well.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “you did.”
– – –
Babineau fell in step as soon as Cee Cee strode from the office. Cued by her expression, he bit back his questions until they hit water-pooled pavement swept clear of the previous night’s debris. If only her conscience could be as easily cleansed.
“You look like you want to hit someone,” Babs observed conversationally. “I’d offer to take one for the team, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t get up again.”
When she didn’t answer, he followed her long-legged strides up the block, jogging across rush hour traffic to duck through huge iron gates, where they entered the quiet paths winding through St. Louis No.1. His brows lifted when she finally stopped in front of the Legere family’s ostentatious monument. She bent to remove a wilted bouquet laid before Marie Savorie’s modest plaque. Savorie, the family name. Savoie the one Jimmy had given Max to protect him from it.
Gardenias and Lilies of the Valley. Had Genevieve left them for her sister as she had once before? Death made for strange bedfellows of betrayal and regret. Cee Cee turned to sit on one of the concrete ledges as Max often had when seeking guidance, then slowly, emotionlessly, she relayed the exchange between her and Atcliff. Alain’s response summed it up neatly.
“Son-of-a-bitch.” He dropped down on the other ledge. “What now?”
“I don’t know, Babs.” She rubbed eyes that burned with the need for tears. “All I have is his word he’ll follow through and not try to screw me.”
“What’s that worth?” His question slashed to the heart.
“’bout as much as his loyalty to my father.” Angrily, she cast the dead flowers aside as she should have his promises.
“He’ll bring us all down with him—our families, friends, this whole city. He’s only out to save himself.”
Cee Cee closed her eyes, losing herself to the memory of the three of them in the front seat of the old squad car, her father at the wheel, his partner taking the lid off his coffee and tossing the top up onto the dash while she sat happily between them as they cruised the dark, narrow streets. Her streets. Byron Atcliff’s smile as he looked from the scribbled schoolwork on his lap to beam at her with pride. He was right, damn him. He’d been her father figure, he and Devlin Dovion, while her own drown himself in a bottle of loss and shame.
Babineau said nothing.
She knew her partner. The cruel joke of Warren Brady’s death snatching away the chance for cleansing justice had hit Babineau hard. Hell, it damned near crippled both of their beliefs in the system. But they’d sucked it up as they always did so they could continue to make that difference the citizens of New Orleans depended upon. People like DeShawn Collette and Kinesha Jones. They needed to know someone stood for them and their right to pursue their dreams. She’d wanted to be that someone ever since viewing those dark, busy, sometimes deadly streets of the city she loved between symbols of that admired justice.
Figureheads had sometimes failed her, as had justice, but the city, so filled with sin and corruption, still held her heart and soul and loyalty. And she couldn’t let it down.
When they returned to the precinct, she announced her plan to visit the Coulette family personally with the news the immediate threat was gone. DeShawn could return to his dreams.
Babineau waited until Charlotte’s bright orange Camaro wheeled away. He started to reenter the district station house but couldn’t force himself to cross its threshold. Not until he did something to equalize the dangerous tip of justice toward those who abused it. Maybe that would quiet the rage howling through his soul.
“Not again. They can’t get away with it again.”
Before reason could best his fury, Babineau pulled out his burner phone. Heart hammering, conscience screaming just as loud, he fought the urge to disconnect. And then it was too late.
“Carmen Blutafino. Who’s this? How’d you get this number?”
Voice low, barely a whisper, Detective Alain Babineau advised, “Shut up and listen.”
– – –
Clock ticking, Byron Atcliff pushed through all the necessary paperwork. The emergency was real, but the circumstances invented. Citing the need for an urgent visit to his bedridden mother-in-law along with professional and personal stresses from the Brady case, his two-week vacation officially began at the end of shift. He’d surprised his family with last minute and horrendously expensive tickets to California so his daughter could check out several college choices, then while their