both.” With the designer duds to remind Schoenbaum of her off-the-clock status and the pearls, a gift from Max, to bind him in his role as genial host. The slant of bold dark eyes didn’t deny it as she moved to greet their guest.
“Thanks for coming out on such short notice.”
“Curiosity is killing me.”
She waved him into Jimmy’s favorite chair, probably to antagonize the Mobster’s ghost, then sank down on the couch, patting the cushion beside her to bring Max to heel as she addressed the detective.
“What I’m asking is strictly off the record. I’m trusting you to keep this to yourself. Don’t make me sorry.”
“You won’t be.”
Analyzing his puzzled expression, Max believed him and, for the first time, believed in him.
“Babineau,” she began. “I need everything.”
An incredulous laugh exploded. “Babineau? This is about Mr. Super Squeaky Clean? That won’t take more than a minute.”
Cee Cee didn’t smile. “Need to know if that’s still true.”
Stan slumped back into the Mobster’s throne. “Sonuva—Babineau? He’s like a Fifties TV show good guy.”
“Make me believe it.” Again.
Slipping his hand over hers, Max came to her rescue. “He might be caught up in something and can’t find his way out. You know how that is.”
Schoenbaum’s expression stiffened then relaxed on a heavy sigh. “Yeah, I do. It’s there every day on the streets, whispering to you like a call-girl, making promises, making you feel important, like you can make things happen, that nobody will ever know. Many a good man has fallen into that trap.”
“Men like my father.”
Knowing Cee Cee half hoped her co-worker would deny it, Max squeezed her fingers to soften the blow of an inevitable truth.
“Yeah, like Tommy. One of the good ones who always said no . . . until he couldn’t.” Cee Cee’s slight nod relieved the burden of truth from his shoulders. “Haven’t heard nothing ′bout Babineau to tarnish his halo. What do you know that I don’t?”
Voice flat and calm, she laid it out as if discussing some nameless perp who’d wandered onto her radar: Babineau’s previous entanglement with a witness, not mentioning Amber by name or her connection to Max’s kind; his suspicious dealings with Cummings; his illegal use of electronics in his vendetta against Brady; and, the sudden availability of a cash crop to buy his way from a tiny suburban home into a gated community. Max understood the cost to her loyal heart even before she bared it.
“I need to know who’s leveraging him and why.” Charlotte’s strong features tightened, her eyes glowing like coals. “Make no mistake here. This isn’t about bringing him down. It’s about pulling him out. He’s my partner, my friend, my family.”
“Understood.”
– – –
Across the Big Muddy in Algiers, Maisy J’s wasn’t the type of place one took a date. It was where one went to find one. At a reasonable price. What went on beneath its roof stayed there, making the original proprietors a tidy sum, and it’s surviving one a fortune. The other benefit was having a safe place to conduct private business both carnal and criminal.
Amber James had grown up beneath its roof, daughter of two of the three owners. At fifteen, she’d caught the eye and violent attentions of her parents’ silent partner, bringing a young police officer to her rescue. Now mated to the Terriot prince who’d taken her and her daughter in, she was a different kind of threat to Warren Brady. The kind that could not only ruin his career but put him behind the bars of justice he’d perverted. And he’d be damned if he’d give the scheming bitch that kind of power over him.
“I don’t see how this is our problem, Warren.”
Brady glared across the desk in his small office tucked away from the other business he ran upstairs. “Because we’re all in this together, Manny. You think they’ll be content just taking me down? Think again. They’ll go after both of you next. Secrets as dark as ours don’t remain secret for long, especially if one of us goes to prison.”
The third of the trio who’d remained mostly silent, spoke to that. “No one’s going to prison. No one’s getting as far as trial. Not if we keep our mouths shut. We stick to the plan and ride out Warren’s bad judgment.”
“Easy for you to say,” Brady grumbled.
“It’s not, and you know it. I have aspirations for my future, and I’m not about to let your ego destroy them.”
“Gentlemen,” Blutafino sighed wearily, “let’s not make this personal. But when