unidentifiable piece of the victim on the bottom of her stiletto-heeled boot before scraping it off on the wet cobblestones. A grimace of distaste shaped her boldly exotic features.

  “I’ve never known you to clean up anything, Cee Cee, darlin’,” Alain Babineau said from the other side of the vehicle. “If you’d wear practical shoes to work, you wouldn’t be picking up our evidence like a litter sticker and carrying it all over the place.”

  She studied her stylish footgear, then scowled at her partner. “At least my wardrobe doesn’t come straight outta my high school yearbook.”

  “No, you get yours from the Frederick’s of Hollywood catalog. And you wonder why my wife thought you were a hooker the first time you met.”

  “You’re just jealous ’cause your wife prefers to dress like Doris Day.” She smoothed the short leather skirt that was several inches from a working girl’s advertisement. It wasn’t her fault she had legs as long as an NBA star’s. Nor would she apologize for her in-your-face looks. The exaggerated bristle of short dark hair, dramatically rimmed kohl-black eyes, the slash of crimson lips, and model-sharp angles under café au lait skin complemented her aggressive no-nonsense attitude. A wardrobe that was more Xena the Warrior Princess than Suzie Homemaker flaunted her strong, curvy build and emphasized what she was inside: tough, confident, and capable. All cop. All the time.

  “There’s more of him over here. Not exactly sure what, though.” Her partner straightened, observing the remains of T-Bob Gautreaux with a sigh. A weary grimness about his eyes toughened the all-American looks that were more suited to a country club than a grisly murder scene. “The ole boy sure did get around. Can’t decide whether to call in the coroner or the city sanitation crew.”

  “What do you make of it, Babs?” Cee Cee’s gaze tracked the last frantic moments of the Caddy’s ride by the devastation left in its wake. Skid marks, dents, glass, and blood. Lots of blood. “He was in a helluva hurry to get away from something.”

  “Don’t look like the poor bastard had much luck.”

  “He had luck, all right. All bad.” Cee Cee activated her radio. “Boucher, whatchu come up with over there at the house?”

  “More of the same, detective.” The youthful voice thinned with strain. “I’m almost through taking pictures here.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be needing any wallet-size prints.” She took a bracing breath before asking,“Any sign of the wife and kid?”

  “No, ma’am.” Quieter. “Thank God.” Then a puzzled tone. “You making the wife for this?”

  “I don’t think so, Joey. A woman on her worst PMS day couldn’t come up with this kind of pissed off.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it.” The rookie officer’s whisper was laced with horror.

  Cee Cee glanced about the gore-strewn street. “I have.”

  In all her years on the force, the last four of them carrying a shield, Charlotte Caissie had seen all sorts of inhumanity dealt out by her fellow man. Shootings, stabbings, punitive maimings—nothing surprised her any more. But this, this carnage they’d come across now and again, was different in a way that made her scalp prickle viscerally. This wasn’t an act of anger or revenge or even ritual. The savagery of it was unthinkable on this side of sanity. The way the victims were torn apart went beyond mutilation, requiring a power and single-minded purpose that was more beast than man. But no animal she knew possessed the kind of foresight and cunning to kill, then lie in wait to kill again. To stalk and pursue with intelligent discrimination. It was a thinking beast who hunted the dark city streets. One with specific targets. One who left a merciless message underlined in entrails. A message meant to be taken seriously.

  She took it very seriously.

  “Finish up, Joey, and get on over here before the rain washes away what’s left of Mr. Gautreaux.” She switched off the radio and returned to the unmarked car where her partner sat inside to protect his suede varsity jacket as he ran names through their database. She leaned against the door frame, her relaxed posture belying the sharp-edged expectation winding through her. “Find what we both knew we’d find?”

  Babineau looked up, a feral smile on his aftershave-ad-smooth face. “Gautreaux and Surette, both low-level gamblers in over their heads to guess who?”<
br />
  Anticipation had her teeth grinding. “Jimmy Legere. How come his name pops up every time we find ourselves looking down into an empty chest cavity?”

  “Nothing says ‘I own you’ like mortal fear. Shall we go pay him a visit and see what he’s been up to?”

  Cee Cee checked the crime scene. The tape was up, holding back the swarm of press who managed to scent out the dead like flies. Their people were in control, if any control could be had at the site of such depravity. The forensic team was busy unloading their high-tech gizmos in a focused rapture, making her and Babineau’s presence obsolete.

  “Let’s go.” She dropped behind the wheel with a fierce smile. “Let’s just stop by uninvited.”

  THERE WAS NO way to drop in unexpectedly on Jimmy Legere. The eight-foot walls surrounding his sprawling estate were studded with surveillance cameras that could summon a crew of armed men in an instant. But as they approached, the wrought-iron gates stood open, almost as if to welcome guests at four in the morning. As if they’d been expected.

  She followed the long drive beneath a heavy lace of live oaks, through the formal gardens where statuary stood like cold, nude ghosts under the waning moonlight. In the daytime, the place had a faded elegance to it. At night, it gave her the creeps. She parked so their vehicle blocked the front steps and hesitated within its safety for a minute. There was enough of the old ways steeped in her heritage to get her nape bristling in uncomfortable wariness—a kind of walking-over-graves nervousness, making her wonder if there were more ghosts roaming behind the pale stucco walls. The ghosts of those Legere had killed.

  Shaking off the superstitious shivers, she got out of the car. The sound of the door slamming echoed back off the mist. She didn’t bother giving the grand home an admiring glance; she’d been there before. With Babineau following, she marched up the marble steps, surprised that no one had arrived to intercept them. No one ever caught Jimmy napping, which was why he was still alive. The wide porch was darkly shadowed, smelling of verbena and musty wood. She strode across it toward the massive front door.