by Wendy Rosnau
* * *
Jackson backed away from the window, but not before the image of Sunni wrapped in Joey's arms revisited him. He had to admit that the kiss he'd just witnessed could have started wet paper on fire.
Clide was going to chew both their heads off, he thought. Sunni's for sleeping behind enemy lines, and his for being the elected sucker to confirm the ugly fact to his boss.
At least Clide would be happy to hear that Sunni hadn't made his suspect list. In four days' time he had narrowed Milo's killer down to a list of four possibilities. The bad news was Frank Masado had made the list. Which meant that if he'd moved on Milo, it would have been Lucky who would have made the hit.
Aware of how little time he had to solve the case, Jackson turned on the floor lamp next to the old desk. Like always, he'd easily become obsessed with the case. But, he admitted, this time was worse. He knew the people involved, and a few of those people were important to him. If it took all night, he was determined to narrow down the suspect list to two instead of four.
Resigned, he peeled off his T-shirt and tossed it on the bed. Mac opened one eye, spied Jackson's shirt a foot from his nose, and with the skill of a master sneak, he slid his paw forward and pulled his partner's only hole-free T-shirt toward him. A few well-placed nudges, and the cotton lump became a pillow for his wide scarred head.
Jackson eyed his partner, then glanced at the jeans he had left on the chair before leaving to have supper with his mother. The jeans were now on the floor, and one ass-end pocket was missing.
Shaking his head, he went to work. An hour later, distracted by Mac's whining, he looked over his shoulder to see the K-9 struggling in sleep—trapped in an obvious nightmare he couldn't forget.
The facts were that Mac had lost Nate two years ago, and Jackson had lost Tom a little over three. They had nothing in common, save the sudden and tragic loss of their partners, and yet that was the cement that had kept Jackson from returning Mac to the pound five weeks ago—that, and the fact that the canine was on the List.
Mac rolled onto his side, still whining and twitching. It was then that Jackson saw it, a flash of red.
"What's that, Mac?"
At the sound of his name, the dog jerked awake.
On his feet, Jackson moved to the bed, his hand reaching out to uncover the mystery. But Mac wasn't feeling too obliging. Guarding his treasure, he growled low in his throat.
"Take it easy," Jackson warned.
When Mac relented and turned his head away in resigned submission, Jackson sent his hand beneath the dog's furry coat. When his fingers locked around the silky red strip, he pulled, and the mystery literally sprang forward, snapping Jackson in the chest. "What the hell… So this is why you didn't give a damn about going outside to take a leak when I got home."
Jackson was addressing Mac, but his gaze was locked on the sexy red bra that dangled from his fingertips—a bra that looked surprisingly familiar.
It wasn't hard to figure out where Mac had gotten his loot. The Crown Plaza had a similar fire escape. It would have taken Mac less than five minutes to leave the Wilchard by way of the window, cross the alley and get on Sunni's terrace.
Jackson turned and stared out the window. The case files concerning Mac had ranked him as the number-one dog in the precinct's K-9 unit. If a door or window wasn't locked, he was in … or out, whichever the case may be.
He was still staring out the window, still balancing Sunni's bra on the end of his index finger, when his cell phone rang. He snatched it off the desk and jammed it to his ear. "Yeah?"
"Ward?"
Clide. "Chief, how's it going?"
"That's my line, Ward. I thought I told you to stay in touch. What that means is I want to be kept abreast of everything that's going on."
No, he didn't Jackson thought as he brought the sexy bra to his nose and inhaled deeply. It was hers, all right—there was no doubt. He would never forget how wonderful Sunni Blais had smelled as he stood downwind of her at the restaurant. He had never smelled anything better in his life, and he had always thought that nothing could top the mix of delicious smells coming from Caponelli's kitchen.
"So tell me what you got so far. Anything we can sink our teeth into?"
Jackson ran his tongue over his front teeth, his imagination playing with the idea.
"Ward? I said, what evidence have you uncovered? Give me something that'll make me rest easier tonight?"
Jackson thought a minute. "I got a suspect list."
