Masked by Moonlight Page 27

  “Just answer.”

  His voice grew as cool as her own. “I don’t fancy jewelry myself, but yes, he was wearing it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  She hung up. And started to put together the pieces to a picture as surprising as it was unexpected.

  THE RECORDS SHE subpoenaed from the source listed Barnaby Pratt, thirty-two, as dangerously psychotic, and suffering from lifelong paranoia and delusions that he was some sort of half man/half animal. After he was found in the backyard on all fours, attempting to devour the family’s pet, he went through the rest of his childhood drugged and shocked into a stupor. Weaned from the medication in his late teens with the help of extensive psychotherapy and a zealous plunge into religion, he had some productive years in his twenties working the docks, until experiencing another serious break with reality.

  He’d gone on a rampage that covered the front pages for months with his wild-eyed, bearded face. After disemboweling his girlfriend and her mother, he stalked and slaughtered Marco Vantour, the man he believed had seduced and impregnated the girl he’d planned to marry. He’d also savagely murdered a meter reader ticketing cars on his block and the police officer who’d come to the door to question him. They finally brought him down with big-game tranquillizers at the zoo, where he was found sleeping naked in the wolf exhibit.

  Tests done at autopsy proved that Marco Vantour wasn’t the father of the dead girl’s unborn child, although the close markers indicated it would have been a relative. Pratt’s attorney claimed the insanity plea, and during pretrial psychiatric testing, Pratt ripped the head off his doctor, leaving a young nurse so traumatized that she swore the killer had transformed into some monster. Barnaby Pratt disappeared.

  A year or so later Benjamin Spratt, with his soft, pudgy face and gentle gaze, came to live at St. Bart’s. There he’d lovingly tended the church and its parishioners with a blissful smile on his face, and ill will toward none in his faded blue eyes.

  Cee Cee threw herself into building the case, which would lead away from Max, whether that was her conscious focus or not. Through photos and interviews, she discovered that both Vantour brothers were given matching rings by their father when they turned twenty-one. Since the rings were identical, there was no way to tell which one was found on Benjamin’s hand.

  Tests done on the remains recovered from the swamps concluded that Victor, not Marco was responsible for luring the innocent girl into a predicament that ultimately led to her death. Barnaby Pratt had killed the wrong brother.

  Had he waited twenty years to rectify that mistake?

  The evidence said yes. Pratt, or Spratt, had been seen on the docks asking about Vic Vantour’s routine. Cee Cee documented the testimony, but a bad feeling began to twist her intuition. A very bad feeling that had nothing to do with how much she’d liked Benjamin, or how much she wanted to protect Max.

  She knew, deep inside her very sensitive gut, that Legere’s people, not Vantour’s, were responsible for what had happened to Mary Kate—and that she, not the janitor, had been the true target that night. And she knew that even though Benjamin Spratt had trailed behind Dolores Gautreaux and her child like a puppy dog, he wasn’t the one who had eliminated Gautreaux and Surette.

  Though she was sure of these things, she couldn’t prove them. And no one wanted her to. The district attorney and her department heads were satisfied to believe what might have been the truth because it closed an open wound when a cop killer went down.

  They wanted to believe that criminally disturbed Barnaby Pratt had resurfaced to protect Dolores Gautreaux. That he’d probably butchered the two men in the alley for reasons unknown. That with his psychosis in full swing, he’d tracked down Vic Vantour and killed him for ruining the woman he’d loved. That in retaliation, Vantour’s lieutenants had slain Pratt, and Sister Catherine was a regrettable sidebar.

  It could have happened that way—but Cee Cee didn’t think so. It was too neat. Too convenient. The envelope on her desk, the ring on Benjamin’s finger—pieces left for her to fit together. But by whom and for what purpose?

  Her department and the fickle press showered her with praise for the diligence that broke the investigation wide open. The man who’d slain one of their own was no longer at large. The superstitious fear that had shivered through the night was stilled by a logical explanation. Even though it wasn’t the correct one.

