Remembered by Moonlight (2 page)

For the most part Max’s clan picked up after themselves, leaving nothing to hint at their existence. Particularly their dead. An occasional body could be brushed off as one of the city’s indigent population. But throw in evidence of unnatural violence dumped at the coroner’s door and questions would be—and had been—raised. The sooner she and her partner could come up with some believable explanation, the better.

“We’ll look into it, Dev,” she promised with a grim nod.

“Something else,” Dovion added. “Something is popping in the tox screens. Something I don’t recognize.”

Cee Cee felt MacCreedy stiffen beside her. “A drug?”

“Mostly herbal but with some interesting chemicals in the mix. I don’t think it’s something made for human consumption, but I’ve no way of knowing how it might affect . . . others.”

“I know.” MacCreedy’s claim was soft and non-committal, and because he offered nothing more, very alarming.

“We’ll get back to you, Dev. Until then—”

“Under wraps. Take care of yourself, Lottie. And if she doesn’t . . .” His stare fixed on MacCreedy. “I expect you to do it for her, Detective.”

“Understood.”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

With MacCreedy behind the wheel, they headed for the riverfront. She gave him a few minutes to broach the subject, but when he didn’t, Cee Cee provided a not-so-subtle hint.

“Spill.”

“Something I learned about on my trip to Tahoe.”

“Nevada? When did you go there?”

“I had some overdue family business to take care of.”

MacCreedy could be a pain in the ass when it came to offering details. Especially when they dealt with his clan.

“And?” she prompted with a touch of impatience.

She knew MacCreedy, hell,
all
of them, had been keeping things from her while she’d spent frantic days and nights worrying about Savoie. But now it was time for them to come clean, to bring her up to speed and into their exclusive loop.

“Got the info from Cale Terriot, their new clan leader.”

This was a surprise. “The psycho bastard who helped kill your parents and sent thugs to take out your sister?”

“Well, yes. And no. He’s kinda family now. That’s a story for another time. Apparently one of his brothers went rogue and is trying to set up operations here in Louisiana by pushing this new Shifter drug, Kick. I’m having Susanna analyze the sample Cale gave me. From what I gather, it’s some sort of enhancer, an uber-steroid to pump up the strength and aggression in our males. But the side effects can get pretty ugly.”

“Like ending up with the user on Dovoin’s table,” Cee Cee concluded. “We need to talk to her. Soon.”

Bringing in the brilliant geneticist was a good move. She and Dovion would give the matter the secrecy and priority needed to put a cap on this unpleasant new trend of reckless violence.

The docks were a bustle of activity. MacCreedy pulled up next to a battered trailer where they were hailed as they got out of the car.

“He ain’t in yet.” Philo Tibideaux approached, his usual lanky stride replaced by a testy swagger. Another recent affectation to match the redhead’s new severe buzz cut. “Hell, if I had swanky digs in your boyfriend’s high-rise palace, I wouldn’t wanna spend my time down here neither. What brings you out so early, detectives, ‘sides looking for Jackie?”

Tibideaux was Jacques LaRoche’s second on the docks but no longer his close confidant. They’d had a parting of ways over Susanna Duchamps, the outsider from the North with whom LaRoche shared a child and chose to spend his future. Philo had taken up the cause of his clan’s protection on his own, forming a paramilitary watch that policed the city. As his Patrol grew in strength and number, so had his importance within their underground community. Along with his aggressive ego.

Cee Cee smiled, taking advantage of that weakness for attention. “Actually, we’re here looking for you. Figured if anyone had a finger on the pulse of the clan, you’d be the one.”

Tibideaux’s surprise warmed into pleasure. “Nice of you to say so, Detective Hot Stuff. What can I do for you?”

Silas held out his phone. “Recognize either of these boys?”

If Tibideaux held a fondness for Cee Cee, it didn’t extend to her partner. He regarded MacCreedy with a long, cool stare then dropped his attention to the screen. His features betrayed nothing. “Can’t say that I do. How’d they get dead?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. Take another look.”

Philo’s gaze narrowed at Silas’s tone, but he glanced at the faces again. “Nope. Sorry. Doan know 'em. If that’s all you were looking to ask, I gots to get back to work.”

As he turned away, MacCreedy caught his wrist. Tibideaux went rigid as the detective pulled a bared arm toward him and asked, “Then how do you explain that one of them has this very same tattoo?” The ink was distinctive: A snarling wolf’s head on the swell of tanned forearm with flames that wrapped his arm and licked down to his fingers in boldly tribal black and red. “Isn’t this the sign of your good ole boys’ club?”

