about pipes and stuff like that?”
He didn’t, but Jackson wanted that apartment. “Sure.”
He watched Crammer scratch his head while he considered the offer, his rheumy eyes narrowing slightly. “I suppose you’ll be expectin’ a discount for your trouble.”
“Seems fair.”
“Can’t make no money lettin’ folks stay for free.”
“Can’t make no money sitting with empty apartments, either.”
“Your mama musta washed your mouth out with soap six times a day when you was a runt. Mouthiest cop in Chicago, is what I always said. Mouthiest, but the best.”
“Do we have a deal?”
“I’ll need a hundred to seal it.”
His cigarette pinched between his lips, Jackson peeled a hundred dollar bill out of his wallet, slapped it on the counter, then headed for the stairs. Five minutes later, Mac was slumped on a faded brown plaid couch from the seventies, and Jackson was assessing apartment 410 with a scowl.
As he headed into the kitchen, he pointed his finger at Mac. “No holes, understand? None of this is ours. And even if it does looks like hell, I don’t want it looking worse.”
After examining the kitchen and finding it had all of the necessities to keep him from starving—a noisy refrigerator, a yellow-stained sink and an old electric stove with two burners that still worked—Jackson entered the bedroom. The room was as sparse as the rest of the apartment—a narrow closet, a double bed and another floor lamp like the one in the living room with a water-stained blue shade.
The bonus was the wooden desk and chair—free of teeth marks. Jackson grunted. “That won’t last,” he muttered, then sauntered to the window and parted the dusty beige curtains.
Across the alley stood the Crown Plaza, and on the fourth floor directly across from his bedroom window was Sunni Blais’s apartment—a penthouse suite complete with a brick terrace and greenhouse. She had ultrasheer curtains covering the two sliding glass doors that led to the terrace—one door on either side of the greenhouse.
Jackson opened the window and sucked in a breath of Chicago smog. Smiling, he angled his head and let the cool air wash over his face. When he’d left three years ago, he hadn’t thought about missing the city itself. At the time, all that was important was to get away from the guilt that he’d felt over Tom’s death. And so he’d packed and relocated without realizing what he was leaving behind.
As he looked over the city, he plucked a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket, then relaxed his shoulder against the window frame. He was on his third when movement behind one of the curtains alerted him that she was home. He glanced down at his watch and read sixteen minutes after six. He hadn’t expected to find her home this soon after work, but he’d make a note of it.
His attention back on the apartment, he was aware that Mac had entered the bedroom. A few seconds later, he felt his partner nuzzle his leg, then start licking his boot. “Knock it off, Mac. I’ll get you some water and chow in a minute.”
A shadow walked past the slider, a quick movement that allowed Jackson only a brief glimpse at Clide’s daughter. Minutes later, she reappeared at the other slider to the left of the greenhouse. He waited, took another healthy pull off his cigarette. The curtain moved. Then there she was, as visible as a single evening star in a black sky.
She reached for the clip that held her hair off her neck. A second later, smooth black hair fell to her shoulders. A second after that, her straight white skirt went to the floor.
Jackson released a low, undulating whistle, then watched her fingers move to the buttons on her white suit jacket. He knew what was coming next. Knew he should step away from the window. Knew he wasn’t going to.
Five buttons later, she sent the jacket off her shoulders, and Jackson damn near into cardiac arrest. “Oh, hell, red underwear,” he moaned as raw heat attacked his groin and caught fire.
Mesmerized, he stared at Sunni Blais’s long, slender legs beneath a short red slip. Then, slowly, his gaze climbed back up to appreciate the most fabulous five-star chest he’d ever seen. “Either we have the wrong Sunni Blais, or Sis is adopted,” he muttered. “There’s no way in hell Clide can be her father.”
As if Mac was in full agreement, he angled his head and barked loudly. Twice.
Startled by the noise, Jackson jerked in surprise, then looked down at Mac, who was up on all fours wagging his tail. Without warning, he barked again. Louder this time.
Jackson gave Mac his knee, then glanced back to Sunni’s apartment to find that she’d crossed her arms over her amazing breasts, her gaze searching the alley to see where the sudden noise had originated and why. When her gaze locked with his, she opened her mouth and two words came out. The first word was Oh. The second word was…
“Shame on you, Sis,” Jackson mumbled, “that’s not a nice word.”
The same two words flew out again, then Sunni was gone from sight. But not forgotten—Jackson’s growing problem was now full blown and painfully obvious.
There was, however, a remedy for what ailed him. He could hobble to the bathroom and take an ice-cold shower—that is, if there had been running water on the fourth floor of the Wilchard.
Chapter 2
“You lied to the police.” Sunni met Joey Masado’s self-assured gaze and held it. It was just before closing and she was assembling the scattered notes on her desk that she’d made for Mary, her store manager for Silks. “You know we’ve never dated. Much less—”
“Spent the night together? I never told the police we spent the night together.”
“You implied as much.”
“Then maybe this is blackmail. Maybe that’s what motivated my alibi story, you think?”
“I don’t know what to think, Mr. Masado.” But Sunni had a feeling she was about to find out why a man she hardly knew had waltzed into the police station four nights ago and lied through his teeth to keep her out of jail.
“Call me Joey, and I’ll call you Sunni. We’re dating, remember?” The reckless grin that slashed across Joey Masado’s Sicilian good looks as he sauntered through the door was as unsettling as the one-inch scar high on his cheekbone. As he sat on the plush red visitor’s chair in front of her desk, he snagged her small at-a-glance calendar off her desk. After studying it, his intelligent brown eyes pinned her where she sat stiff and wary. “Looks like I’m in luck… Sunni. You’re free for dinner tonight.”
With her black hair swept into a twist at her nape, and her curves tastefully disguised in her designer black silk suit, Sunni looked every bit the flawless, confident businesswoman—an image she had worked hard to perfect—at least on the surface. Careful to maintain that image, she tried to relax. “If we need to discuss something, now would be a better time, Mr. Masado.”
“We should be seen together. It’s just that simple, Sunni.”
He leaned forward, replaced the calendar, then reached out and tugged on the white silk scarf tucked into the deep vee of her suit jacket. When he sat back, the scarf came loose, baring Sunni’s throat and a whole lot more. Self-conscious, she squared her petite shoulders to minimize just how amazing her God-given-gift really was.
As he threaded the silk between his long fingers, Joey said, “Four of these were found at the crime scene. Your fingerprints on each one.”
“My prints would be on my scarves, don’t you think? The mystery isn’t whose scarves were used in the murder, but how they got into that apartment when I was never there.”
“It’s no mystery to the police. Detective Williams believes you were there.”
“But that’s not true.”