new- or soon-to-be borns . . . who had genetics like her own child’s case study planted in with the others.
Their snitch had known her identity. Had he unwisely shared that information in his hopes of a big payday, information that guaranteed his own death and placed her and her baby in his killer’s crosshairs?
From Dovion, she took her suspicions straight to her district commander who, as usual, was indulging his bad habit of staying late over too many cups of coffee and paperwork that would never run out. Habits they shared. She called him “Uncle Byron” when they were alone. But his question held no familial gentleness.
“Are you requesting permission to use yourself and your child as bait?” Immediately, her stance squared up. When she remained silent, he asked, “And would the child’s father be agreeable to this endangerment?”
Max? Would he approve of her dangling his heir to lure a killer? When a convenient lie would serve her purpose, she respectfully said, “No, sir. I can’t think that he would.”
Did she imagine the slight quirk of a smile at evidence of sterling character in the former mobster he wanted to despise? Carefully controlling his tone, Byron Atcliff countered, “And you propose what, Detective? That we don’t tell him?”
“Of course not, sir.” Such a thing could never be forgiven.
“So, where are you going with this?”
She took a breath and stepped out onto thin matrimonial ice. “My husband is not without talents and resources. If you’d allow him a sideline spot to ensure himself of my safety, he might be convinced to provide useful information.”
“Max Savoie is going to snitch on his former colleagues?” Brows soared incredulously.
“Oh, hell no! . . . sir,” she amended quickly. “And they were Jimmy Legere’s colleagues, not his, not by choice anyway. But he knows the rotten fruit that falls from these particular trees.”
Atcliff leaned back in his chair, fingertips steepled. “I thought the two of you stayed out of each other’s business. Has that changed?”
“No, sir. But in this case, I’m already compromised. He won’t allow me to go unprotected, even if it means aiding those I work for. You can hardly fault him for that.”
Lips thinned. Finally, he said with the crisp authority of the insignia on his knife-edged white shirt, “You will apprise me of everything first. You’ll take no actions on your own. I will not lose a valuable member of my team.” He hesitated before adding more quietly, “Or risk the wrath of my family if anything happens to you or that baby.”
She contained her smile behind a throat clearing. “Of course, sir.”
“And I want to hear from Savoie, personally, that he agrees. I don’t need him coming after my spleen in the dark.”
“If he wanted it, sir, he’d do it in broad daylight.”
Atcliff didn’t see the humor. “I don’t approve, but I won’t forbid you from following your instincts. Considering who might be involved,” meaning Brady since he’d read her report, “we’ll pursue every lead aggressively. I want detailed accounts of Savoie’s activities. This is the kind of thing that could slap back at us in a Karen Crawford scandal rant. We will not be embarrassed by that woman, understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Now, to convince Max.
– – –
Down at the waterfront, Giles St. Clair and Rueben Guedry’s mohawked enforcer, T-Ray Roux exchanged scowling glances where they stood, bristling sentinels at the closed office door of Cheveux du Chien. Inside, the leaders of the New Orleans and Memphis clans relaxed on separate sections of the leather couch as if the best buds they pretended to be in front of Cale. Now alone, the kid gloves slipped off.
“Let’s say,” Max began, “that you’re not supporting this alliance between our clans.”
“That what you’re thinking?” Rueben flipped back on him with practiced ease. Everything about Rueben Guedrey was easy, from his casually styled black hair, steady dark stare and slight smile to the lazy drawl and languid posture of his long form. But none of that fooled Max.
“Let’s say you’re not thinking the same thing about me. We can agree that the Terriots are a moot point.” He let that smoothly posed misconception dangle, curious to see how the other would respond.
Rueben’s chuckle rolled out, as deceptively mellow as the whiskey in his glass. “A smart man would never count the likes of them out of a fight. They’re tough to grind down. Believe me, my family has tried. If the world ends tomorrow, three things can be counted on to survive—Cockroaches, Twinkies and Terriots.