by Alison Kent
“You should have let Jack stay. He might have information you can use.”
She was right. He didn’t like it. “Does he?” he asked, his gut tightening.
“He might.”
“But you don’t know.”
“Contrary to popular belief, Book, I don’t know everything.” She pushed away from the corner and crossed in front of him, making her way to the table.
She smelled like a field of flowers, something warm and purple and soft. He followed her, took the chair beside hers, staying close. “Tell me what you do know.”
She related to him the same things she’d said on the phone earlier. This time, as he took notes, he pressed for specific details. On the ring, especially.
He’d get a sketch done and canvas area pawnshops to start. Nothing that took a lot of time away from his legitimate cases. Nothing that would get him written up for coloring outside the lines. Again.
“What is your department saying this time?”
“Not much.” He didn’t know why she asked when she already knew.
“Book, tell me the truth.”
He closed his notebook, capped his pen and returned both to his coat’s inside pocket. “We’re not officially on this case. There hasn’t been enough evidence to warrant our involvement.”
“You’re here on your own then?”
He was here because of her visions. But he was also here because of her. “It’s no different than any other time.”
She shook her head slowly. Tendrils of hair fell to curl around her face. She hooked her bare feet on the rung beneath his chair and leaned toward him, reaching out with one hand, pulling it back before he could wrap up her fingers with his.
“I never meant to be a burden to you. To cause you trouble at work, or with your peers.” She laced her hands in her lap, looking up at him as if he were the only one with the answer to her prayers. “I hope you know that.”
He shrugged, blowing it off because he didn’t give a damn what anyone thought when it came to his dealings with Della. All that mattered was that she came to no harm. “It’s no big deal. I’m more concerned with you staying safe.”
Her laugh was as light as a breath of fresh air. “I’m not in any danger. I never have been.”
“In the past, no. But this time your name is in the paper.” He was going to skin alive one particular big-mouthed leaker—especially since the leak was nothing but gossip.
He’d never talked about the Eckhardt case or about Della’s newest visions. The leak made operations a laughingstock. “I’m sorry that happened. I can see the scum is already oozing out of the woodwork.”
She laughed again and sat back. “You’re talking about Jack, I presume. Though I’m quite sure he said he came from Texas, not out of the woodwork.”
Book’s mental gears whirred too loudly for him to process more than the facts. “He’s from Texas?” Eckhardt was from Texas.
“I believe Perry said Austin. The man’s family hired him. Apparently, they’re quite unsatisfied with the progress being made through police channels.”
Montgomery showing up here like he had gave further credence to what Della had seen. Yet it still wasn’t enough for Book to open an official case. Unofficial, he could manage. “I suppose I should talk to him.”
Again, Della leaned forward. “You had the chance, you know. Before you ran the poor man out of here.”
“I don’t like the thought of you becoming a victim. Of you being exploited.” He didn’t like the idea of a lot of things when it came to Della Brazille. The biggest one being the way he hadn’t yet harnessed his balls and told her how important she was to him. “Finding Montgomery here on top of finding that headline this morning has not made for the best start to the day.”
“I know what you need.”
Oh, but she had no idea. It always left him stymied, how she could see violent crimes but never the soft spot in his heart.
Still, he shifted in his chair so that no personal space remained between them, so that when he breathed in, it was her scent filling his lungs.
“Yeah? What’s that?” he asked, his heart beating so hard in his throat he couldn’t even swallow.
“You need brunch.” She patted his knee as if he were a child, then got up to finish cooking.
All he could do was sit there and battle the urge to walk out the door.
WHAT PERRY WANTED most of all was for Jack to go away. He disturbed her, and she did not like being disturbed. Especially when, after living a rather disturbing life, she was finally feeling the calm of things going her way.
She stood at the register in Sugar Blues, having just rung up a customer. It seemed a good place to stay, what with the long, glass-topped counter between her and Jack. Because now that the two of them were alone, her senses were ringing high and loud.
He closed the book on Reiki training through which he’d been leafing and made his way to the rear of the shop. Of course, she had to notice his walk, how he moved, all lanky and long and loose. She wasn’t supposed to notice that about him, and she sure wasn’t supposed to like it.
She sighed, obviously having listened too much to Sugar singing the blues, waxing eloquent about the handsome men who’d broken her heart. Jack stopped at the counter and picked up a tiny gold incense burner. Funny how he always had to have his hands on something, stroking, fondling.
Perry groaned, catching the forward progression of her thoughts one stroke too late. “If you break it, you’ve bought it.”
“Yeah,” he said, running his thumb over the Buddha’s belly. “I saw the sign on the door. Do you really sell enough of this crap to stay in business?”
“Do you insult everyone you meet or is this special treatment only for me?”
“I just say what comes to me.”
“Open mouth, insert foot?”
He shrugged. “Guess that’s one way of looking at it.”
She barely managed to keep herself from rolling her eyes. “But not your way.”
“Sorry, no,” he said, returning the burner to the counter and reaching for her blue-plumed pen.