"Hell, that's good news. How's Sunni? Keeping a close eye on her? What's she been up to tonight?"
Jackson moved the expensive piece of lingerie through his fingers. "Ah, she's … home."
"Safe and sound. Good. Good work, Ward." Jackson tucked a delicate red strap into the waistband of his jeans, then rifled through the papers on the desk. "You suppose if I sent you a couple of names you could run a check on them?"
"That's a damn fine idea, Ward. I’ll convince the doc I need my computer. I'll have Ry bring it in. E-mail me the names and I'll have him do the legwork for us."
"I'll do that."
"Keep up the good work, Ward, and remember … whatever it takes to get Sunni in the clear, do it. You got my blessing to raise a little hell."
When Clide disconnected, Jackson tossed the phone on the bed beside Mac, then sauntered to the window. Sunni and Joe were no longer on the terrace, and the living room was dark. A dim light shone through the bedroom curtain.
The possibility that Joe was there spending the night in Sunni's bed bothered him more than it should. But then any man with half a brain would want to be in Joe's shoes, or out of them as the case may be.
For the next hour Jackson stood in front of the window and chain-smoked like a drunk on a bender. Then, just when he had convinced himself he needed to go back to work, a shadow appeared behind the curtain. For a long minute it stood there unmoving, then the curtain was swept back to reveal Sunni in a pale blue robe silhouetted against her dimly lit bedroom.
She knew he was there. Her focus went straight to the Wilchard's fourth-floor window. Their gazes locked, minutes dragged by. Jackson wondered what she was thinking as she stood there like a statue.
He lit a cigarette.
More minutes.
Then she stepped back and let the curtain drop.
Her light went out seconds later, but Jackson didn't move. He lit another cigarette. Two more cigarettes came and went.
Conceding that he was up for the rest of the night—up, as in straight as an arrow and stone hard—he went back to work with Sunni's bra still tucked into his waistband, wishing he had taken the time to figure out how to fix the plumbing.
* * *
Chapter 4
« ^ »
Sunni knew she should have called her father, explained the mess she was in, then asked for help. It would have been the most reasonable and the most responsible thing to do. And she would have done just that if she hadn't been so sure that she'd lose her lease for Silks and be tossed out of Masado Towers on her ear.
And after that, Joey would have no reason one way or the other to continue to be her alibi. She wouldn't only be out of business, she'd be in jail.
It had been such a small lie. Well, not that small … but harmless. She'd just wanted Silks to have the best location possible in the city, and Masado Towers was simply the best.
Sunni was in the kitchen still dissecting her grim situation when a knock sounded at the front door. She glanced at her blue silk robe, debating whether she should make a quick change or pretend she wasn't home. The second knock forced her to the door to investigate. She leaned into the door, closed one eye and focused the other on the peephole.
"Omigod … I'm dead."
Sunni's life—past and future—flashed before her eyes. She pressed her hand to her throat, tried to swallow.
Another knock.
"He's finally made his move," she whispered, choking on the words. Would they talk first? she wondered. Or
would he just kill her … quick? Or maybe not so quick.
The idea of being dead, no matter how Rambo achieved it, sent Sunni scrambling into her bedroom. Throwing one of her fluffy pillows to the floor, she snatched up her loaded .22—if she was going to die, she wouldn't go down without a fight, she decided.
Sunni emerged from the bedroom with the .22 automatic gripped in her hand, just as she heard Rambo call out, "Sis, you there?"
Sis…
"Come on, Sis. Open up. It's me."
She knew who it was, and her neighbor no doubt did, too—his voice was loud as a bell. Sunni looked out the peephole once more. "Not too smart, Rambo. A man bent on murder doesn't want witnesses."
Witnesses…
Of course, that was it. What she needed was a witness. Before Sunni could second-guess her genius idea, she slid the .22 into her robe pocket and unlocked the door. Please, Edna, be nosy today, she silently prayed, then flung the door wide and bolted through it.
In a flash of blue silk, she was past Rambo. Another second and she was pounding on Edna's door. "Edna! Edna!"
