Masked by Moonlight Page 24

  “We have company, cher. Did you want coffee, too?” Max asked.

  “A little sugar first, then the coffee.” She looped her arms around Max’s neck and kissed him soundly. “Why didn’t you wake me?” she scolded against his lips.

  “You looked too beautiful to disturb. I’ll bring a tray out to the side porch.” He smiled slightly. “Detective Babineau, make yourself at home.”

  Babineau gave Cee Cee a hard once-over as they started down the side hall. “It looks like you already have.”

  “Don’t be pissy, Babs.”

  “Pissy? I was about to order a dredge of the river!”

  “That’s sweet. I didn’t know you cared.”

  “Well, it’s damned inconvenient having to teach someone new what radio stations you like, and how much hot sauce to put on your po’boy. Savoie? For the love of Christ, Ceece, what a time to get all hormonal over the guy, just when the whole district’s about to explode.”

  “That’s part of why I’m here.”

  “You’re working? Undercover or under the covers?”

  “You are very irritable in the mornings, Alain. I don’t know how your wife puts up with you.”

  He dropped heavily into one of the wicker porch chairs and stared out at the overgrown gardens. “Seeing the blood in that car scared me to death, Cee Cee.”

  She pressed her hand over his. “I’m sorry. It had to look like I was out of the picture.”

  “What happened to your arm?”

  “An accident. That’s how the blood got in the car.”

  He turned to her with a low demand. “What’s going on with you, detective? You are so far out on the limb, how are you going to know if he’s cutting the branch off behind you?”

  “Because I trust him.”

  “Is that the cop or the starry-eyed girlfriend talking? He’s a criminal, a killer.”

  “But that doesn’t make me a bad person,” Max said.

  He set the tray with cups and carafe on the tabletop, then poured a cup for Cee Cee, strong and black. “You’ll have to fix your own, detective. I don’t know how you take it. And I’m afraid I don’t know your music preferences, either. I guess I’ll be learning all sorts of new things this morning. You didn’t answer him, Charlotte.” He still stood studying her unblinkingly.

  “The girlfriend is a believer. The cop is cautiously optimistic.”

  “The criminal is grateful. The boyfriend is slightly disappointed.” His tone chilled. “I have a meeting this morning, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get dressed. Detective Babineau, if I don’t see you before you leave, keep her safe for me.”

  He brushed his knuckles along the side of Cee Cee’s face, then went back into the house.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Cee Cee grumbled, looking after him with annoyance and distress. “What the hell is his problem? I so suck at this stuff. Now he’s all torqued off and I don’t even know what I said.”

  “No one said relationships were for sissies. Go after him if you’ve gotta. I’ll just sit and enjoy my coffee.”

  HE’D ALREADY PULLED on dark blue slacks and was buttoning the cuffs of his crisp white shirt when Cee Cee’s hands slid up beneath the loose tails to rest against his bare middle. Her thinking was simple and direct: toss him back on the sheets and smooth out the misunderstandings on a horizontal plane. Passion fired her blood in full support of that logic. A quick, hard tumble would cure any insult she might have inadvertently delivered.

  A fine plan, until he neatly circumvented it. He caught her hands, lifting them to his lips, then held them tightly to his chest. His voice wasn’t any friendlier.

  “Charlotte, I’m afraid I don’t have the time to work out the particulars of our relationship at this moment.”

  “Who are you meeting this morning, Max?”

  “Petitjohn and . . . some others.”

  “LaRoche?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “What for?”

  “It’s business.”

  “Dangerous business?”

  “All of my business is dangerous business. As is yours, detective. We can’t separate that out, can we?”

  She pressed against him, rubbing her cheek along his hard, muscled back. He tensed but didn’t turn. “I want to beg you not to go. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I do now.”

  “I want to beg you just to walk away from it.”

  “And do what? Sell shoes? I have obligations to the people here, Charlotte. To Jimmy. If you wanted me to walk away from them, you should have convinced me of that last night.”

  “And to me? Any obligations there?”