She moved it out of his reach before he could grab it. “Do you think you could limit your touchy-feely habit to items you’re going to buy?”
He laughed then, the sound deep and resonant like that of a bass guitar, one that vibrated through her, tickling, taunting, one she knew she was going to have a problem with if he stayed around for long.
Or not, she amended moments later, when he said, “There’s nothing about this place that I buy. Horoscopes and healings and protection charms? What a bunch of—”
“A bunch of what?” She bristled further, not quite sure why she was letting him get to her when his opinion was one she’d run up against too many times to count. “A bunch of crap? A bunch of, what did you call it earlier, hocus-pocus?”
“You’re going to tell me it’s not? That you believe—” he glanced at the cover of the book and read the copy “—I can learn how to create an electromagnetic balance all the way to the cellular level in the physical body? Just by taking a couple of classes?”
She pruned her lips, then forced them to relax. “I believe there are many things not easily explained by conventional reasoning.”
“Let me guess. You’re a big X-Files fan.”
This time she gave in, rolling her eyes. “Just my luck, stuck entertaining a smart-ass.”
“Smart enough to know the difference between what’s real and what isn’t,” he said, a brow going up and drawing her gaze to his lashes again.
“You think Detective Franklin would be here if Della’s visions were fabricated? If he didn’t have proof that what she sees is real?” Gah, but she hated finding intelligent minds closed.
“You tell me.”
“What, and waste my breath? I think I’d rather show you,” she said, having heard the faint croon of a female voice drifting down the stairs behind her.
He snorted. “I’ve been around the block, sister. I’ve pretty mu
ch seen it all.”
“Ah, but have you listened to it?”
“Listened to what?”
Perry narrowed her gaze. “If I let you come around here, do you think you can keep your hands to yourself?”
The words left her mouth before she could stop them.
His eyes flashed, specks of silver bright in the deep dark gray. He let his gaze drop from her face to her shoulders before she glared and moved behind the cash register to hide.
He laughed again, shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and walked his lazy, loose and lanky way around to where she stood.
“Better?” he asked, once he was close enough to touch…if only she had the guts to reach out.
What would be better would be to start this day over and not have him show up to disturb her. “Yes. Now listen.”
She backed toward the staircase and motioned him forward. Wariness in his expression, he did as she asked, stopping when she held up one hand.
“Listen,” she whispered, standing on one side of the stairwell opening as he stood on the other. “Tell me what you hear.”
He propped a shoulder against the wall and hung his head; she leaned into the corner, her hands stacked behind her.
The days just ain’t the same…
The walls of the stairwell that rose to the second floor were brick, and on them hung framed photos of Sugar. At clubs in the old Storyville district, performing with Jelly Roll Morton and Johnny Dodds.
The sun hangs low and hangs dark…
More Sugar Babin memorabilia remained stored in the attic. LPs and costumes. Even her famous gold cigarette case and gnarled walking stick.
The nights never end, never fade…
Perry didn’t know how Jack—how anyone—could deny the interaction between this world and those that lay beyond, when hearing Sugar sing.
Black is the color of my heart…
Nor did she understand why he wasn’t saying anything. “Well?”
Still staring down at the floor, he shrugged. “Your aunt left a radio playing?”
“No.” Perry shook her head. “That’s Sugar.”
“Another aunt?”
“This used to be where she lived. This building. She was a famous blues singer.”
“So you pipe the music into the shop for old times’ sake.”
“No. That’s Sugar singing.” She waited and waited, but his expression never changed. “She died after a suspicious fall down the stairs. These stairs,” she added, pointing.
“Then the piping’s about exploiting the legend?”
It took all her control not to stomp her foot. “Jack, there is no piping. That singing you hear is Sugar’s ghost.”
3
WHAT A LOAD of hooey. “You’re kidding me, right? A ghost?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t hear her.”
“I hear music.” He shrugged. That much was true. “It doesn’t mean I buy into any ghost story.”
Perry sighed and closed her eyes. “I should be used to this by now. I don’t know why I let it get to me.”
“Hey, it’s got to be good for business.” Jack backed up against the wall, keeping his hands in his pockets since she seemed bothered when he used them. “Adds to the woo-woo flavor of the place.”
Perry pushed away from the corner and paced the length of the counter twice before she stopped to face him. “Believe or don’t believe. It’s no skin off my nose that you’re lacking an open mind.”
His mouth twisted to the right. “Guess I played hooky the day they passed out the gene.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised to find out you played hooky several days in a row.”
That made him smile. “You think?”
“Yeah. I do.” When she tossed back her hair, the strands of colored crystals dangling from her ears twinkled, speckling her cheeks with dots of blue and gold. “You missed good manners day, for one.”
“Actually, that gene’s only loose.”
She gave him a measured glare. “There’s a toolbox on the floor of the pantry.”
“Thanks. I’ll see what I can do about tightening it up before I head out.”
“And when will that be?”
“I was hoping for brunch, at least.” He wasn’t really, considering he was still burning up inside from the gumbo. He just wasn’t ready to leave. “And maybe more time with your aunt once the detective is through.”
