by Wendy Rosnau
"So where's your partner now?"
"Spending the night at the vet's."
"The vet's?"
"He's having gum surgery. Decided to eat a door."
"A door? Are you serious?"
"It's a fact."
His mother finished pouring the water into the coffeemaker, then turned around and stared at him from across the counter. "Okay, let's hear it. You don't do stupid things, Jackson. So what's this all about? Is something wrong with Joe or Lucky?"
He shook his head. "No. She's got diabetes, Ma." He hadn't meant to blurt it out like that. He'd come to talk about it, but he'd planned on easing into it.
"Who has diabetes, Jackson?"
"Sunni Blais." He made a swipe through his hair, feeling sick all over again. He wished he had a cigarette. He'd definitely quit smoking too damn soon.
"Why don't you explain?"
"That's what I'm doing, Ma."
"Back up and give me a little more information, son."
His mother's voice had softened. He nodded. "Okay, from the beginning." By the time he had finished bringing his mother up to date on the case, she'd poured coffee twice into their cups.
"That poor girl. An insulin reaction, at the same time she was being attacked by some crazy killer. To survive all that she must be tougher than she looks."
Jackson raised both eyebrows and scowled. "A week ago you were calling her dangerous, Ma. Now she's a tough girl?"
"Maybe I spoke too hastily. She sounds like she's someone I'd like to get to know. A lot of the diabetics I visit at the medical center are bitter. Some take my words of encouragement, but so many don't and believe they're either being punished, or that they'll never live a normal life. Sunni sounds like she's determined to rise above her illness."
His mother still belonged to a support group for diabetics and their families. Jackson thought she should give it up, but she had told him that her experience was meant to be shared, and if she could help just one person by offering support, then it was worth it.
"Jackson, if you got drunk over this, what does that mean, exactly?"
He stood and began to pace while his mother watched him wear out her rugs. "It means I would have appreciated a little honesty from her. I'm out busting my ass to keep her safe and she… I can't do my job if I don't know the bottom line."
"So it's doing your job that's got you angry?"
"Hell, yes, it's the job. Keeping her alive is why I'm here, Ma."
"What does her father say? I'm surprised he didn't give you all of the facts before he sent you here. Did he tell you why he didn't share that information with you?"
Jackson snorted, then stopped pacing. "Because he doesn't know. She's been keeping her little secret from everyone. Even her folks."
"Oh, dear. When did you say she was diagnosed?"
"Two years ago."
"Something must have happened."
"What do you mean?"
Lavina sipped her coffee. "Usually if they hide their condition it could mean that they're not able to accept the illness themselves, or someone else hasn't been supportive. Acceptance can be just as hard for family and friends as it often is for the diabetic. You know that. You had an awful time at first. Blaming your father for being sick all the time."
"Ma, just lay it right out there."
"You were young. You didn't understand."
You don't understand.
You have a disease. A disease that'll most likely kill you. Sooner than you think.
He caught his mother studying him as if she were going to pickle him and was deciding which end to start with. "Okay, let's hear it. Why are you swimming in guilt? What did you say to that poor girl to make her feel worse and you run for the bar?"
His mother's words knotted Jackson's gut. "She should have told me."
His mother's brows pleated. "So you told her off, then went out drinking." It wasn't a question.
"I went out drinking because I felt like it, Ma."
"You went out drinking 'cause you feel guilty over something and you're angry. Angry at yourself."
His mother knew him too well. "She should have told me, dammit! Before I—"
"Before you what? You've known this woman a little over a week. Are you… Have you… Oh, dear."
He walked to the window and stared out at the stars.
"You care about her, then? That's what this is about?"
Jackson didn't answer.
"You care, but you don't want to care. Especially now that she's going to require a little more work."
"Dammit, Ma, sink the knife in a little deeper."
"If you had no clue she was a diabetic, then she can't be all that sick. She owns a business. That requires a healthy mind and a body to go along with it. We're both in agreement that she's beautiful and intelligent. There are different types of diabetes, Jackson. Did you talk to her doctor?"
"She's IDDM."
"Okay, so she uses insulin. Thousands of people do. Correction, the smart people do. That's good news. That means she's taking care of herself."
"Complications can crop up overnight, Ma. Dad—"
"Harold had major problems, Jackson. The day we met and fell in love, I knew our life together would be short. Actually, your father outlived the doctor's time line."
Jackson stared at the clubhouse, with its weathered slat board and chipped white paint. The clubhouse had been his escape as a boy, Joe and Lucky his salvation. His mother was right; as a kid he'd been bitter about his father being sick all the time. But then things had changed. His father had won him over with his steadfast faith and gentle heart. They had loved hard and fast in those last few years and not one minute of life had been wasted on anger or regret.
"Jackson, you can't run from your feelings."
"That's what Joe said."
"You've talked to Joey about this?"
"Yeah."
"Good."
"She's a diabetic, Ma." Jackson faced his mother. "I feel helpless."
Lavina set her jaw. "What makes you think you're above dealing with a little bad along with the good? Why should the person you care about be required to be in perfect health as well as beautiful?"
"I never said she had to be perfect."
"Good, because you're far from it. But healthy, right? You want to care about Sunni, but only if she's in perfect health?"
Jackson had thought if anyone would understand it would be his mother.
