Bound by Moonlight (15 page)

“I’ll apologize.” He beckoned again. “Come on. Jump. Don’t be such a girl.”

She growled and took a huge breath, then she jumped.

Time seemed to hold her aloft as she stretched her hands out to Max. His were so close, ready for her.

Then gravity kicked in, and she started to drop like a brick.

The air squeezed from her lungs as his arm cinched around her, scooping her up and tossing her as if she was weightless. Her feet touched down next to him, and her knees gave way.

Her arms locked around him, hanging on as if still in mid fall. Nothing had ever felt better than his hard, lean body.

“Safe and sound,” he said smugly.

“That was easy,” she wheezed, pushing away before she went all soft on him. “Okay, what the hell are we doing here? Come clean before I cross that threshold into criminal activity.”

“Carmen doesn’t trust anyone, so he keeps all his important papers here under lock and key. He keeps a file on everyone he’s ever interviewed, complete with pictures. Including the girls who work in his clubs.”

“He’s got pictures?” Oh, this was too good to be true.

“Shall we take a peek and see if we recognize anyone?”

“Oh, baby, you know how to plan a date.”

“You can thank me properly when we get home.”
He drew out two pairs of thin surgical gloves. “I remembered protection.”

“What a guy.”

He disabled the security items on the door with ease, then waved her inside. “Jimmy brought a famous second-story man down from the East Coast to teach me how to gain illegal access to just about any place, for times when skill is more expedient than brute force.”

“Education is a wonderful thing.”

By the narrow beam of Max’s penlight, they started tossing Carmen Blutafino’s office—and struck the jackpot when Max finessed the locked drawer of his desk.

Cee Cee pushed him aside in her eagerness and raced through the alphabet. Cole, Marjorie. Her throat tightened. She had no names for the other two, so she hurried through the hundreds of youthful faces, trying to mentally match them to the morgue Jane Does.

Patsy Gleason.

Shawnee Potts.

“Is that them?” Max asked softly, peering over her shoulder. She nodded. “Take them and let’s go.”

“I can’t take them, Max.”

“Why not?”

“Unlawful search and seizure. They could never be used as evidence.”

“Get a warrant and come back.”

“On what grounds? That we saw their files while we were ransacking his house? I have to do this the right way, Max.”

A way that felt almost impossible as she slipped the folders back into place.

“At least you have the names.”

“Which is more than I had this morning. Let’s get out of here.” She moved away from the desk, feeling as if she was abandoning the pleading faces of those four girls in the drawer. Because she’d seen Kelly Schoenbaum’s name in there, too.

Then the lights came on, and with them the wail of the alarms.

Max hustled her out onto the balcony. “No time for delicacy, Detective.” He picked her up and threw her.

Arms and legs pinwheeling, she found herself floundering in the leafy branches. She grabbed on and got her balance before turning back to Max, who’d made no move to follow.

“Go on. Don’t wait for me,” he said.

“Max!”

“Have Pete take you back to your car. I’ll tidy up here. Go on, Charlotte—go!”

Lights were coming on in the lower rooms now.

Cursing, she shinnied down the tree and sprinted through the shadows.

Max smiled to himself, then quickly finished up in the room. He relocked the French doors from the inside, then slipped out into the hall just as he heard rapid footsteps rounding the landing below. Putting on his wraparound sunglasses, he ducked into the room opposite where a small boy was sitting up in bed, rubbing the sleep away.

Max crossed the room in quick strides, putting a finger to his lips with a quiet, “Shhh. Sorry to wake you.”

Before the child could blink Max was out the window,
dropping to the flowerbeds below. And by the time Lena Blutafino rushed to her son’s side, he was gone.

C
EE
C
EE DIDN’T
waste any time worrying about Max. He’d managed to evade criminal charges his entire life, and she didn’t doubt he’d slip these as well.

She also didn’t allow her conscience time for browbeating. Instead, she chafed at the restrictions of a job that kept her from doing it as justice demanded.

