Beneath The Silk

“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?”