Beneath the Silk (25 page)

The stairs creaked a warning just before Joey appeared on the stairway with the
lupara
slung on his shoulder.

“Masado? What are you doing here?”

“I came to help out.”

“I don’t need your help, or Frank’s. This is my business. And I’ll take care of it my own way.”

“You have it wrong, Stud. Everything wrong, as a matter a fact.” Joey’s eyes shifted to the cross on the desk. “When Rhea was afraid she liked wearing that. She said it made her feel safer. I hadn’t taken it off in—” he glanced at Jackson “—when was it, Jacky? When did Vina give us those crosses? Were we sixteen, or was it fifteen?”

There was a moment of silence, then the shock and outrage of what Joey had just confessed sent the situation over the edge. Stud had been aiming his .38 at Hank Mallory; now he jerked sideways and started to bring his arm toward the stairway. “You? It was you? You bastard!”

A fact that had always been understated on the streets of Chicago was Joey Masado’s expertise with a knife. As fast as Jackson was with a gun, and Lucky with his fists, Joe was equally as fast with a knife. Just before he hurled the expensive steel at his hip, he said, “I should have killed you three years ago, you son of a bitch.” Then the knife was whistling through the air and into Stud’s gun arm above the elbow.

Stud cried out and struggled to recover. In those brief seconds Joe sailed over the stair railing, at the same time Jackson dove for his .38. Seconds later, Stud fired on everything in the room that was moving. The gunfire was rapid, backed by rage and desperation. While he and Joey were rolling around, dodging the rain of bullets, Jackson yelled, “Don’t kill him, Joe! We need him to find Sunni!”

Six shots later—Stud’s .38 empty—Jackson rolled to his feet and sprang over the metal desk. Plowing into Stud, he knocked him flat on his back. “Where is she?” he snarled, gripping Stud’s shirt and driving his iron fist into his jaw. Blinded by his own rage and fear, he swung his fist again and again. “Where is she?”

Spitting blood, Stud said, “Kill me, then. Go on, Jackson.”

“You’re not going to die,” Jackson snarled. “That would be too easy. You’re not getting off easy, Stud. Not one minute for the rest of your life!” That said, he drove his fist forward in one last unforgiving punch that rendered the madman unconscious.

His chest heaving, Jackson shoved to his feet and ripped the top off the box on the desk. Inside was the pink silk blouse that Sunni had on earlier, along with her shoes. The blouse had been torn, and it was spattered with blood. The sight sickened him, and he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as a dozen questions ran through his mind.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Joey said, moving past him to see to Hank Mallory, “but he wouldn’t have told you where she is, anyway.”

Jackson knew Joe was right. He turned and hunkered down by his ex-boss. “Hank, did you see Sunni? Did Stud say anything about where he hid her?”

“Only that it was someplace where you wouldn’t find her until it was too late.” Hank groaned. “He tricked me, Jackson. I fell for it, and I’m sorry. I just saw the pictures of Tom and went crazy.”

“What time did you meet him?”

After Hank explained how Stud had called him, and what time that was, he said, “He picked me up at police headquarters. He told me he’d found evidence that could shed some light on Tom’s murder. I guess he knew just what to say to make me go with him.”

Jackson turned to Joe. “The time frame is too tight for Stud to have dropped Sunni off somewhere before he picked up Hank. She’s still at Tom’s house somewhere, or here.”

“Gates only saw two people in the car, Jacky.”

“I’ve been with Stud the entire time since he picked me up.” Hank groaned again as Jackson and Joey helped him stand. “Maybe the trunk of the car, but don’t waste time searching anywhere else around here.”

Anxious at the possibility that Sunni could be close by, Jackson grabbed the silk blouse from the box and raced up the stairs. As he left the house he heard Mac barking. Relieved that the dog might be able to offer him some help, he jogged to the car and opened the door. When Mac jumped out, he let the dog sniff Sunni’s blouse. “Find her, boy. Find Sis.”

