feed free agents. I already told you, I don’t own no cat.” His point made, Crammer asked, “So, what happened after the burglar bit your dog?”
“Mac bit him back. The guy’s missing his left ear. With two counts of burglary, and an aggravated assault charge as a prior, he sued the department.”
“Bet the son of a bitch won, too.”
“He did.”
“Hell, them fool judges got no better sense than the crooked lawyers and lazy plumbers.” With that, Crammer went back to studying Mac.
It was something that happened often—Mac drawing stares. One night, with time on his hands, Jackson had counted forty-three scars while the K-9 slept sprawled across his bed.
“He ain’t ugly mean like he looks, is he?”
“Only when it’s called for.”
“Well behaved otherwise?”
“Damn near perfect.” Jackson recited the lie stone sober. He wasn’t going to mention Mac’s flaws. Everybody had flaws, he silently mused, but Mac’s chronic problems of late had been the reason why he’d been put on the top of the List.
Jackson hadn’t even known the List existed, or what it meant, until after he’d accepted Mac as his partner. But within two days he had decided that a K-9 partner, with problems, wasn’t for him. The next day he’d driven back to the pound, only to learn that dogs no longer of value to the department were destroyed—and since Mac topped the List, the only thing that stood between him and a lethal injection was Jackson.
He’d walked out of the pound minutes later and climbed back into the cruiser. He’d sat a minute, eyeing the new hole Mac had chewed in the seat while he’d been gone all of ten minutes, then he’d driven back to his apartment with his new partner.
“Your mama said you moved south. New Orleans, was it?”
“That’s right. About the apartment?”
“Apartment 410 don’t got no runnin’ water at the moment. Got a nice two-bedroom on the second floor. You each could have a bed. Or is your dog a snuggler?”
Jackson ignored the mischief in the old man’s aging eyes. “The fire escape running by the window up there would sure come in handy when Mac needs to take a leak.” It wasn’t an actual lie, though it wasn’t the real reason he fancied that particular apartment.
“That might be so, but it ain’t gonna accommodate your own nature call lessin’ you plan on goin’ out the fire escape with your dog.”
“I’ll take a look at the problem and see what I can do.”
“You know 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
