Masked by Moonlight Page 5

  “I’ve got to go question the wife from the first murder,” she told her partner as she checked the messages on her desk as if it were any normal day, and not the day she started deceiving herself that one small lie wouldn’t domino into a dozen more compromises. She felt sick and shaky inside.

  “And I can’t come along?”

  She met his expectant look and hated what she was doing. They’d ridden together for years. They had shared cold coffee on long stakeouts, had dodged bullets, had backed each other’s plays without question. She’d stood up with him at his wedding, for God’s sake.

  But this wasn’t something she could invite him into. Not because she couldn’t trust him, but because she couldn’t trust her own instincts when it came to Max Savoie. She was on her own, out on her own limb, and that was a scary place to be.

  She smiled grimly. “Ladies only. I know you have a strong feminine side, but what can I say?”

  “I say you owe me lunch.”

  HOURS LATER, A deep, destructive fury built in Charlotte as she listened to the misery that was Dolores Gautreaux’s life. Or had been, until someone had done her the monumental favor of killing her husband. Cee Cee wanted to do it herself when she studied the timid creature who sat with her blackened eyes averted, her thin shoulders hunched as if to ward off a blow. Cee Cee spoke quietly, afraid a forceful word would send the anxious wraith scurrying from the room.

  “Mrs. Gautreaux . . .”

  “Dolores.” A cautious strength crept into her voice. “I’m not Mrs. Gautreaux anymore.”

  “Dolores, did you take a cab?”

  “No. I called the Sister. She came and got me.”

  “And the two of you stripped the house and carried all your belongings and the baby out, while Mr. Surette was doing what?”

  “He was passed out in . . . in the bedroom.”

  “Was he still alive?”

  A slight hesitation. “Of course.”

  Either she wasn’t sure, or she knew full well that he was lying on her sheets with his throat and black heart gone. Had she watched as it was done? Charlotte would have wanted to. She could picture Max Savoie jerking that foul organ from the man’s chest as a sacrifice to the abused woman, and perversely savored the image the same way she did when she thought of the two men in the alley. But Max wouldn’t be so unprofessional as to do murder in front of a woman and child. So maybe Surette was unconscious at the time. A dark part of her thought, Too bad.

  Maybe it was time to make that appointment with Forstrom.

  “Dolores, do know of anyone who would want your husband and his friend dead?”

  Her gaze lifted, her eyes glittering. “You mean besides me?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. They’d get into scrapes and mouth off to the wrong sorts, but I don’t know of anyone who would kill them. Especially that way.” But she didn’t wince when she said it. She most likely reveled in it—or would, once she got used to the idea of finally being free.

  “Do you know Jimmy Legere?”

  “He’s the man T-Bob owed money to. I’ve never met him.”

  “How about Max Savoie?”

  She didn’t react. “No.” Either she didn’t know him or she’d suddenly become a very good liar.

  Cee Cee touched the back of her hand. “Do you have somewhere to go when this is all over?”

  “I can stay here until . . . until the house is cleaned. Then I’ll let it go back to the bank, and the baby and me will go stay with my clan in Lafayette. I should never have left them. In time, maybe I’ll forget all this ever happened.”

  Good luck there. “Of course you will. I don’t have any more questions right now. But you understand that you’ll have to stay here and be available until the investigation is over.”

  “Yes. We’ll be happy to stay.” The look of relief on the poor woman’s face twisted around Charlotte’s heart like barbed wire. It was a relief she understood all too well.

  After thanking Mary Kate for arranging the meeting, Cee Cee strode out into the sun and took a deep breath. Feelings she didn’t like to face curled and knotted in her belly. She knew exactly what that woman was feeling. The terror, the dread, the uncertainty, the impotent hatred simmering. If Dolores Gautreaux had hired her husband’s murderer, Cee Cee hoped she never found out about it. Sometimes justice had a funny way of taking care of itself and didn’t need her at all.