  Cee Cee knew Barnaby or Benjamin hadn’t been insane, at least at first. He’d been a shape shifter. But no one wanted to hear that truth so she accepted the attention, the commendations, the drinks, the pats on the back with a smile. And she went on to the next day with no enthusiasm. Because there was nothing to look forward to. Nothing waiting except the next empty day.

  As she was catching up on paperwork one day, a big, flat box was delivered to her. When she opened the note, those nearby heard her soft, strangled cry and turned to watch as she ripped into the package with shaking hands.

  Well done, detective. Pretend it’s me.

  MAX HEARD THE car. It was impossible to mistake the sound of that big block engine, revving with impatient power. Then her scent, equally unique.

  He stayed at his back table in Cheveux du Chien and waited for her to come to him.

  She appeared at the other side of the dance floor, tall, sleek, and every inch an Amazonian warrior in the long, dark coat. She swept the room with her stare, finally fixing on him. When she started forward, two unwise fellows intercepted her. She cut them down with a fierce growl. “I’m a detective with the NOPD. And I’m Max Savoie’s girlfriend. Get the hell out of my way.” They moved.

  Max angled his chair to watch her approach, loving the determination in her stride, the purpose in her beautiful face.

  “Heya, detective. What a pleasant surprise.”

  “I thought you might like to see how well it fit.” She revolved slowly, the expensive raincoat belling out around her calves. She was wearing a short skirt and platform sandals. Her toenails were painted bright red, the same color as his shoes. She came to a stop, her stare direct. “And I got to thinking about other things that were a nice fit.”

  “Step up, detective.” He tapped his mouth with two fingers. “Thank me.”

  She straddled the chair, settling on his lap, settling on his lips with warm familiarity. Tasting him sweetly, deeply, devouring him.

  He eased her back after a long minute. “So tell me, detective,” he began coolly. “Are you here only because your recent newsworthy deductions have erased the stigma of shame and blame from me? Is my character clean enough not to embarrass you now?”

  The insidious suspicion had prickled the back of Cee Cee’s thoughts. Had Max manufactured the evidence to close her case, freeing him from its stain and her to return?

  Not the Max she’d fallen for. But what about the man who sat behind Legere’s desk? Oh, yes, he was capable. But he was also clever enough to make sure she never found out about it. Would he do such a thing? Play such a vile trick with her emotions?

  And then the unexpected gift. Well done, detective. Congratulations or smug insult? Was he mocking her even now?

  Father Furness’s voice replayed in her mind. It’s not up to us to judge. We can only accept.

  Max’s gift was a test. Could she accept what she knew in her heart, or should she back away, heeding the whispers of doubt?

  At that moment, she knew. And she accepted. What could have, should have, would have been the truth didn’t matter as much as what she knew for a fact: She couldn’t go another day without him.

  Now, to convince him.

  “Is that what you think, Max?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking. You’re going to have to spell it out for me, Charlotte.”

  She took a breath, then let it out. “This last month has been hell without you.”

  “For me, too.” No break in his cautious armor.

  “I want to be with you, Max—to sleep with yo
u and wake up to you in the morning. I need to hear your voice. To know you’re there to come home to.”

  “I haven’t gone anywhere, detective. Why did you run from me?”

  That soft question finally broke her. Her chest hitched painfully; her eyes welled up with weeks of misery. She crumpled against him, her head on his shoulders, her arms clutching tight. “I got scared for a minute,” she whispered against his neck.

  He stroked her hair and buried his face in it. “You’re not scared anymore?”

  “I’ve never been scared of anything when you’re holding me.”

  “Remind me never to let you go.”

  “Oh, Max—I’ve missed you.”

  The feel of his embrace tightening was a Welcome Home.

  “Max?”

  “Charlotte?”

  “It’s going to be . . . complicated.”

  “What is?”

  “Us. Being together. You being you and me being me.”

  “I wouldn’t want it any other way.” He nuzzled her throat, nipping down that soft column to her collarbone.