They searched Stud’s car but they came up with nothing. When Joe showed up on the porch, Jackson said, “We’re headed back to Tom’s house. Call me if you think of anything, or if Stud comes wound and you can get him to talk. I’ll call if I locate her.”

The closer they got to Tom Mallory’s house, the more agitated Mac became. Hopeful, Jackson pulled up fast, leaned over and popped the passenger door to let Mac out. The dog bolted from the car and in a flash he was dropping his nose to the ground.

While Mac skirted the house, Jackson grabbed the flashlight from the glove compartment and followed him to a toolshed. The dog tore into the wooden door with no hesitation—sore mouth and a dozen-plus stitches didn’t slow him down one bit.

Jackson pulled his .38, called Mac off, then shot the padlock off the door. Swinging it wide, Mac dove in first.

Along one wall was a built-in storage box with a hinged top. Mac was already attacking the box before Jackson reached it. Quickly, he tossed the lid up and sent the light beaming into the box.

The sight of Sunni bound and gagged inside twisted Jackson’s gut. But there was no time for guilt, or emotion of any kind, as he saw her chest slowly moving up and down, only action.

“You’ll be all right,” he promised, then lifted her out of the box and gently laid her down. Working fast, every second critical, he pulled a narrow box from his shirt pocket with a syringe taped on top and went through the steps to prepare the emergency injection of glucagon he’d picked up last night before leaving the hospital. “This will fix you up, Sis,” he guaranteed. “Then I’ll get you in the house and warm you up.”

She was semiconscious, her eyes open, and yet she wasn’t with him. Jackson recognized the empty look. He’d seen it a hundred times in his father’s eyes. Only today he wasn’t thinking about how much he hated or feared that look, or how cheated he’d felt as a boy that Harold Ward had died too soon. No, today he was only grateful for the knowledge his father had given him, and the ability and experience to act on it in an emergency situation.

So on instinct, with steady hands—and Mac hovering close by—he pinched a thin layer of Sunni’s abdomen and injected the hormone he knew would save her life.

* * *

Stud Williams was arrested and booked for the murder of Milo Tandi, Tom Mallory and Elizabeth Carpenter the next morning. The buzz circulating at the CPD was loud, and the name most mentioned surrounding the buzz was Jackson Ward. The story claimed the loose cannon had single-handedly brought a killer to justice, and along with his K-9 super dog, had saved his police
chief#s
daughter from certain death.

The rumors made no mention of the affiliation Stud Williams had with organized crime and the Masado family, or the fact that Hank Mallory had been escorted to the hospital by a man driving a black Jag.

No, the buzz had been all about the loose cannon, only he hadn’t heard any of it. Last night, Jackson had taken a midnight flight back to New Orleans.

As the voice grew louder from inside Clide Blais’s office, the tension mounted outside in the lobby. It was a sure bet Clide was chewing tail again, slicing off ears and taking the detective standing in front of his desk off at the knees, all at the same time gripping his antacid bottle and trying to get the cap off.

The heat inside the precinct was as insufferable as the heat outside. Today the news report was pridefully claiming the New Orleans high would reach ninety-five degrees, the humidity a suffocating eighty-nine percent.

Leaning against the lobby’s front desk, Jackson watched his boss through his office window. He’d been back in town less than a day and it felt like he’d never left. His jeans were sticking to him, and his shirt clung to his chest like a wet wash rag. Last night, as he’d left O’Hare, Chicago had clear skies and was fifty-eight degrees.

Yeah, he’d gone and done it again. He’d pushed too hard after Sunni had surfaced from her nightmare. He’d tossed it in her face how damn vulnerable she was, then how much she needed a man around to take care of her.

His mother had been right … again. Out of fear he’d stuck his foot in his mouth and hurt the woman he loved, instead of putting the blame squarely on his own shoulders where it belonged. The truth was, if he’d been doing his job, Sis would never have been placed in danger.

No wonder she’d kicked his ass out of the house and her life the minute she could stand on her own two feet. Which hadn’t taken all that long. The glucagon had worked like a charm, as he knew it would.