Philo smiled, a fierce show of teeth. “That it is, but it’s right popular with lots of fellas who share what we stand for.”

“And what’s that? Besides stirring shit up?”

“That we have the right to protect our own from outsiders.” His unwavering glare placed MacCreedy amongst them. “Can I have my arm back, Detective? Or is it a crime to sport a tattoo?”

MacCreedy released him and Tibideaux rubbed his wrist with resentful deliberation. “When do you expect LaRoche?”

“Doan know. Not my job to watch his back anymore. If I see him, I’ll let him know you was looking.”

As he took a step back, Cee Cee placed a hand on that tagged forearm. “Philo, something dangerous is going on and these boys are the first symptom of a really bad disease. Something to do with those outsiders you’re guarding against. If you hear anything, call me.” She paused then added, “You know you can trust me.”

Again the cool smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He put his other hand over hers for a slight press then peeled off her grip. “If you say so. Have yourselves a nice day, detectives.”

As he sauntered away, MacCreedy gave a disgusted huff. “He knows more than he’s telling.”

Cee Cee didn’t disagree. She only hoped the history she shared with the redhead would weigh more than his disaffection.

Before more bodies began to pile up.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Philo Tibideaux waited until the unmarked cop car was out of sight then gave shrill whistle. Within seconds he was surrounded by a dozen of his best men. He didn’t call them friends. He couldn’t afford friends any more. They looked to him expectantly and for once, that failed to bolster him with pride.

“Who wants to tell me what the
hell
Pomerey was doing last night that got him on a slab and has the po-leeze knocking?”

There was stunned silence then a hesitant response.

“I seen him and Goodie at the club after second shift.”

The club. To their kind that meant
Cheveux du Chien,
the Shifters Only night spot run by Jacques LaRoche when he wasn’t supervising at the docks. Philo’s one time home away from the home he didn’t have. He hadn’t been inside for months, his welcome worn away when he’d put a gun to his best friend’s head. Thinking of that now only made his mood grow darker.

“Goodie? I’m guessing he’s the one stretched out on the table next to Pom’s two unequal pieces. I wanna know what they been up to and I wanna know right now.”

A trendy restaurant on the City Central’s edge, Michael’s catered to sometimes shady business. It didn’t open to the public until just before noon yet the parking lot was filled with expensive vehicles. As Giles jockeyed for a space, Max made a wary observation.

“Are we crashing somebody’s private party?”

“Oh, you were invited. You just weren’t expected to attend. Figured if you wanted to make a comeback in the public eye, this is the time and place. It’s a fundraiser for the Cummings Foundation. You’re a big supporter. All the city’s head mucky mucks and the press are sure to be here.”

Max raised a dark brow. “And I fraternize with them?”

Giles grinned. Max was beginning to appreciate his sense of irony. “Only because you’re one of Noreen Cummings’s guests of honor. The rest of them just have to choke on that.”

“What does this foundation do that I should know about?”

“It’s set up to work with St. Bartholomew’s to protect homeless and exploited children.”

A visceral response tightened Max’s belly. Apparently, this was something he was familiar with on more than just a charitable level. “And the Cummings family supports this, why?”

“Their youngest daughter, Sandra, was killed.” There was a whole lot Giles wasn’t saying with that brief statement.

“And this relates to me, how?”

“You were their prime suspect in the murder. The MO was rather, shall we say, unique.”

Done by a shape-shifter. Max didn’t need the fine print. Very softly, he asked, “Did I kill her?”

Giles shot him a scowling glance. “No. You were instrumental in exposing who did. And that, along with a really big check, put you on Noreen Cummings’ VIP list for life.” He cut the engine and turned with somber intensity to regard Max where he sat in the backseat. “You may not remember who you are or what you’ve done, but remember one thing. No matter what you might hear or learn, you’re one of the good guys, boss man. And believe me, I know the difference.”

“Okay.” That single word expressed his relief. “How am I expected to act at these things?”

Another easy smile. “Aloof, unapproachable, and slightly dangerous. You don’t have to worry that anyone will pull you aside for intimate conversation. Most of them will be holding their breaths until you leave. The sooner, probably the better.”

“And I’m not a bad guy?”

“You’re powerful and ambiguous and that makes them worry about what else you might be. Let 'em sweat. It keeps them off balance and more malleable.”

That Giles St. Clair would casually toss out words like ambiguous and malleable made Max wonder what else
he
might be besides a former knee-breaking thug.