  She was about to shake a cigarette from her new pack when she saw Max Savoie standing at the bottom of the church steps. The fact that he’d probably been standing there for some time, just watching her, made the familiar allover crawlies return. She stuffed the pack back in her pocket and stood, fists planted on hips, eyes narrowed, lips thinned as he came up to join her. She did like watching him move. All bold, dark grace. The remembered feel of him, pressed against her, scorched along her skin.

  “What do you want, Savoie? Why am I all of a sudden tripping over you every time I turn around?”

  “Maybe we’re just going in the same direction, detective.”

  “I doubt that. What are you doing here? And, why were you here early this morning?”

  “I’m here on a matter of theology. Don’t you think I have a soul, Charlotte?”

  “No. Men like you don’t have souls, any more than they have consciences.” She was tired and grouchy and bothered by Savoie’s presence, bothered by her enjoyment watching him come up the steps, but she did have enough decency left to feel bad about her words. Even if they didn’t seem to pierce Max’s thick skin. Taut, hot flesh that had warmed her so wonderfully when held close in his arms.

  She gave herself a harsh mental shake. Those kind of thoughts weren’t particularly helpful. Look where wondering about his touch had gotten her. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a religious sort is all I meant.” She purposely kept her tone combative, hoping he’d get the hint and back off.

  But when had Savoie ever been that obliging? He held his ground just inside the boundaries of her personal space. “Oh, there’s a lot about me that you don’t know, detective.” A small smile. “Now I’ve got you curious, don’t I?”

  “You’d be surprised at how rarely thoughts of you cross my mind.”

  He just laughed. A loud, blow-your-hair-back sound that popped out of him with the startling force of a Jack-in-the-box, alarming because he was so still before and after it leaped out to scare her.

  Disconcerted, she said, “So you’re here to bribe your way into Heaven? How’s that working out for you, Max?”

  “I’ll get back to you on that, detective.”

  He just stood there, smiling, driving her absolutely crazy from all the questions swirling around the mysterious way he bobbed in and out of her life, like a weaving, taunting boxer. But was he coaxing her to make a move so he could KO her? Or was it only fancy footwork to distract her from the work she should be doing?

  She’d never understood his odd, unreciprocated attraction to her. Why was he still trying to charm her, when he knew she could toss him behind bars and keep him there until he rotted? Didn’t he have enough sense to get out while the getting was good?

  Apparently not.

  “Actually,” he said matter-of-factly, “I came to see you. You said we’d have a conversation and I thought maybe we could—”

  He paused, going ramrod straight, his palm cupping her elbow. Something in the intensity of his expression made the hairs on her arms stand at attention.

  “Max? What is it?” She unsnapped her holster.

  He turned in a sudden move, whipping her around in an off-balanced stumble. She never heard anything except his sharp inhalation before he stumbled back into her, falling with her beneath him into the shadows of the worn stone entryway. Sandwiched between those two solid, immobile objects, it took her a moment to recover her breath. And the first thing she noticed was that Max wasn’t stirring.

  Wiggling, pushing, she finally managed to clear his unresponsive weight so she could roll up on hands and kne
es. His eyes were closed. Two things impacted her immediately: He’d taken a bullet to the abdomen, and he’d shoved her out of its path.

  She had her gun out, scanning the quiet street even as she pressed shaking fingers to his throat. Finally she found a slow, thready pulse. Her touch brought his eyes open, and he stared up at her with a faint smile.

  “Max, don’t try to move. You’ve been shot.”

  “Okay.” Then a slightly dazed, “How bad is it?”

  She started to say something to minimize the truth, but the unexpected tears in her eyes betrayed her. “Real bad. I’m sorry.”

  “Okay,” he said again, as his eyes started to slide shut.

  “Don’t move. I’m going to call the EMTs.”

  “There’s nothing they can do.”

  She believed him. She’d seen her share of wounds like the one that tore through his midsection, and all of them ended up on Dovion’s table. She stroked her hand through his dark rumpled hair, registering on some far plane how soft it was, as she watched his eyes begin to cloud.

  “Max, stay with me.”

  He blinked several times, then fixed on her again. “I never got to ask you.”

