Bound by Moonlight (14 page)

“That’s fine. Will you be free by nine?”

“I should be.”

“Can you stop by my office?”

“Sure. Do you need a ride home?”

“No. I’ve something we need to talk about.”

Her heart skipped a beat.

“Can it wait until we get home? I’m really looking forward to curling up with you.”

A pause. “No. Just come here first. I gotta go.”

_________

T
HE MEETING WITH
Marilyn Schoenbaum was brutal.

They’d met at several police functions. Marilyn was a tall, sturdy woman with hawkish features and unwavering blue eyes. She’d been an EMT dispatcher when she and Stan met. They’d married when she found herself pregnant, and she agreed to overlook his occasional transgressions to raise his family. If she knew he’d tried to make Cee Cee one of those side pieces, she never gave any indication of it. Now she greeted Cee Cee and Babineau at her front door.

Alain did the talking. Cee Cee had filled him in on her conversation with Schoenbaum, and he’d agreed with the Vice detective’s request that they keep it lowkey. His easy manner and pleasant smile went a long way toward calming Marilyn since Stan confessed that their daughter might be missing. Alain downplayed the seriousness, holding her hand, making it sound like they weren’t really concerned but were covering the bases out of friendship for Stan.

While Babineau got the necessary information regarding friends, hangouts, and habits, Cee Cee was the observer. And she saw what she’d seen in hundreds of living rooms across the social scale: terror. Pure, raw, heartrending terror. The loss of a child. The thought of that child in danger and pain. The helplessness that came with waiting and not knowing. It didn’t get much worse.

Unless you were that child.

Stan Schoenbaum was a loudmouth who believed
in unnecessary roughness on the job and who cheated on his wife in an offensively blatant manner. But the man sitting next to Marilyn was a husband and father broken by emotion and regret. His arm was about his wife in support while his other hand laced though hers. The poignant unity of those interlocked fingers said far more about their relationship than his selfish acts of adultery. This was why Marilyn Schoenbaum ignored the gossip. Because that grip was both strong and tender. That was love. And trust. As basic and powerful as it got.

She stared at those hands, at their plain gold rings, and she thought of Max. Of how the simple press of his palm, the gentle curl of his fingers about hers, could steady her world and bring everything into focus.

Was that why she felt so scared, so lost? Because Max suddenly felt out of reach?

“What do you think?” Babineau asked as they got into their police car and pulled away from the Schoenbaums’ home.

“I don’t want to think she’s the latest vic, but I can’t ignore the timing.”

“I’m sure Manny Blu’s connected. I’d love to bring him down.”

“We have to get closer. That means working with Vice.”

A growl of distaste. “They’re not gonna let us have a piece unless we’ve got some pretty convincing circumstantial evidence to stick on him.”

“Then let’s find something.”

_________

H
ER PROFESSIONAL NAME
was Cocoa. Her rap sheet identified her as Tonya Michaels, and listed her bad habits as ranging from uttering and publishing to solicitation. She’d done time for nickel-and-dime distribution. Alain Babineau had helped her out when an abusive pimp had beaten her boyfriend to death and left her with a broken jaw and too many bruises to count. He’d put the pimp away without bringing her into the mix. She had a four-year-old son she’d been terrified of losing. Babineau had gotten her into a program to kick the drugs and helped her set up a decent home for her boy with a maternal aunt. She’d told him if he ever needed anything, just ask.

Now he was asking. “Manny Blu.”

He and Cee Cee met her at Daisy Dukes on Chartres, close to where she plied her trade, and sat in a booth by the kitchen, trying to look inconspicuous. But then, a six-foot purple-haired hooker wasn’t that unusual in the Quarter.

She picked up a Cajun fry drenched in hot sauce. “That fat fuck? Whatchu want with him?”

“We want to know what you know, Tonya.”

The flamboyant black woman froze up at Cee Cee’s use of her real name. “Why? You lookin’ for a book deal to retire on?”

“I’m looking for the animal who slaughtered three of your sisters of the streets, before he has the chance to make it number four. Could be someone you know.”

Tonya drew her straw distractedly through her iced tea. “I knew JoJo.”

“Marjorie Cole?”

“Yeah. Nice kid.