  He lifted her hands, kissing her palms, nipping her fingers, licking along her knuckles, then holding them clasped beneath his chin. He didn’t answer.

  “I want to beg you, but I won’t ask you.”

  “Charlotte, what am I going to do with you?”

  She felt the breath shiver from him. Then he spoke softly, his words filled with a quiet emotion she couldn’t identify. But both the tone and the sentiment scared her.

  “Stay out of sight for a few more hours. After that, it shouldn’t matter.”

  “Why?”

  “I love you, Charlotte.”

  “Max—”

  “Go downstairs and finish your coffee so I can finish up here. Go. Please.” Then much softer, “Please.”

  She drew her hands out of his and left.

  Seeing her expression when she rejoined him at the table, Babineau wisely made no comment. Her cup rattled on the saucer when she lifted it, so she put the coffee down and simply sat, trying to control her panic. She wasn’t thinking like a cop, with her head and controlled instincts. She was lost to the confused emotions of a woman so in love, she couldn’t see beyond the anguish of letting him walk out into his brutal world.

  She heard him come down the stairs, his light, quick step unmistakable, but she stayed at the table, gripping the arms of her chair. He didn’t come out to the porch. When she heard the front door open and shut, her stomach lurched. Wasn’t he going to say good-bye?

  Then she heard voices in the hall, low and serious. Business. Legere’s business, now Max’s business. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that yet. Only how she felt about him.

  “Charlotte, come see me out.”

  She moved carefully, lest she hurry and betray how fragile her emotional state was. Max was speaking to several of his household people while two burly body men and the chauffeur stood waiting. In the dark blue suit and sober tie, he could have been a banker or stockbroker—if not for the red shoes and the subtle hint of violence that clung to him like a mysterious cologne.

  He stopped talking when he saw her and waited for her to join him. He took her hand, drawing her close to his side while he told the others, “This is Detective Charlotte Caissie, my girlfriend. She’s to have full access to anything of mine, anytime she requests it.”

  “Mr. Savoie,” began one of the bulky duo uneasily.

  “Giles, anything, anytime. I have no secrets from her. I trust her with everything I have and everything I am. Is that understood?”

  Uncomfortable assenting murmurs replied. The women grew a bit misty-eyed, thinking what a romantic he was, and the men exchanged knowing glances, enviously figuring she must be great in bed.

  Embarrassed, Cee Cee muttered, “This is hardly necessary, Max.”

  “It might be, Charlotte. It might be very necessary.”

  If he didn’t come back. Her gaze flew up to his, wide with shock and disbelief. If anything happened to him, he’d just handed everything concerning Jimmy’s empire to her—and, if she chose, to the New Orleans Police Department.

  “Max, no.”

  Waving his people away, he looked down into her liquid gaze. “It’s already done, Charlotte. Antoine D’Marco, my lawyer, will come see you. I want you taken care of. I want you to have the knowledge to keep yourself safe.”

  If I don’t come back.

  She p
ushed at him, but he was holding on tight. “I don’t want your lawyer or your secrets.”

  “Charlotte, don’t do this now,” he petitioned awkwardly. He knew how to handle her anger, her contempt, her sarcasm, but this unexpected vulnerability had him rather desperate. “Hush, now. What do you want?”

  “I want dinner and dancing. I b-bought these great shoes and—”

  He silenced her with the fierce crush of his mouth,which gentled so quickly with the first taste of her tears, she had to cling to him in a free fall of emotion. When her knees went weak, his arm scooped about her waist to haul her up against him while he kissed her damp cheeks, her closed eyes, and her mouth.

  “I want to see the shoes. When and where?”

  “Tonight. Seven. PaPa Legba’s.”

  “I’ll be there. But you have to let me go now.”

  “Max . . . don’t be late.”

  “I won’t be. Let me go, detective.”

  “I don’t think I can.” She gulped.

  “Nonsense. You’re the strongest, bravest woman I’ve ever known.” Gently, firmly he worked her fingers free from his coat, holding them in the curl of his own. “How could I not come back to you?”