When Clide glanced out his window, Jackson nodded. Two seconds later the young detective—minus his ears—was scrambling out of the chief’s office muttering “good luck” as he hustled past the NOPD loose cannon.

Jackson mumbled, “In this business, junior, never rely on luck. What you need is iron balls, a steel head and earplugs. And don’t let anyone tell you different.”

“Ward, get in here! This ain’t a social club.”

Jackson set his jaw, sauntered into his chief’s office and closed the door. Stopping at the window, he eyed the crew that had suddenly congregated to watch and listen. He waved, offered a smile—which was rarely seen inside the precinct—then pulled the shade closed.

“So tell me everything. Sunni called this morning. She told me at no time was she in any danger. But frankly, I got the feeling she was covering your ass. Why would she do that, Ward?”

“I don’t know, Chief. She say anything else?”

“Not much.” Clide lowered his voice, and Jackson got the feeling that he didn’t want anyone out front to hear their conversation. “She told me she’s a diabetic. Told me she’d been avoiding telling her mother and me for some time. She said you have experience with that sort of thing.”

“My father was a diabetic,” Jackson offered.

“So give me your honest opinion, Ward. Is my daughter too sick to be on her own? At the moment it don’t sound like she’s got a man in her life that’ll take care of her.”

Jackson thought through his answer. “Your daughter is a smart woman, Chief. She’s aware of the health risks she faces, and she’s on top of them.”

“But?”

“But it would be better for her if she had someone to lean on.”

“She must have friends, Ward.”

“She does.”

“But I’m right, ain’t I? There’s no man in her life?”

Jackson didn’t hesitate with his answer, Clide was eyeing him too closely. “No, Chief, there’s no man.”

Clide leaned back in his chair and stroked the gray mustache skirting his upper lip. “Got a call from Hank Mallory. He wants you back in Chicago.”

Jackson was surprised, but he was careful not to show it.

“He’d like you to head up his Special Investigation Unit. It would get you off the street some. And get you an office. Does the job appeal to you, Ward?”

It appealed to him, all right. There were a dozen reasons why, and only a couple of them had to do with the job. Only he wasn’t going to mention any of them to Clide. Not right now, anyway. He said, “I think I can do that job.”

“Hell, yes, you can do that job. There isn’t any doubt in my mind that you’re
the man.
The best damn man for…” Clide flushed. “Ah … I’m prepared to make good on my promise, Ward. If you want to pack your bags and head back to Chicago, then I’ll get busy with the paperwork. I meant everything I said ten days ago. Rescue Sunni, and you can have whatever it is you want. Name it, and it’s yours.”

* * *

He came to the window late at night. He came to gaze across the alley. He came half-naked, wearing his jeans low on his marvelous hips and taunting her with the memories they had made in ten crazy, stressful, incredible days.

That’s right, two days ago Jack had moved back to Chicago. Sunni still couldn’t believe it. He’d moved back without telling her, and he’d moved back into the Wilchard.

She had called her father the minute she’d learned of it. And he’d gladly offered her the whole story. He told her that Jack had accepted a job from Hank Mallory, a promotion at the CPD.

She should be angry, and a small part of her was—he hadn’t bothered to call her or even come by to see her since he’d gotten back. But there was more going on inside her head and her heart, so much more.

Today she’d gone to see Jack’s mother, and after a long two-hour talk with Lavina Ward, she’d made a decision, a decision that had driven her into action minutes ago.

When the knock came, Sunni was waiting at the front door. Dressed in a red silk robe and a skimpy bra and thong to match, she swung the door open with a fixed false look of surprise on her face. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Oh, it’s you?” He blew into the apartment with his shirttails flying, his jeans low on his hips, and no socks in his shoes. “What the hell was that just now!”

He was talking about the fact that six minutes ago she’d flashed him—and old man Ferguson—from the terrace. She would never have done it at that precise moment if she’d known the ninety-year-old man had been stargazing out his window. But she hadn’t seen him standing there until he’d waved. And, anyway, it was all Jack’s fault. He’d driven her to desperate measures.