“How about these girls? Did you know them?” She set the photos of the other two victims down.

Cocoa took a look, then winced away. Then looked again. “Maybe. Lordy Lord. What did he do to them?”

“Terrible things you don’t want to know about. Where do you know them from, Tonya?”

“I don’t know their names. I seen ’em around.”

“Around where, Cocoa?” Babineau coaxed, nudging the photos closer. “You don’t want your little boy to have to ID you from one of these, do you?”

“That’s harsh. That’s just harsh.” But moisture welled up in her heavily lined eyes. “I think I seen ’em at Manny’s club. I can’t be sure. They didn’t look like that.” She shuddered and pushed aside her food. “I only worked there a couple a weeks.”

“Do you still have friends there we could talk to?”

She laughed. “They ain’t gonna talk to no cop.”

Cee Cee leaned forward and put her hand over the other woman’s. “Could you get me inside, so it’d be between us girls?”

Cocoa laughed again. “You a tad old, ain’tcha, sugar?”

Cee Cee refused to let go of her hand. “Yeah, but I’ve got all the right equipment.”

Cocoa gave her a scrutinizing once-over. “Could be you’d do okay. Got nice perky tits.”

“I’m perky all over, and I can remember a drink order.”

A low chuckle. “Who said anything about drinks, sug? Manny ain’t hiring no waitresses.”

A very bad feeling got hold of Cee Cee. “What’s he hiring?”

A huge grin. “Dancers.”

C
EE
C
EE EXPECTED
to see Max in his power suit, but he was dressed all in black—a long-sleeved tee shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes. He looked as sleek as a jaguar, and too sexy for her own good.

“Heya,” he said.

“Hey yourself.”

“You’re early.”

She gestured behind her. “I could go sit in the waiting room. I’ll bet you’ve got a better selection of magazines than we do at work.”

“Sorry, no
Soldier of Fortune
or
Handguns R Us
catalogs.”

“Ha-ha. Have you been sitting here thinking up funny things to say?”

“That was pretty much the only one I came up with. Sorry I couldn’t be more clever.”

He was plenty clever. And sly, as well as amusing, when he wanted to be. Which of those was he being now, as he regarded her with a small smile? “What’s on your mind, Savoie?”

“I’ve got some information for you. You asked me about Manny Blu, so I asked some questions.”

“This is about my
case
?”

“Maybe it would be better if I just showed you. Here, put these on.”

She stared at the stack of dark clothes and jogging shoes he pushed across the glossy desk top. “Is this a date or a B and E?”

His teeth flashed. “Can’t it be both?”

Curiosity and excitement warred with objection. “Savoie, what the hell are you up to?”

“No questions. Don’t ask for my help if you don’t really want it. Now hurry. We don’t have a lot of time. Pete’s waiting to drive us.” He stood and circled the desk to approach her.

“A chauffeur to take us to the scene of our crime?”

He grinned again. “Why not?”

She toed off her heels, grumbling, “I must be crazy to go along with this.”

“Then don’t,” was his mild response. “I’m not forcing you.”

She scrambled to change her clothing. He was maddening, watching her with that half smile, his eyes mocking and smoldering. Getting her heart knocking with anticipation and, yes, lust. This was the Max Savoie she’d fallen for. Cagy, clever, taunting, provoking her into doing what she knew she shouldn’t. And she couldn’t hurry after him fast enough.

Max lounged in the comfortable backseat of the town car, as relaxed as she was edgy.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.” He slid a glance at her from the long slant of his eyes, a look that was daring and playful and hot as hell.

She was about to press the issue when his hand settled over hers on the seat between them. His fingers threaded through hers and curled into her palm, possessive and protective. And as she remembered the Schoenbaums’ linked hands, she almost lost it right there.

“What’s wrong, Charlotte?”

The quiet question made her jump. “Nothing. I don’t know.”

“Have I done something? Tell me.”

She couldn’t look at him, twisting with misery. “I don’t know what’s wrong. I’m all balled up inside. I can’t think. I feel off balance somehow.”

“Is it this case?”

“Maybe. No. Not really.” Ridiculous tears burned in her eyes. “I thought for a minute that you asked me to your office for The Talk.”

“What talk?”