What was the chance that those files would still be there if she got a warrant? The second Manny Blu was alerted to a B and E, he’d hide every sliver of potentially damning evidence in a new location. But what could she do? She knew the rules, the reason and necessity for them.

Yet, she wondered bitterly, what rules had applied when three girls, possibly four, were being cruelly tortured?

It was late by the time Pete pulled up beside her car. There were no lights on in the building, so apparently Max wasn’t back yet.

“I’ll wait for him, Miss Charlotte,” Pete told her as he held open the door. “You go ahead and leave.”

Maybe some precedent for due cause would come to her weary mind on the drive out. If not, at least she’d have Max to work out her frustrations on.

She was fishing her keys out of her pocket when she noticed a manila envelope wedged under her wiper blade. Pete was waiting to make sure she was safely away, and there was no sign of anyone else.

She unlocked her door and retrieved the envelope
before sitting behind the wheel, where she took a minute to see what someone had left her.

And stared at the contents.

Three files. Three photos. And three job applications with notations written in Carmen Blutafino’s hand.

B
YRON
A
TCLIFF SAT
at his kitchen table in a silk paisley dressing gown and leather slippers, his hair sticking up at odd angles. But being pulled from his bed at three in the morning didn’t lessen his authoritative manner as he glared at his two detectives.

“Why not just request a warrant?”

“We have the proof we need right here.”

He gave a rather jaundiced glance at the files Cee Cee held. “Obtained how, did you say, Detective?”

“Someone left them on my car. No note. No prints.”

“And you were where at the time?”

“I’d left my car to go grab something to eat.”

“And you were with?”

“Max. We were discussing vacation plans. For when the case is concluded, of course.”

Atcliff made an assenting noise. Almost like a growl. “You seem to have some kind of guardian angel of important evidence watching over you, Caissie, dropping off just what you need to get you what you want.”

Her jaw tightened. A while ago, information on Benjamin Spratt had similarly appeared just in time to keep Max from going down as their prime suspect. “Is that a bad thing, sir?”

“Not as long as your hands are clean.”

“Yes, sir.”

He sighed wearily as he stared at the files. “So, you discovered this manna from Heaven and did what, Detective?”

“I brought Detective Babineau up to speed, and we had another conversation with Miss Michaels, whom we’d interviewed earlier this evening. She ID’d the photos and placed the girls in Blutafino’s employment. We went from there to talk to Detective Schoenbaum of Vice, and checked in at the lab to see if there were any prints on the evidence.”

“Seems like you talked to everyone but me first.”

She never blinked. “We didn’t see the need to wake you until we had a compelling package put together.”

“And that would be what?”

“We want to go undercover in cooperation with Vice in the club where all three vics were working. We can be set up by tomorrow night. I have an interview with Blutafino at five-thirty. If he likes me, we’re in.”

“And what are you applying for, Detective?”

“An entertainment position, sir.”

“I wasn’t aware you could sing, Detective Caissie.”

“I don’t, sir, but I’ve been told by an expert in the field that for an old gal, I’ve got a decent rack.”

“We’re talking performance art, I take it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is this decent rack going to end up in the news, embarrassing the department?”

“Not even my noble journalistic pals will be able to recognize me, sir.” She placed her palms on the table-top and leaned in, her eyes hungry and intense. “Let us do this. It’s a chance to get close to Blutafino, and
possibly get to the latest vic before she becomes the next statistic.”

He looked to Babineau. “What about you? Are you going into show business, too?”

“No, sir. Can’t dance and no rack to speak of. I’ll provide backup position as talent management and boyfriend.”

“Wife and significant other have no problems with this?”

“None, sir.”

Neither detective betrayed any discomfort under Atcliff’s scrutiny. Finally, he sat back in his chair. “Make it happen, Detectives. Keep me updated. And, Caissie, I don’t want any video showing up at future police functions.”

“Soul of discretion, sir.”

“Good night, sir. Sorry to have disturbed you.”

On the front walk, Babineau gave her a look. “I wasn’t aware you knew your way around a stripper pole.”

“I have all afternoon to learn under Cocoa’s excellent and expensive tutelage.”