  She dragged up his hand, squeezing it in hers. “Ask me what?”

  “To step out with me. To dinner, someplace nice, where you could wear a dress. Something short that would drive me crazy. And we could dance and walk and have that conversation, and maybe even slip in some anatomy lessons.” He paused, his breath catching, then hurried on. “What would you have said to that, Charlotte? Would you have said yes?”

  Her lips trembled. “Name the date. Anywhere you want to go.”

  “Tonight. Seven. Sean Paul’s.”

  “I’ll be ready.” Her tears dotted his cheek. “Hang on. I’m going to get you some help. I’ve got a great dress. I’ve been looking for a special occasion to wear it.”

  “I’ve never been anyone’s special occasion before.” He clutched her hand as his bent knees shifted, restlessly at first, then twisted with violent agitation. His head tossed, his gaze dimming. She put her hand to his cheek, stilling his thrashings.

  “Don’t you die! Don’t you die on me, Max. Max?” She shrugged out of his coat, rolling it to slip under his head.

  He struggled to say her name. She bent close, tracing the angles of his face with her fingers, thinking he meant to make some last confession.

  “Charlotte, listen to me. Do you have a knife?”

  “What?”

  “A knife. I don’t have much time.” He squeezed his eyes shut, panting hard.

  “I do, Max. Right here.” She withdrew a butterfly knife from her bag and flicked the wicked blade open. His hand groped about, finally closing over hers. She gasped. He was still so strong.

  “Help me, Charlotte.”

  “What can I do for you, Max? Anything.” She was crying now.

  “You have to . . . you have to take the bullet out before it kills me.”

  “What?”

  “Listen to me. Don’t ask questions.”

  “Max, I—I can’t.”

  “Do what I tell you. Dammit, just do what—“ He broke off, breathing hard. He closed his eyes and when he opened them, they were calm. “Charlotte, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . . to scare you. I need you to do this for me. Please, do this for me.”

  She glanced at his wound, thinking of the needless pain and suffering removing the bullet would cause. He had to be out of his mind. He confirmed it with his next statement. “Charlotte, if you care about me . . . if you love me, you’ll do this.”

  Care about him? Love him? Her brain slammed on the brakes. She wasn’t in love with him!

  His body began to jerk in fierce spasms, but his stare remained cool and locked into hers. “Charlotte, do it now. Save my life.” His voice roughened. “Do it now.”

  Cursing, wildly upset, yet drawing on a saving detachment, Cee Cee unbuttoned his shirt to lay bare the entry wound. A rifle shot. Professional, clean, silent, and deadly. Shutting down everything but her focus on what she was about to do, she inserted the blade. That was the worst of it, yet he didn’t make a sound. Finding the bullet, she dug it out, then clutched it in her fist, weeping over it. Max was so still, she was afraid to look up.

  Then, amazingly, his fingertips brushed her shoulder.

  Her head jerked up. She hadn’t lost him yet. He’d started breathing in shallow snatches, his eyes slitting, glimmering with an odd incandescence. When he spoke his voice was still that raw growl, low and rumbling.

  “Go find Sister Catherine.”

  “Max, I can’t leave.”

  “Go!”

  That deep roar backed her onto her heels.

  His eyes opened fully. There was something wrong, very wrong with them. They gleamed laserlike, hot, cold, dazzling; frightening her into scrambling to her feet, running into the sanctuary. She opened her mouth to scream for Mary Kate, to come exorcize whatever had inhabited Max Savoie’s body.

  “Charlotte.”

  Cee Cee skidded to a stop at the sound of his voice. She stood frozen, heart pounding, her thoughts flying wildly, irrationally. Then she turned, and her legs buckled.

  Max stood just inside the doorway, his long coat closed over the bloodstained shirt, looking as fit and fine as he had that morning. Before someone shot a bullet into him that should have taken his life—but hadn’t.

  She glanced down at the misshapen lump in her hand that gleamed dully. Silver. Why would someone use such an ineffective means, when a high-velocity round would have blasted through his spine and probably have taken her out as well? Why use a bullet made of silver?