Giles circled the vehicle to open the door for him, a bit of nonsense the big man insisted upon for the sake of appearance. As they approached the front door, Max shook off his apprehension, stride lengthening, posture straightening.
Aloof, unapproachable, and slightly dangerous.
He could do that.

The restaurant’s interior was quiet and empty. They were immediately greeted by a little man with a nervous smile.

“Mr. Savoie. A pleasure to see you again.”
Hardly.
“This way, please.”

They were hustled to the back where double doors opened into an opulent banquet room filled with milling, politely chattering Who’s Who. But it was a rough-looking man in a clerical collar who came forward with hands extended.

“Max!” he called out in a gentle voice at odds with the meaty hands and battered features of a former brawler. He clasped Max’s forearms to pull him into a fond embrace. A sense of calm immediately settled. Max remembered Father Michael Furness, caretaker of St. Bart’s parish church, from his frequent visits to the Institute, but nothing before then. Nothing except the feeling of peace the man exuded.

“I’m getting my feet wet in the social scene,” Max murmured, stepping back to a neutral distance.

Furness nodded his approval. “Good for you. Is Charlotte with you?” He glanced behind him expectantly for the other half of the whole he couldn’t recall.

“She had work this morning.”

“It’s always work with her.” He looped a companionable arm through Max’s. “Come on. Noreen will be glad to see you.”

As he moved through the crowd at the father’s side with Giles trailing behind them, Max felt it. An uneasy ripple of alarm. With each recognizing gaze, that aura of discomfort increased until the scent of fear was palpable. Not a bad guy? What did these people know that Giles overlooked? Obviously, they didn’t know all that he was. That left what he had or was thought to have done in that past yawning like a grave of bad deeds not buried or forgotten. An image surfaced unexpectedly.

Pitchforks and torches?

Then an elegant blonde socialite spotted him, and a smile bloomed upon her cruelly scarred face. Even before Furness said, “Noreen, look who’s here,” Max knew her. Not any details of their relationship, but the wounded heart of it.

“Mr. Savoie, I’m so pleased you could make it.” She took his hand between hers, and Max was overcome by whatever it was that they’d shared. Grief, guilt, loss, all twisting up into a silent lament. Her daughter’s death. If not by his hand, as Giles assured him, why did he feel so shaken and to blame?

“This was something I didn’t want to miss,” he told her quietly. Gratitude shone in her eyes making him glad he hadn’t.

“Thank you. If it hadn’t been for you and Father Mike, I don’t know how I could have gotten through—” She caught herself and forced a determined smile that bespoke her tremendous inner strength. “Enough of that. This is about the future, not the past, and I so appreciate your involvement. I hope you don’t mind that Father Mike shared some of your story with me so I could better understand how much this project means to you personally. I wish you’d reconsider a position on the Board.”

Max offered a smooth smile. “I think my participation is best served behind the scenes.”

She pressed his hand tightly. “I plan to convince you otherwise. New blood is just what these stuffy events need.”

Not the kind he purportedly had on his hands. Still, Max was moved to add, “Perhaps we’ll discuss it again someday.”

“Soon.” She glanced over his shoulder and a complex expression clouded her face as they were joined by a distinguished looking gentleman with a mane of white hair and a movie star smile. A shark’s smile befitting a politician who’d just as soon cut off his manicured hand as offer it to Max.

“Mr. Savoie, I hadn’t expected to see you here.”

Surprise!
A cold animosity growled through Max as he accepted the extended greeting with a quick shake. He recognized the statesman from the abundance of recent press he’d received, but Max wasn’t moved by those glowing reports. This was a man he couldn’t trust, and he’d bet that instinctual caution was built on someone’s bones. “Congratulations on your election to the state legislature. That must cushion the loss of your run for the mayor’s seat.”

Pale eyes iced over, but the smile never faltered. “There’s always next term. In the meantime, I’m keeping myself immersed in the needs of the city.”

“And your face in front of the public eye.”

Simon Cummings had no response. He looked to his wife impatiently. “Imogene Wayland has been trying to get your attention. You should talk to her. She carries a lot of community respect along with her family’s old money.”

Things Max Savoie could never offer.

Max smiled at Noreen. “I’ve monopolized enough of your time.” He took out his check book and scrawled a lengthy number. “Put this to good use.”

She blinked at the sum then shocked her husband, and Max, by impulsively hugging the former mobster right in front of all that respectable old money. “Thank you. And I will. You can count on it.” Her tone softened. “Thank you, Max.”