They climbed into her car, more thoughtful now that they’d gotten the go-ahead and the initial surge of adrenaline eased.

“Savoie going to be all right with this?”
With us
, was what he didn’t say out loud.

“Sure.”

“You haven’t told him?”

“That you and I are going to be incommunicado for several weeks, sharing a sleazy hotel room pretending to be lovers, while I spend my nights prancing around
almost naked for strangers? I think that’s more info than he needs to have. How’s Tina going to handle it?”

“She’ll tell me to be careful and kiss me good-bye.” And worry every second, he didn’t have to add.

How
they
were going to handle it was the question neither of them asked.

“I’ll drop you off, get my hooker gear together, and be back for you at seven.”

Babineau nodded. That would give him time to grab some sleep and smooth things over with his wife.

Instead of using that time to do the same, Cee Cee headed to her apartment. Instead of enjoying the sweaty farewell sex her body yearned for, she took a long shower. Instead of closing her gritty eyes, she pumped coffee and pillaged her closet for props.

And when she absolutely had to, she reached for her phone.

“Savoie.” His tone leaped at her, sharp edged and hard.

“Hey. Hope I didn’t wake you.”

“I wasn’t sleeping.”

Of course he wasn’t. He was pacing, wondering where the hell she was.

“I came into some rather fortuitous evidence. The chief has cleared me to go undercover. I’ll be out of touch for a while. Sorry I couldn’t have given you more notice, but we’ve been scrambling all night to put things together.”

“Undercover? Are you going after Carmen?”

“I can’t give you any details. Don’t try to get in touch with me; I’ll call you when I can.”

A pause. “I don’t get to say good-bye to you?”

“We’re saying it.”

“Face-to-face.”

“No time, sorry. Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”

Silence as he took in what she was trying shove past him in a rush. “I want to see you.”

“I can’t make it happen.”

When he finally spoke, his words were a low rumble. “So, no kiss for luck? No packing your lunch or waving good-bye at the door?”

“Not this trip. Gotta go.”

Quietly: “Shall I make reservations?”

Please don’t make this so damned hard.
“Not yet.”

“Charlotte? I love you.”

“Me, too.” A pause. “I’ll call you.” She cut the connection before her resolve shattered.

M
AX PLANNED TO
concentrate on business. He thought that without anyone to come home to, he could direct all his energy to the office by day and to his clan by night. Time would go by quickly, and before he knew it, she’d be back.

He hadn’t anticipated the way missing her would suck the very spirit out of him.

He found himself listening for the sound of her car, jumping at every ring of his phone. But she didn’t call. It had only been a little over a week. Not that long, he told himself. He’d given her the damned evidence, after all. Had he expected her to do nothing with it?

Not his Charlotte. She was a juggernaut, making plans and plowing forward full steam ahead, with no time for a kiss good-bye. And apparently no time to miss him enough to pick up the phone.

Why didn’t she call?

He’d gotten spoiled. Having her in his life filled every corner with unimagined delight. The sound of her voice, her laugh, her sighs. Listening to her grumble about her day, tease him for his sheltered ignorance, provoke him with sultry innuendo. The simple joy of watching her get ready to go to work, or undress to join him in bed. The feel of her there, beneath him all hot and infinitely greedy, next to him in the night, warm and soul-satisfying. The touch of her hand on his face.

Loneliness howled through him.

It was nine-thirty Saturday morning, and he had absolutely no idea how he was going to fill the hours of the day. His cell phone was in his hand before he consciously considered what he was doing.

Don’t try to get in touch with me.

An objecting growl rumbled through him on a fierce spike of emotion. The need to have her close, under his care, in his control, threatened to consume him. She was his mate, his love, his . . . what? His possession? The instinct was so strong, he shivered with it. His to have and protect.

He was so startled when the phone rang, he almost dropped it. His hands were shaking when he flipped it open. His voice broke. “Charlotte?”

“It’s Tina Babineau. I’m sorry. Is this a bad time?”

He hauled back hard on his chaotic feelings. “No, it’s fine. I was expecting a call. It’s good to hear from you.”