picture. Not much to see yet, a tightly tucked little bundle with fingers and toes in shadowed x-ray greys, she was the most beautiful thing, next to her mama, he’d ever seen. His heart was gone. Just gone. As soon as he attended to what scant work he could do for the day in the disaster of his office, he’d speak to Susanna about information he could read to ready for his role as a supportive daddy-to-be for his warrior bride, hopefully without interruption from a clan war.
Those plans scattered when he opened the newly replaced glass door to Legere Enterprises International.
“Marissa? Are you supposed to be here?”
“I still work here, Mr. Savoie, don’t I? Your messages are on your desk.” When he just stared, brow lowering at the sight of the small bandage defacing her flawless dark skin, she sighed. “I couldn’t stand the thought of the mess all those police persons must have left behind. Don’t worry. I was cleared for a light, part-time schedule.”
He smiled, shoulders relaxing. “I’ll see you stick to it.”
“I’ll make coffee for you and your visitor.”
Visitor? Before he could entertain hopes of vigorous brunch activities with a certain detective, his assistant scattered them.
“He wouldn’t give his name, just that you’d want to see him. He’s waiting in the lounge. An associate of Detective Caissie’s.”
Her subtle emphasis on the word associate held many possibilities, and all of them had his heart pumping a ragtime rhythm as he continued to the less formal room across from his recently violated office.
A college-aged kid sat on the edge of one of the chairs. Sleepless eyes flashed up, wide with alarm before blinking in short-lived relief. A bundle of high-strung tension, he jumped to his feet, hands twisting the jacket he’d removed. “Mr. Savoie, I hope it’s okay to just show up like this.”
“You’re here now,” Max replied, waving for the kid to follow him into his office where he settled behind his recently restored desk. Everything on its gleaming top was exactly where it should be, though broken locks on the drawers would need replacing. On Marissa’s To Do list, he was sure. He gestured for his visitor to take a seat. “So, start with your name and your business with me.”
“It’s not with you, sir, not exactly.” The hoist of a heavy brow encouraged him to hurry on. “I’m DeShawn Collette.”
“Ahh, the elusive witness.”
Some of the anxiety eased from the young man’s expression. “Yessir. I was scared to go to the police and thought maybe I could . . . I could talk to you.”
“I believe you should be talking to my wife.”
“I don’t want to end up like my co-worker. She was my friend.” A quick blink cleared welling eyes. “But I need to do the right thing.”
“Detective Caissie will need a full, sworn statement. . .”
His head jerked side to side, sending tightly braided tuffs of hair into an agitated dance. “No sir. I won’t live long enough.”
“In a police station filled with the city’s finest?”
“They ain’t all straight up like Detective Caissie. I knows what happened to that fella and to my friend. That ain’t gonna happen to me and my family.”
“She can see you’re protected.”
An expression Max was intimately familiar with tightened wary features. “Not while she trusts the wrong people.”
His senses quivered. “The wrong people? Like Brady?”
“No, not him. His friend. The one I saw with Mr. Pomerelli da night he were killed.”
Max leaned back in his chair, expression stoic. “This friend have a name?”
When DeShawn Collette spoke it in justified dread, Max understood everything.
– – –
Casting an anxious glance at the bank of black clouds crouching over the city’s high-rises, Simon Cummings waited for the door to his airport limo to be opened. He wasn’t a good fair-weather flyer, so the thought of this last-minute junket to Baton Rouge for a closed-door meeting before the next session convened knotted his stomach like the morning after a long night at a jazz club. Ordinarily, he’d have a driver convey him to the State Capital, but the political clock was ticking, necessitating the charter from Louis Armstrong to Ryan Field.
The guarantee of a bumpy ride increased twenty times over when his driver opened the rear door, revealing its occupant.
“What the hell are you doing in my car?”
As dangerously cool as always, Max Savoie regarded him for a nerve-itching second before answering. “We need to have a conversation. Should have just enough time if you’re to make your flight. You might want to