Cummings interrupted the embrace with a brusque tug on her arm, hurrying her off into the murmuring crowd, leaving Max alone in the center of those disapproving whispers. Anxiousness began to build within his chest, making his heart rate race and his head grow light. And suddenly, he saw all through a hot wash of flames. He took a stumbling step back where Giles’ fortifying grip and quiet voice steadied him.

“I think you’ve overtaxed yourself, Mr. Savoie. I suggest you say your good-byes.”

Furness’s huge hand settled on his shoulder. “That’s probably a good idea, Max.”

He looked to the priest, and his vision focused. “But there’s so much I need to ask you.”

“Another time, in more appropriate surroundings.”

Before he could object that enough time had been wasted, Giles steered him toward the exit. He’d already given the gossips enough for one morning. Or maybe not.

His path was blocked by a dramatically made-up woman in clothes too young for the harsh lines on her face. Her assertive manner had Max drawing up in defensive alarm.

“Karen Crawford,” Giles whispered. “Reporter. Avoid her.”

“Mr. Savoie,” the woman cooed as she motioned her cameraman closer. “This is your first public appearance since your accident some months ago. You’re looking well.” A hungry, detailing gaze swept over him. “Not at all like a man who sustained a near-fatal head injury.”

“Appearances can be deceiving, Ms. Crawford. As a supporter of the Cummings Foundation, I felt the cause worth the effort.”

“I see you’re solo for the event. Is Detective Caissie on some important case, or has your rumored affair with a Bourbon Street stripper created some estrangement between you?” Her microphone lunged at him like a knife.

In a tone as sharp as a deflecting blade, Max told her, “I’m here for a humanitarian purpose, not to discuss my personal life. If you’ll excuse me.”

But Crawford held her ground. “Did she excuse you, Mr. Savoie, or is there trouble in mobster paradise?”

Max cupped her microphone in his palm. “No comment.” He gave it a push away from him and quickly maneuvered around her and her scandal-mongering crew, letting Giles clear his way to the exit. Once outside, he sucked in a huge draught of air and expelled it noisily. Then he gave Giles a pointed look.

“Am I having an affair with a stripper that I should know about?”

Giles laughed, finding his question quite hilarious, and herded him to the car. “You’d best ask Charlotte.”

Max balked when Giles opened the rear door for him. “I’ll ride up front. Sitting in the back makes me uncomfortable.”

A spasm of grief and regret twisted his friend’s pleasant features, but only for a moment. Another mystery to pursue, perhaps on the way back to his penthouse prison.

“All right then. But driver picks tunes.”

Max bent, about to slip into the vehicle, when a single word tore through his head like a bullet.

“Max!”

He gripped the metal frame, creasing it as his hands convulsed and knees buckled. Waves of heat, cold, and shaky sickness swept over him. Blood dripped from his nose, dotting his crisp white shirt front. From a long way away, he felt Giles grasp his arms to keep him from going down, from falling into that sudden sinkhole pulling at his senses.

Just when he thought he might recover, the anxious voice came again, louder, sharper, slicing between his ears.

“Help me, Max!”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

“So?”

Cee Cee glanced at her partner. “So, what?”

“So what’s with you and Savoie?”

Though she enjoyed her conversations with MacCreedy, this was one topic she wished to avoid. She stared determinedly out the windshield as they waited for a cargo container to be moved out of their way. “Things are fine.”

“Define fine.”

“Better than before.” Before, when Max had first opened his eyes in the back of the speeding SUV after she, Giles and Susanna freed him from an experimentation table in Chicago. When he’d looked up at her, eyes wild with disoriented panic. Before, when she’d told him her name and gotten no reaction. Before, when he’d fought and struggled against their attempts to penetrate the blankness those bastards in the North had left in his once razor-sharp mind. Now wasn’t great, but it was better.

“He giving you any problems?” A hint of concern edged the calmly asked question.

“No. We’ve come to a tentative arrangement. I’m not sure trust is involved yet, but need is a good substitute. He doesn’t have anywhere else to go, and I’m his best option at the moment.”

How that truth hurt.

For now, his desperation let her control him. But that wouldn’t last forever. Max was getting stronger every day. He’d been bred to adapt, to learn quickly, to blend in. Soon he’d be able to navigate this foreign world on his own. Without her.

She tapped the dash with restless hands, eager to get moving. Anything to prevent Silas from pursuing the uncomfortable conversation. She wasn’t ready to bare a heart she’d kept carefully closed off until Max Savoie had found the way inside. “LaRoche is probably in his office at the club doing the books. Maybe he can shed some light on this mess at the morgue.” She glanced over her shoulder and frowned at the sight of semi-tractor and trailer backing across the pavement behind them. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. This is getting ridiculous.”