  Unless . . . the silver was meant to do the damage.

  Her gaze rose to meet his with a numbing horror that began to swell like a cold, drowning tide. The horror fed by every story she’d heard as a child made her whisper, “What are you?”

  He smiled slightly, saying, “Tonight. Seven,” before he turned and walked away.

  four

  MAX? THAT YOU, boy?”

  Obligingly, Max diverted to the back room Jimmy Legere used as his office. Since his stroke, he’d centralized his hub of power onto the main floor of the house, where he could wheel himself easily from bedroom to workroom to boardroom off the long hall. He’d always preferred to have business come to him, having no great love for city life. And in these huge, nearly empty rooms, Max had grown up tucked safely away from society’s notice. Or interference.

  Drapes were pulled against the intense afternoon light, making the high-ceilinged room dark and cool. The old man huddled in his favorite chair, his reading glasses down at the end of his nose. A bulky envelope balanced on his spindly knees. Usually his gaze softened fondly when Max entered the room. Today it didn’t, and Max approached with puzzled caution.

  “Can I get you something, Jimmy?”

  “I hear you got an escort downtown. Want to tell me about it?”

  Pulling his coat in tighter to conceal the awful stains, Max shrugged. “Nothing to tell, Jimmy. They kicked me loose after a few questions. You know they have a particular lack of imagination that always brings them to me first, anytime there’s blood on the ground. I don’t take it personally. Nothing to worry about.”

  He didn’t make a conscious decision to keep the attempt on his life to himself. He never kept anything from Jimmy Legere, not ever. Although Max was secretive by nature, his relationship with his mentor had always been one of complete honesty. But some tension underlying this meeting made Max wary without knowing why. Perhaps it was the scent of uncertainty he picked up on the old man. Perhaps it was the horror in Charlotte Caissie’s parting words that still had him unsettled. Ruthlessly trained since birth, he let none of his agitation show in stance or attitude. He was a blank, receptive slate, as always, awaiting Jimmy’s command.

  “This the reason behind the NOPD’s surprising courtesy?”

  Max took the envelope Jimmy extended and shook out pictures of him and Charlotte
Caissie just that morning on the front steps of the police station, looking very friendly with each other. His expression remained unchanged. Something foreign and fiercely protective snapped taut inside him as he spoke with an indifferent calm. “Detective Caissie. We bump shoulders now and again. She did a favor for me, one she owed me. You always told me to keep my enemies close.”

  “But not close enough to stab you in the heart or cut off anything you’re fond of. That all you bumping with her?”

  Max blinked once. “Yes.”

  “Wishing it was more?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Jimmy chuckled at his candor. “She is the spicy kinda woman that gets a man’s dick in a twist, if he’s not careful. She’s dangerous, Max. She doesn’t dole out favors.”

  “I know.”

  “Stay away from her. She’s trouble you don’t need. You be careful.”

  “I always am, Jimmy. Anything else?” He waited, an unusual anxiousness kinking his nerves into knots. He’d never had reason to be wary of Jimmy’s moods. Since coming to live under his roof as a child, he’d never suffered a harsh word or cruelly dealt punishment, though he’d seen both handed out liberally toward others. He’d never given his protector cause for either. His obedience was unshakable, his loyalty unquestionable. And now he stood before him hiding things, like the blood under his coat and the woman held close to his heart. It didn’t sit well with him.

  After regarding him for a long moment, Jimmy relaxed. “Get cleaned up. I want you to go along with Paulie. He’s got a five-thirty meet down at the docks. Just hang back and let him work, but make sure Vantour sees you.”

  “Expecting trouble?”

  “Vantour might be putting his thumb on the scales.”

  “You want me to bring back his thumbs for you?” he asked casually.

  “Not yet. Just make sure he knows we’re watching him. If he’s a smart man, he’ll play straight with me.”

  “Whatever you want, Jimmy. Happy to do it for you.”

  That warm glow kindled in the old man’s eyes. “You’re a good boy, Max.”