In a jiffy the elderly woman in 404 swung her door open. "Yes, dear?"
"Look at this man, Edna." Sunni spun on her heels and jabbed the air with a nervous finger in the direction of her early-morning caller. "Take a good look, Edna. If you read in the Tribune tomorrow that I was found in my apartment with my throat slit, call the police and give them this man's description. Green eyes, Edna. Dark hair, almost black. He hasn't shaved in days."
"Five, to be exact," Rambo supplied. "That's if you want to count today."
Edna angled her head and squinted Jackson Ward into focus. "He looks tall, dear. How tall did you say?"
"Very tall, Edna. He must be—"
"Six three."
"Three, Edna. He said he's six thr—" Sunni snapped her mouth shut and glanced back to find Rambo leaning comfortably against her doorjamb. He was wearing jeans and a brown leather jacket along with an amused smile that didn't exactly make him look nasty or dangerous. Or much like a hit man.
"Handsome? Is he a looker, Sunni? His voice is sure nice."
Edna's question went unanswered, but not for long. Suddenly she shuffled forward in her pink terry-towel bathrobe, fuzzy pink bunny slippers and pink sponge rollers—nine, to be exact. She was three feet from Rambo when Sunni rushed forward and jerked Edna to a stop. "Wait. What are you doing?"
"Getting a closer look, dear." Edna stretched her birdlike neck and licked her crooked lips as she dissected Rambo as if he were the dessert special for Thursday night bingo. Finally, she asked, "Who is he, again?"
To Sunni's surprise, Rambo shoved away from the doorjamb and stuck out his hand to her elderly neighbor. "Hi, Edna. I'm Jackson, Sunni's older brother. The one she never talks about."
"Brother? No, I don't believe she mentioned you."
"I'm not surprised. I'm the black sheep in the family."
When Edna reached for his hand, Sunni's jaw dropped. "You are not—"
One minute Rambo was shaking Edna's hand, and the next minute he had successfully captured Sunni around the waist. A quick jerk forward and her body collided with a slab of iron. A solid squeeze after that—using only one arm around her waist—he lifted her off her feet. "God, it's good to see you, Sis."
Another hard squeeze successfully stripped the air from her lungs, and she fought to speak. As she sucked in air, his male scent rushed up to greet her—that and the smell of sweet tobacco and mint toothpaste.
"I should have called first," he told her. "Forgive me, Sis? Please?"
The question wasn't meant to be answered. He followed it up with a fast kiss planted square on her open mouth. Startled, Sunni jerked her head back only to hear him swear softly, then he thrust his free hand to the back of her head and forced her mouth to meet his once more. Their eyes locked in a battle of wills, he whispered, "Be nice," then clamped his shiny white teeth around her lower lip and hung on.
Behind them, Edna said, "Oh, dear, would you look at the time. I had no idea it was so late. Jeopardy starts in three minutes. I hope I can move that fast."
Flattened against Rambo, dangling a foot off the floor with her lip caught between his teeth, Sunni heard Edna's famous slipper-shuffle start back to her apartment. Desperate to keep the elderly woman in the hall, she jerked her head back, only to wince in pain when sharp teeth clamped down hard to keep her silent.
Edna's retreating shuffle stopped. "You two have a nice family reunion." Then the sound of her door closing resigned Sunni to whatever fate Rambo had planned for her.
She squeezed her eyes shut as he stepped inside her apartment and closed the door. Sunni felt his arm loosen up around her waist enough to allow air to filter back into her lungs. Eyes still closed, her lip still caught between his teeth, her heart beat like an African drum in her chest.
A minute must have elapsed before he released her lip. Afraid to open her eyes, Sunni opted to keep them closed. That is, until something warm and wet slid over her lower lip. The unexpected sensation brought her eyes open in one quick blink.
"You're bleeding."
Her tongue went to investigate, and sure enough, she tasted blood. "What's next?"
"Next?"
"A quick kill, or are you one of those sadistic animals who enjoys seeing his victim beg?"