  “We should set up boundaries, guidelines about how it’s going to work. That would be the smart thing to do, don’t you think?”

  “I’m having a little trouble thinking about anything right now, except how much better that coat and these clothes would look on the bedroom floor.”

  She laughed softly, confidence and relief returning in a warm wave. “We don’t have to talk tonight. I took a week off of work. I’m the hero of the hour and they can deny me nothing.”

  Neither could he.

  “Going somewhere in particular?”

  “Wherever you’re going.”

  “Your place or my place?”

  “Either or both. But something tells me we’re not going to get much farther than the front seat of the car.”

  His eyes grew heavy-lidded, his voice a low caress. “Are you going to make all my gear-shift fantasies come true, detective?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I’m ready to leave now.” He put his hands on her waist and lifted her off him, then stood, red toes to red shoes. “Let’s go fog up your windows.”

  IN A FAR corner of the bar, deep in the shadows where he could see the entire room without being seen, as he had for the past week, a stranger’s eyes flared hot and gold. He gripped a passing waiter, startling him with the bite of claws. His urgent growl and fierce expression silenced any protest, as did the twenty-dollar bill. “Who’s the kid with the upright female? Kinda reminds me of someone.”

  The waiter looked at him as if he were from another planet. “That’s Max Savoie. He took over Jimmy Legere’s action. He’s one of us.”

  “That right?” The stranger leaned back with a chuckle that sounded darkly dangerous. “Max Savoie. Whaddaya know? Life has a funny way of bringing things full circle.” His teeth flashed white and sharp. “Time for us to get acquainted.” Before your time runs out.

  “Bring you another?”

  “Sure.”

  He tipped his glass to the figure below. Life had just gotten interesting again.

  Game on.

  AS THEY CROSSED the dance floor, Max felt an odd tug on his senses. It wasn’t exactly danger. It was something else—something unfamiliar. He slowed, his gaze scanning the room as the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. But he saw nothing to alarm him in this place he now thought of as his sanctuary. Still . . .

  Charlotte pressed against his side. “Max? Is something wrong?”

  There were so many unknowns in his new life, he didn’t know where to begin. He no longer knew who he was, let alone what he was as he stood at the crossroad of two very different paths. He now uneasily wore Jimmy Legere’s criminal crown, and it was Charlotte’s job to make sure it was one of thorns. In this place, with these strange beings, he’d found a heritage he didn’t understand, and something he had yearned for all his life: a place to belong. Then there was Charlotte and the promise of a future he wasn’t sure he could hold on to, once he started down either of the two roads.

  He smiled. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  His arm tightened about her in a protective curl as he realized one unshakable truth. No matter what journey he chose, his first priority was to see that Charlotte came to no harm because of it.

  This strong, brave, passionate woman had trusted him with her heart. And he would not fail her.

  She smiled up at him, and he saw his whole world in her eyes.

  “Hey, they’re playing our song,” she said.

  He listened, then grinned when he recognized Warren Zevon’s “Werewolves of London.” With a laugh, he slipped his arms beneath her coat and twirled her around the floor, tugging her in tight. Her arms circled his neck, drawing him down until they breathed in each other’s breaths.

  Then she gave him a slight push and, with a teasing smile, dangled the car keys.

  “Shall we get the motor running?”

  “I’m way ahead of you, detective.”

  And with their arms around each other, they stepped outside, where their shadows blended together in the night.

  Turn the page

  for an exciting sneak peek of

  CHASED BY MOONLIGHT

  the next irresistible novel in

  Nancy Gideon’s

  Shape-shifter series

  Coming soon from Pocket Books

  SANDRA CUMMINGS, TWENTY-TWO, single, a business student at Tulane. Apparently she went to a club off the Square with a group of friends. She left about one thirty and walked to her car alone.”

  “She should have known better.” Charlotte looked at the plastic-draped form, frustration roiling. Why didn’t she know better? One too many drinks? The invulnerability of youth? How could her friends let her just walk out into the night by herself? What were they thinking?