  With a quick squeeze of her hands, he stepped back and walked briskly away. She could see his posture straighten, his stride grow more aggressive and controlled as he drew out his sunglasses and slipped them on, transforming into the man Legere had made of him.

  “I want you, Savoie,” she sighed softly.

  He looked back over his shoulder, his sly grin flashing. Then he was gone.

  Cee Cee stood in the hall, waiting for her heart rate to return to normal. For the first time in her life, she was paralyzed by helplessness. She couldn’t fight her way out of it, she couldn’t think her way through it, and she simply could not accept that Max Savoie might be walking out of her life just when she’d finally realized how much he meant to her.

  “Is there something you need, Detective Caissie?”

  She glanced at the pretty young woman who looked about the right size for those red nylon and lace panties, and a swift surge of possessiveness shocked her from her stupor.

  “Thank you . . .”

  “Jasmine.”

  “Thank you, Jasmine, but I have absolutely everything I need or want.” And she was going to hold on to it.

  She went back to the porch. “Babineau, if you’re finished lapping up the benefit of those ill-gotten gains, we have work to do.”

  He tossed back the last of his coffee and scrambled to join her. She was back to the hard-thinking, tough-edged partner he’d follow into hell as she bit out crisp orders.

  “I need to know the whereabouts and scheduled meetings for every major crime player in the city this morning. Something’s going on and I need to know when and where.”

  As they strode to the door, the pretty housemaid intercepted her again.

  “Excuse me, detective. Mr. Savoie wanted you to have these.”

  A set of keys. Familiar car keys.

  She grinned wide. “Savoie, you’re going to find me so freaking grateful.”

  “The key to his heart?” Babineau drawled.

  “No, to mine. Let me borrow some money. I need to get some clothes and I can’t go back to my apartment yet. I’m supposed to be dead.”

  “I’m married. You know I’m not allowed to carry money.”

  “Plastic, then.”

  “Oh, yeah, and I get to explain a purchase for the woman I’m not having an affair with to my wife?”

  “I’ll let you drive.” She gestured out to the cherry ride parked out front.

  Babineau gave a wolf whistle. “Your shacking up with Savoie might have its good points. Any others I should know about?”

  She arched a brow. “None I’m willing to share.”

  She dropped him off at his car an hour and forty-five minutes later, feeling capable and focused in new jeans, a snug lime-green tee shirt, and some scandalously inappropriate underwear.

  “In about an hour, make a report that you found me sleeping it off here at Savoie’s. Tell them the kids boosted my car while we were rolling around in the grass, and that Max had his chauffeur pick us up when we discovered the car was gone. Elaborate. Tell them I was too drunk to remember I owned a car.” She put up her hand to stop his protest. “I don’t care—it’s not going to sound pretty no matter how you put it.”

  “And everyone’s going to know Savoie is putting it to you.”

  Leave it to her partner to serve it up unwincingly plain.

  “At the moment, that’s the least of my worries.”

  FRANCIS PETITJOHN RAN his various enterprises out of a dockside warehouse refurbished into an office park. While Jimmy had preferred the isolation of his country home and to have business come to him, T-John enjoyed keeping his finger on the pulse of the workers, and his foot on the back of their necks.

  He looked up from behind his paperwork to smile thinly at his visitor. “Good morning, Max. Are you ready for our big day?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.” He stood halfway in the room, not yet committing.

  “Come in and sit down. I’m almost finished here.” This was the first time he’d ever offered a seat or any courtesy.

  Max remained where he was, his gaze roving the room as if he hadn’t been there hundreds, probably thousands, of times before. He’d always found the decor retro trash, with its bright splashes of color and chrome and a shag rug out of the ’60s. It wasn’t the type of place conducive to business, Jimmy had always grumbled after sitting on the oddly formed artsy chairs. Max silently agreed.

  “I heard something interesting this morning from one of my contacts in the police department.” Francis glanced up to gauge Max’s interest, finding no flicker of it in his features. “It seems Detective Caissie is MIA”

  Max said nothing.