“I doubt she’ll be able to tell you anything useful. Her visions aren’t exactly newsreels.”
“What are they?”
Perry boosted herself up onto the stool at the cash register. “It’s hard to explain. Even to believers.”
“The listening gene?” When she arched a brow, he went on. “I was there that day. It was handed out at the same time as the one for paying attention.”
Her smile was slow to come but when it did, Jack felt as if he’d been poleaxed. It wasn’t even about her mouth—though she did have a great one that sent his mind south—as much as it was about her eyes.
They were deep and dark, more black than brown, and they were sucking him down in a hurry. They were eyes he could drown in, dangerous and dazzling, which his experience told him meant deceptive as well.
“In that case, all I can tell you is that she sees flashes,” she said, the smile fading. “Bits and pieces of clothing. Or a location. The last time she helped Book, she saw chickens.”
O-kay. “Doesn’t sound like a lot of help.”
“Oh, but it was,” she insisted, crossing one leg over the other. “The chickens she saw are only raised at two area farms. The police were able to close in quicker with that one bit of information added to what they already had.”
Interesting. And legit enough that he could easily check it out. But he still wasn’t buying the ghost. “Close in quicker on what?” When she hesitated, he prodded her with, “What was the case?”
She hopped down from the stool, turned to the counter and began to straighten the chains on a display of jeweled silver pendants. “It was infanticide, and it was ugly. If you want details, you’re going to have to check newspaper archives.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Fine. Just don’t say a word about it to Della. She doesn’t need to relive any of that.”
The thought hadn’t crossed his mind. “I won’t. I promise. Pinky swear and everything.”
Her hands stilled on the pendants, and it took a minute for her to respond. When she did, it was to turn slowly and face him, to wrap her arms around her middle, to take him in from head to toe—twice—and say, “I’m not so sure I want to make a pinky swear with you.”
“Why not?” He pulled his hands from his pockets, hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, drawing her gaze.
Her throat worked as she swallowed. “With that hands-on thing you have going, I’m not sure you can keep it to just a pinky.”
She believed in ghosts and psychics and whatever the hell rune stones were, but the idea of holding his hand was too much for her? He took one step forward, offered her his little finger without saying a word.
He could tell by her hiss of breath that she was as bothered by his dare as by the thought of making physical contact, yet he was certain that what bothered her most of all was the quirk in her makeup that wouldn’t let her walk away.
Thing was, it got to him, too—her hesitation, her unease—but in a way he’d bet cold hard cash was the polar opposite of hers. Even more so, however, he was caught off guard by her eyes and her mouth, and the fact that he couldn’t remember the last time a woman had looked him over with such intensity.
She took a step toward him and lifted her hand, pinky extended. An inch and no more separated their fingers. At least an inch of actual, measurable space. What couldn’t be measured was everything else keeping them apart. The unspoken words and the private thoughts and the truth of this step they were taking.
Then, before he could say anything or form another thought or even define what this particular trut
h was, she hooked him, her finger grabbing his and pulling tight. He grabbed harder, holding her there even when she gave a half-hearted tug for freedom.
“See?” She glared. “I knew you couldn’t keep up your end of the bargain.”
“Remind me again of the terms,” he said, close enough to see the spattering of freckles on her nose that she’d powdered away.
Close enough to smell the herbs in her shampoo, the coffee she’d had in the kitchen, her skin. “I’ve totally forgotten what—”
A loud crash came from the rear of the building—breaking glass, a thud—followed by Della’s sharp cry, the detective’s sharper curse and the whack of a door bouncing open on its hinges.
Perry nearly took off Jack’s arm as she jerked her hand free from his and ran through the beaded curtain toward the kitchen.
He was right behind, and he heard her gasp when she stopped. He also came close to mowing her down. His hands on her shoulders steadied them both as they stared at the scene that had her shaking.
The back door stood wide open, the window shattered, shards of glass scattered across the floor. Detective Franklin was nowhere to be seen, while Della was in the process of boosting herself up onto the counter beside the sink to rinse blood from her foot.
“Oh, my God, Della.” Perry rushed forward, broken glass crunching beneath her ankle boots. “What happened? Where’s Book? Are you all right?”
“There. On the floor.” Her hand shaking, Della pointed to the kitchen table. Jack saw what appeared to be a brick wrapped in newspaper. “Book said to leave it. He ran out to look for suspects.”
“Why would anyone throw a brick through our window?” Perry’s voice vibrated with anger and righteous concern. “Let me look at your foot.”
Della turned on the water, sucking in a breath. “I jumped to dodge the brick, lost my balance and misstepped. I’ll be fine. But I’m quite sure when Book unwraps it from the newspaper, we’ll find this morning’s headline inside.”
“Someone is taking the story seriously,” Jack said, feeling powerless when he was used to being in charge. “Where’s your broom?”
“The closet next to the pantry,” Perry said, waving him in that direction. “This is going to need stitches.”
