A Marked Man. Stella Cameron

frowned. He caught Wazoo’s eye and pointed to his cup, more because he needed whatever thinking time he could buy than because he wanted more coffee.

      Wazoo came with Spike’s bowl of gumbo in one hand and a carafe in the other. She set down the bowl and filled both coffee cups. “Be right back,” she said, her eyes making a swift study of their faces. “You got trouble,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “Big trouble. I keep smelling somethin’ real bad.” She sniffed the air and returned to the counter.

      Max didn’t meet Spike’s eyes. First Annie passed out in front of him and came around begging not to be burned, then Wazoo talked about smelling something bad—like burning, maybe? If he was the type to run, he’d already be on his way, but running wouldn’t stop the madness.

      Carrying corn bread and a dish of honey butter, Wazoo returned and this time she slid into a seat at the table.

      “You’re deserting your post,” Spike said.

      She snorted. “No such thing, lawman. I’m right here and I got real good eyes.”

      “I think I see someone back in the books waving for you.”

      Wazoo gave Max a pitying look. “They know where to find me, not that I’m any book expert. The reading group’s at the back—they answer anyone’s questions—makes ‘em feel important and suits me. This Michele, they sayin’ she come lookin’ for a job at Green Veil. That place used to be called Serenity House, y’know.” She disentangled the cat and sat it on her lap where it rested its nose on the table and switched its green-gold gaze between the men.

      “We know what the house was called,” Spike said. “But thanks for the reminder.”

      “She’s dead, that one. I know what I see.”

      “Who’s dead?” Max shot back at her. “What do you see?” If she said something about fire, he might lose it.

      “It isn’t that easy,” Wazoo said. “I can’t turn it on like a picture show. Gotta wait for stuff to come clear, but that Michele ain’t with us here no more.”

      “You shouldn’t play around with things as important as this,” Max said. He prickled all over.

      Spike spooned up gumbo, chewed vegetables and managed to appear almost disinterested.

      “Vivian,” Wazoo said abruptly, pointing a long forefinger with a red-painted nail. “How is she? This baby is blessed, I feel it.” She closed her eyes, raised her chin and breathed hard through her mouth. “The last little one couldn’t stay, had other places to go. This one has things to do right where he is.”

      The expressions that flitted over Spike’s face intrigued Max. The even-tempered, almost flip facade was gone, replaced by a sharper and definitely worried frown. “We don’t know if we’re having a boy or a girl,” he said. “Thanks for the kind words, though. Only a few weeks to go now.”

      “Now you listen to me,” Wazoo said, settling a hand on top of one of his. “There’s nothin’ to be afraid of this time around. That little one is takin’ all the energy it needs from Vivian. It’s wearin’ her out but like you say, it’ll soon be over. She’s worried now because of losing the last baby, but she doesn’t need to give it a thought.”

      Max had seen that Vivian was very pregnant but knew nothing of her history. He would try to find an opportunity to reassure her. He and Spike needed to get rid of Wazoo. With one forefinger, he attempted to rub between the cat’s ears. That got him a view of a mouthful of tiny pointed teeth together with a hiss too big for the cat. He drew his hand back.

      “Don’t you take Irene’s hiss serious,” Wazoo said. “I gotta talk Annie into some therapy for this one. She’s sufferin’. She tol’ me she thinks she gonna be pushed out of her mama’s lap—and bed—by some man.”

      There were moments when cool disinterest was the best reaction.

      Max hooked an elbow over the back of his chair and raised his jaw. He looked detached, he was sure he did.

      “Wazoo,” Spike said after a slightly lengthy pause. “Thanks for the good words. Forgive us but this is a business meeting for Max and me.”

      Smiling, she popped up. “You know where to find me.” “You know Annie Duhon?” Spike asked when he and Max were alone, drumming his fingertips on the table. “Yeah, you do.”

      Shit. “I know who she is,” Max said. “She runs Pappy’s.”

      “Sure she does. How come you look so guilty?”

      “You’re off base,” Max told him evenly. Lying didn’t amuse him but he didn’t want Annie’s name linked to his.

      “If you say so,” Spike said quietly. “I wish we knew where to find Michele Riley. I’d settle for any clue, any idea. So far we’ve got a search for a missing person, and I kept it in this jurisdiction, used my people. But I can’t cover for this any longer.”

      Max looked at him sharply. “I didn’t ask you to cover for anything.”

      “No, you didn’t. By tomorrow we’ll be knee-deep in folks asking questions. Is there anythin’ you’d like to share with me? Any incidents from the past?”

      The man only asked the question to be polite. Max could tell he’d done some homework. It wasn’t so hard to get at the record of Max Savage’s career with the law. And innocent verdicts bore less weight if the same types of crimes followed you around.

      “Have you searched the Majestic for leads?” Spike took several spoonfuls of his gumbo before he responded. “There are prints on her own possessions—all the same. So what? They’re probably hers. She couldn’t use ‘em without touching ‘em. We didn’t find any sign of a struggle or that her things had been messed with.” He played with his coffee spoon, tapped it against his mug. “Same prints were on the front door and the handle. Both areas had been cleaned.”

      “When?” Max asked, shifting forward on his chair. “When did they clean the door?”

      “Last night. Doll said she likes to brighten up the entrance and the reception area right before she goes to bed, just in case there’s a real late arrival. The Hibbses turn in around eleven.”

      “Before I dropped Michele off,” Max said, almost under his breath. “So if someone who didn’t normally go there had got in that way before eleven and waited for her, those prints would be gone.” A defeated feeling came and went, almost quickly enough. He had felt a setup closing in on him, but he couldn’t allow himself to go there, not unless he eventually had to.

      “You’ve got that right. Gator’s were on the inside from openin’ up this mornin’. That’s all. He propped the door open.”

      A car approached, passed the triangular section of grass, trees and grimy plastic holiday statues in the center of broad Main Street. The car, a red Volvo, swung to a stop behind Spike’s cruiser. Max deliberately turned his face from the window.

      “Max?” Spike raised his eyebrows and pushed his fingers through his hair. “Want to share anythin’?”

      “Why didn’t we do this at the department?”

      “I told you, informal appeals to me, particularly when I have pretty much nothing to go on. I thought we’d be more relaxed here.”

      Max didn’t feel relaxed. Anything he said had a chance of being overheard. “You’ve been checking me out, haven’t you?” He heard a car door slam. Annie, her hands crammed with bag handles, came toward Hungry Eyes.

      “Yes.” Spike’s blue eyes stared steadily into Max’s. “You understand why I’m real worried here? Either you’re a serial killer, or you’ve made a serial killer real mad.”

      He wasn’t being funny.

      Max had never felt more serious.