  Unfortunately, she had a pretty good idea what they’d be thinking when they heard the news. They’d be thinking it was all their fault. And then they’d have to learn to live with it. Lesson learned too damn late, and now just another grim statistic. “Stupid kids,” she muttered almost angrily.

  She glanced around, her cool, dark eyes efficiently detailing the scene, imagining it the way it would look late at night—not the way it did now, skirted by police tape and obscenely visible to those beginning to crowd behind it. After midnight it would be isolated, empty in favor of the jazz and dance-club party scene closer to the Square. A lonely, shadowed place to die. No place for a twenty-two year old student to be lying under plastic.

  “What was so special about her that the chief called me back in?” She glanced at her partner, alerted by his edgy evasiveness. Not much made Alain Babineau fidget. He was the epitome of cool and calm under even the most grisly circumstances. Together they’d seen all the ugly, shocking reminders of what man was willing to do to his fellow man in the name of anger, jealousy, madness, or just plain business.

  “She’s Simon Cummings’ youngest daughter.”

  “Cummings?” She’d met the aggressively proactive mayoral hopeful at several professional functions. She’d liked his firm, hard line against crime. “A coincidence?”

  Something uneasy moved in Babineau’s face as he bent and pulled back the plastic. “I don’t think so.”

  She stared down at the partially nude and viciously mutilated body of Sandra Cummings, seeing the signature MO. She didn’t need to wait for the pronouncement of cause from the medical examiner, Devlin Dovion. She recognized the work.

  Fangs and claws.

  “Do you want to drive or shall I?” Babineau asked softly.

  LEGERE ENTERPRISES INTERNATIONAL had its business office in a renovated warehouse along the wharf, close to the pulse of its many interests. And many of those interests had been under attack by Simon Cummings. His campaign had stepped up considerably since Jimmy Legere’s death and the assumption of power by his long-time bodyguard, Max Savoie.

  Savoie was an unknown quantity. Despite his highly visible stan
ce at Legere’s back, he’d stayed in the shadows as a silent, simmering threat to anyone who would dare cross his mentor. He literally hadn’t existed on paper until Legere’s high-priced lawyer arranged for the necessary documents to allow him to take control.

  How he would run LE International, and his ability to retain his hold on the far flung and allegedly illegal ventures, was the topic of much debate. Dangerous debate. And though the head that wore the new crown was uneasy, one wouldn’t know it when looking at the sleek businessman seated behind a huge teak desk.

  “Detectives, what can I do for you this morning?”

  In unspoken agreement, Cee Cee remained quiet while her partner, Alain Babineau, squared up to ask questions. From the backup position she could study the elegant Savoie, looking beyond his beautifully tailored gray Armani suit and immaculate grooming to the sharp-edged killer he’d been until a few months ago. The aura of potential violence still shimmered about him despite the careful composition of his ruggedly compelling features. Knowing how much more was hidden behind the steady arrogance of his stare had Cee Cee dreading the confrontation to come.

  That, and the fact that she was sleeping with him.

  “We’re investigating a murder, Mr. Savoie. A young woman was attacked at her car, chased down the Moonwalk, overpowered, raped, and killed.”

  Max never blinked. “How unfortunate. And this relates to me how? Do I know her? Does she work for me?”

  “Her father was Simon Cummings. Get the picture now?”

  “Still out of focus. Fine tune, please.”

  “Her throat was torn out. It appears as if some of her internal organs were . . . eaten.”

  “Ah. Are you asking if I suddenly got a craving for young coed and decided to go out for a snack?”

  “Did you?”

  A cool smile. “No. I’m afraid my girlfriend doesn’t approve of me assaulting and devouring other women. She’s funny that way. I try my best not to irritate her unnecessarily, even though she doesn’t seem to have a problem irritating me. Nor do you, apparently, Detective Babineau.”

  “So you won’t mind telling me for the record where you were between one and two this morning.”