It appeared he was struggling to keep from smiling. A warning bell sounded in Sunni's head.
"Begging is good in some instances. But in this case, I think you've got me confused with somebody else, Sis. I'm here to keep you from being a victim, not make you into one."
"Who are you?" Sunni insisted.
"You know who I am. We met last night."
"Okay, then what are you?"
"I've never liked the word bodyguard, but if that word works for you, then—"
"Bodyguard?" Shock cracked Sunni's voice. "You're not connected? A hit man?"
"No."
"Bodyguard? My … bodyguard?"
"That's right."
Relieved yet confused, Sunni demanded, "Put me down."
"First we negotiate."
Sunni narrowed her eyes. "Negotiate what?"
"I need a shower. Agree to let me use yours, and I'll put you down."
"Your apartment is right across the alley. Use your own shower."
"No water. It's your fault, really. If you lived on the second or third floor I wouldn't have bargained with old man Ferguson for the fourth. The Wilchard's plumbing is out on that floor."
The humor in what he was saying took Sunni by surprise. And so did the desire to believe what he was saying.
"You find that funny, Sis?"
"Very. Swear you're not a hit man."
"If I was, you would have been dead four days ago."
There was some truth in that. And last night at the window she'd had the strangest feeling. It was as if he was watching over her. "All right. A shower if you can prove you're who you say you are. Now, put me down."
He set her down, then reached into his pocket. Sunni thought he meant to show her his ID, but when he produced her .22, she nearly fainted. "Oh, God!"
"Take it easy. Silk pockets are lousy for hiding heavy hardware. Noticed it the minute you bolted through the door." He grinned, then studied the .22 in his hand. "Do you know how to shoot this?"
"Yes."
"Can you hit what you're aiming at?"
"Why not hand it over and I'll show you?"
His grin spread, then he sobered and walked over to the island counter and laid down the gun—but not before checking to see that the safety was on. After that, his gaze traveled from Sunni's face to the swell of her breasts. "Just so I have the facts, how long have you been sleeping with Joe?"
His question turned Sunni's cheeks hot. Only, she knew what had prompted the question. Last night he had witnessed her and Joey Masado kissing. And it hadn't been just a friendly kiss. Joey had told her to kiss him like a woman in love.
"Come on, Sis. I know Joe
was here last night, and we both know how I know that." Her continued silence had him rubbing his whiskered jaw as he continued to take her apart with his eyes. "I didn't hear you. Are you or are you not doing the horizontal hustle with him?"
Sunni drew her robe together to lessen the amount of cleavage on display. She wasn't sure if it helped, but she'd be damned if she'd check. "That question wasn't part of our deal," she finally said. "I won't discuss my personal life with a stranger. At least not until you can prove to me you are who you say."
He parted his jacket and settled his long-fingered hands on his hips. "I've seen a lot of you lately, Sis. I don't consider us strangers."
Sunni knew what he was getting at. She clamped her mouth shut, then winced when renewed pain shot into her bruised lower lip.
"If I'm going to keep you alive, I need to know everything about you. That includes whose bed you frequent and who you've passed your apartment key around to. There was a murder five days ago, and you're the PD's number-one suspect. You forgotten that?"
"No. But I didn't kill Milo Tandi."
"You have no motive as far as I can tell. But those scarves manacled around the DB's wrists are damn incriminating, Sis. And this time the CSU didn't screw up the evidence when they collected it. Your prints are crystal."
Another warning bell set off inside Sunni's head. She'd lived with a cop for more than twenty years—her father used cop slang constantly. DB meant dead body. CSU was the crime scene unit. Only a cop would use that kind of slang. Only a cop would—
"Are you Joey's window dressing, Sis, or the beautiful woman caught in the middle of an old feud? If you're the woman in the middle, I'll warn you it isn't a healthy place to be sitting right now. Powerful men in powerful places think human life can be bought and sold as easily as real estate. The Masado boys and the Tandis are powerful players in an old organization. You could be taking a swim in concrete if you've been bed hopping."
More words and phrases convinced Sunni that—
