stay hidden.
“I won’t take up any more of your time.” She drew out her card and scribbled her cell number. “If you hear from him, see him, or have any news, call. Anytime, day or night. I’ll let you get back to work.” She took a sip of the seltzer. “How much do I owe you?”
“You don’t owe me nuthin’.”
“I can help him. And you.”
A stony stare dipped to the number and back. Then Glo turned away to hustle down the row of patrons to freshen drinks, laughing easily at poorly executed come-on lines, never glancing back her way.
Charlotte had what she needed. Now, she’d wait for a call.
– – –
Max wasn’t sure who was the more uncomfortable, him at learning the identity of their before-dinner guest or the guest himself.
He and Stan Schoenbaum had history, one that had started ugly when Max was just a boy. Schoenbaum and two of his rookie pals had come across Jimmy Legere’s young protégé when he was alone and decided to use the kid as a punching bag to vent their anger toward the slippery Mobster. In retaliation, Jimmy made a fatal example of one of them. Schoenbaum, a womanizer, loud-mouth and bully, blamed Max not only for his friend’s death but for all his deficits, vowing revenge. Until his treasured daughter, Kelly was taken by the “Tides That Bind” killer and Max became his only hope of finding her out in the swamps he knew well. By saving her, Max in a way had also rescued the detective from his determined self-destruct.
Max wasn’t one for collecting on debts, having done his share of that for Jimmy. He’d rescued a frightened child because he’d once been one. If Schoenbaum wanted to feel beholding because of it, that was on him. A return favor wasn’t owed and wouldn’t be demanded.
Charlotte and Stan had history, too. She’d been upfront about that, as she was with most things, unpleasant or not. She’d said no to the married man’s advances and he hadn’t liked it, making it his purpose in life to make hers difficult. Until she’d convinced her unconventional lover to save Schoenbaum’s daughter’s life. That pivotal moment put the detective in her debt, too. And Max guessed the time to square that one was here.
Even dressed like a suburban dad who spent his weekends in front of a big screen with a pack of Dixie Beer cheering for the seasonal home team, there was no mistaking the man on the porch for anything but a cop. A cop’s eyes were never still, their hands never far from their sidearm. Schoenbaum was all old-school cop.
“Detective.”
“Savoie. Any idea what this is about?”
“No. You?”
A shrug. “Nice digs. Never gotten past the porch before.” He grinned. “Couldn’t get a warrant.”
As they traveled that soaring entry hall, Max’s tension eased. “How’s your little girl?”
A choky swallow delayed his response. “She’s in school. A dance academy. Got real talent, that one. Didn’t get it from me. Got a cop’s flat feet.” A pause. “She’s doing good . . . thanks to you.”
“That musta hurt to say.”
The detective drew up and after a moment, cast a side glance. “Not as much as I thought it would. Marilyn holds you in her prayers, if that means anything to you.”
“Yes.” A nod. “It does. Thank her for me.”
Schoenbaum entered Jimmy’s study, looked about as he remarked, “So, this is where the old bastard conducted his dirty deeds and ordered murder for hire.”
“You don’t expect me to comment on that, do you?”
The detective chuckled. “Never in a million years.” His fingertips stroked across the big desk as if the residue of bad deeds had left a noticeable stain. “I’ve no beef with you ′less you’re using it for the same purpose.”
A throaty chuckle sounded from the doorway behind them.
“I keep him occupied elsewhere.”
Schoenbaum turned to sweep Max’s mate and wife with an appreciative stare. “I wouldn’t argue if I were him.”
Max couldn’t blame any breathing male for regarding Charlotte Caissie with fleeting thoughts of mischief. The tall, strong, lusciously defined female inspired them with her bold appearance and brassy talk. Used to trading verbal shots with her male associates, gender remained safely holstered if the males in question wanted to escape injury. As Stan Schoenbaum could painfully attest.
But tonight, in her Prada and pearls, she looked more elegant hostess than streetwise crimefighter as Max greeted her with a kiss upon one dramatically sculpted cheek.
“Good choice, sha,” he whispered against her ear. “You’ve cleverly disarmed us