“About why dogs and cops shouldn’t live together.”

His blow-your-hair-back laugh burst out before he could catch it, before he realized she was serious. His other hand scooped under her chin, turning her face toward him. His voice was exquisitely tender. “Why would I want to do that, Charlotte? What possible reason would I have?”

She regarded him somberly. “A lot of them, both two- and four-legged.”

A small, mystified smile. “But you’re the reason my heart beats.”

And she forgot everything she’d planned to say to him as emotion pooled deep and hot.

Max’s fingertips brushed over her cheek. “When this case is over, we’ll go away somewhere.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

“You and me, on a vacation.”

“A vacation?”

He almost laughed at her tone. As if leaving her city unguarded for even a week was unconscionable. “Yes. I’m sure you’ve never taken one. Where do you want to go? Anywhere you want.”

“The beach.” Her mind began to work, imagining it. Warming to the idea of lying on hot sand with her hot lover, warm seawater splashing over her toes. Nothing but the sound of waves and wind and gulls. “We could go to one of those private resorts, wear next to nothing, rub lotion on each other, and have big fruity drinks the size of goldfish bowls. You’d like Sex on the Beach.”

“I like sex anywhere, as long as it’s with you.”

She grinned. “It’s a drink.”

The car stopped, and he opened the car door and got out. “I think I’ll like the beach. You pick the place, I’ll make the reservations.”

He told the driver, “Wait for us discreetly.”

Cee Cee glanced up and down the tree-lined street. The neighborhood was old money, big houses, high security. She followed Max as he strolled casually down the uneven stone walk, sticking to the deepest shadows. Then he slipped down a narrow lane behind a row of well-fortified homes.

She couldn’t stand it anymore. “What are we doing here?”

“Paying a courtesy call before you go for a warrant.”

“On who?”

“Carmen Blutafino.”

She jerked to a stop, gripping his elbow. “You’re going to break into his house? And you expect me to go with you?”

“And you didn’t think I could plan a date we could both enjoy. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

“It sounds like forced entry for unlawful purposes.”

“Only if we get caught. Here we are. Formidable, isn’t it?”

A high iron fence made a bristling defense between where they stood and the large pre–Civil War stone house with its moody balconies and most likely haunted past. Despite herself, Cee Cee was sweeping the perimeter with a careful gaze.

“He’s got cameras and motion detectors. How do you expect—”

The lights went out for a few blocks, plunging them into darkness. She could see the flash of Max’s grin.

“Jimmy had some very talented and influential friends. One has a very nice job with the power and electric company. I suggest we make use of our time. Up you go.”

He gripped her waist, hoisting her high enough to catch one of the branches of the giant live oak that draped across the fence boundary.

“Can you stand up on my shoulders? Hey, you’re pretty good at this.” He held her steady while she got
to her feet. “Were you ever a cheerleader? I’d have quite an eyeful now if you were wearing one of those short little skirts.”

“Horn dog,” she hissed, using the top of his head as a step to boost herself up into the tree. Crouching on the branch, she put down her hand. “Let me help you—”

Suddenly the limb bounced as he landed right beside her. “Thanks. I got it.”

“Now that we’re up here playing Tarzan and Jane, you want to tell me what we’re after?”

“Ooh, now you’ve got me distracted by thoughts of you in leopard skin. Keep your mind on the business at hand, Detective, and your hands to yourself.” He swung around her and began to climb.

She sighed, aggravated and intrigued. And having fun. She started after him. “If you were Tarzan, I’d be looking up your loincloth.”

“And enjoying it, you naughty girl.”

The centuries-old oak covered the entire side yard, topping the three-storied house by a good fifteen feet. Max moved with the confidence of an aerialist to the end of one of the gnarled branches, then had Cee Cee’s heart in her throat as he leaped across a seemingly impossible distance to grip the roof’s overhang with one hand, then twisted to land effortlessly on one of the upper galleries. Then he beckoned.

She eyed the six-foot gap from tree to porch and the distance to the ground below. And shook her head, whispering, “No fucking way.”

Max laughed at her, his hands reaching out. “Jump. I’ll catch you,” he whispered back.

She looked down again. Way, way down. She swallowed hard. “What if you miss?”