  “So you decided to take care of things yourself, did you?” Surprise, possibly grudging respect, edged that comment.

  “Jimmy taught me it was never wise to do business from a position of weakness. And as you pointed out, Detective Caissie was my weakness.”

  Petitjohn gave an uneasy laugh. “You’re a heartless creature, Max.”

  “I am what you and Jimmy made me.”

  Petitjohn smiled slightly. “Indeed you are. Max, sit.”

  He came in cautiously to take the proffered seat. Then he simply stared with a flat, unreadable gaze until T-John was twisting nervously beneath it.

  “The meeting’s in an hour. Are we in accord, Max? We can’t afford to show any uncertainties, not in front of these people. Let me do the talking. We’ll give them a minute or two to express their condolences, then we’ll stake a firm claim for what’s ours.”

  “Ours,” Max echoed quietly. “Whatever you want, Francis.”

  Petitjohn studied him for a long moment, a cunning smile on his face. Then he sighed as if he’d come to some decision.

  “We’ll toast to it.” Petitjohn reached for a pitcher of orange juice, splashing the drink into two glasses and pushing one toward Max. “To Jimmy Legere.”

  Max lifted the glass. “To Jimmy.” He drank it down, almost immediately realizing his mistake.

  “I’m sorry, Max,” Petitjohn said as he watched Max try to catch his breath. “You should have let it go. You should have stayed at my back where you belonged, instead of getting in my face.

  “But you didn’t. You took out Caissie. How could I trust the kind of monster who kills someone he loves? Jimmy let you get too smart and too damned dangerous. I’m not sharing my fortune with an animal. Nothing personal,” he finished as Max dropped from the chair onto the carpet. “Like I told Jimmy, you’re just too hard to control.”

  CEE CEE TAPPED on the dark-tinted glass, and Pete rolled down the window.

  “Where’s Max?”

  “Up with Mr. Petitjohn. He told us to wait.”

  Cee Cee glanced at the elevator door, an uneasy feeling creeping in. She faded
back into the shadow of one of the support pillars as the bell rang for the basement garage. The doors opened and Francis Petitjohn strode out, flanked by two of his men. No sign of Max. She swore, low and fierce, and began sprinting across the lot to where Petitjohn was climbing into his big Cadillac. His surprise at seeing her was monumental.

  “Where’s Savoie?”

  He was quick to recover. “You tell me. We have a meeting in less than an hour. We were supposed to go there together but he never showed. If you’ll excuse me, detective, I have an appointment. If you see Max, tell him I’ll be expecting him.” He closed the door before she could ask any further questions.

  She waited until the car drove off, then raced for the elevator. By that time Giles and the equally muscle-bound Teddy were out of the car, concerned and looking to her for directions.

  “He must still be upstairs.” She didn’t have to tell them that wasn’t a good sign as she jabbed at the button. They joined her in the elevator without a word. As the car rose up, she took out the back-up gun borrowed from Babineau, cool instinct blanketing the awful terror that she’d be too late.

  She strode into Petitjohn’s outer office, flashing her gun at the alarmed secretary, then ordered, “Don’t,” as the woman’s hand darted for the intercom. “We’ll announce ourselves.”

  Three armed men leapt up as she pushed through the double doors.

  “Detective Caissie, NOPD. Stand easy or go down hard.”

  Max was balled up on the floor, his back to her.

  “Get them out of here,” she snapped to Giles. “Keep them in the other room. No calls to anyone.”

  The second the door shut behind them, she was on her knees.

  “Max?”

  Her hands shaking, she rolled him toward her and cursed. His body was rigid, his knees tucked tight as he started to convulse. His eyes were rolled back.

  “Max. Max, it’s Charlotte. What did he do to you? What did the bastard do to you?”

  She noticed the glass on the floor and what looked like chemical burns around his mouth and guessed the worst. He’d ingested liquid silver served up by the treacherous Petitjohn, and it was eating him from the inside out like a corrosive. She frantically tried to think of what to do. Remove the silver so he could heal himself was the only answer she could come up with.