"I can read your thoughts. The only regret I have is that Harold is gone. But I never regretted one day of loving him. The good outweighed the bad. You may find that hard to believe, but every day I reached out and touched his face while he slept, felt his breath on my hand, I thanked God that he had given Harold Ward one more day. The truth is, I believe he put Harold in my life, just like he put Sunni in yours. Life isn't based on coincidence, Jackson. Now," Lavina pointed to the chair across from her, "sit and tell me what you said to Sunni in the hospital. The very first thing."
Jackson ambled forward and sat. "I don't remember."
"I imagine you asked her why she lied to you."
"I guess."
"It always makes things easier if you put the blame on others. But it's your problem if you can't deal with her illness, Jackson, not hers for having it."
"Whose side are you on, Ma?"
"Yours. But when you're wrong, I'm not going to pat your head and tell you, good boy. I didn't coddle you as a child and I won't do it now that you're grown."
"I'm whining without cause. Is that it?"
"No, you have cause. And whining has its place. It cleans out the cobwebs clouding the brain so you can think clearly and admit the real reason why you had one too many beers tonight."
"And why was that, Ma?"
"Out of fear. You're afraid to love and lose. But think of this. You're a homicide detective, Jackson. You probably have a greater chance of getting yourself killed than Sunni does dying of diabetes."
Before Jackson could commen
t, his cell phone rang. He pulled it from his jacket pocket and flipped it open. "Ward here."
"It's done. I got everything you asked for. It's waiting for you at the location you specified. And those eyes and ears you were expecting just pulled up out front. I'll stay here until you show. When do you think that'll be?"
"I'll be there in twenty minutes." Jackson stood and jammed the phone back into his pocket. "I've got to go, Ma."
"Jackson, does she know how you feel? Does she know you love her?"
"I never said I loved her."
Lavina sighed, shook her head, then rose and went to the cupboard. She retrieved a bottle of pain relievers, rolled two into her hand, then tracked back to the table. "Here. Take these and chase them down with the rest of your coffee. Drive with the window down. It'll blow the stink off you and clear the rest of the cobwebs still clouding your brain. Hopefully, by the time you get to where you're going, you'll be thinking straight."
* * *
Chapter 12
« ^ »
Lucky was waiting on the back porch of Tom Mallory's house nursing a bottle of Scotch, when Jackson walked up the sidewalk. He was glad he'd taken his mother's advice and driven with the window down on the way over—he was thinking more clearly than he had been a half hour ago.
"Right on time," Lucky said, then tipped up the expensive bottle of Macallan.
"You get everything I asked for?"
"It's all here. Everything."
Jackson glanced at the door. "Joe inside?"
"He was. Frank summoned him. And you know what that means. Subito. Presto … presto."
Yes, Jackson knew what that meant. When Frank snapped his fingers he expected his boys to jump. "You go see Crammer Ferguson?"
"I did. Gave him the extra hundred like you said and sent a message to Hugh Egan to get his plumbing crew over there pronto. Water will be running by tomorrow."
"Threaten Egan's life if he didn't jump, or did you give him a visual?"
Lucky grinned. "Funny thing about rumors, Jacky. They always make out the bad guy to be meaner and more heartless than he really is. And likewise, the cop out to be a saint. But you and I know there's good and bad on both sides." He shrugged. "But, what the hell, sometimes the rumors can be a blessing. My reputation has been carrying me further than my fists these days. Damn good thing, too. Some days I move pretty slow."
"Get rid of the bottle, bro. You'll heal quicker."
"You sound like Joey. Yeah, I've been thinking about it." Lucky shoved to his feet, then hitched his free hand in his back pocket. "We'll talk when I get back."
"Get back?"
"I'm taking a quick trip. I know the timing stinks, but this can't wait. We're square, right? You got what you need from me?"
"If you brought me everything on the list, I got what I need."
Lucky grinned. "Saw to it personally."
"No one saw you? You're sure?"
"No one." Lucky came off the porch a step at a time, moving slow, verifying his admission that he wasn't a hundred percent healthy. Once he walked past Jackson, he took one step off the sidewalk and poured the last third of the Scotch into the grass. "See you when I get back, Jacky." He started down the sidewalk, the neck of the empty bottle clasped in his scarred hand. Suddenly he stopped and looked over his shoulder. "I put a few of my men on notice that you might call. Left their names with Joey. Need some muscle at your back, use 'em. Don't want to get a call from Vina that you got yourself killed. I left you a present in the broom closet. Later, mio fratello."
"Later, bro."
Jackson climbed the steps and entered the kitchen. Glancing around, he noticed the bags of groceries Lucky had brought. He put them away, then brewed a pot of coffee. Suddenly he remembered the broom closet, and he opened it to find Lucky's lupara standing in the corner. The deadly Sicilian shotgun was outfitted with a leather holster that was studded with ammo.
Grinning, he closed the door, then checked his watch. It was late—well after midnight. He headed for the stairs that led to the second story, not bothering to turn on any lights—he knew Tom's house as well as he knew his own apartment back in New Orleans. He also knew where to find the light inside the bedroom at the top of the stairs. But the light was already on when he reached the room, the door open by half. He shoved it wider, then stepped inside.
He had thought she would be asleep by now. The plan had been to check on her and leave. Only Sunni was wide awake, wearing black pants and a lavender silk blouse, sitting in a small rocker near the window. Her hair was loose and soft around her face, her eyes alert.
"You should be in bed by now," he told her. "Officially you're not supposed to be out of the hospital until tomorrow, remember?"
"You could have told me I was going to be kidnapped. My heart almost stopped before I realized it was Lucky who had slipped into my room. I don't know how he got past the guards, but—"
"I didn't ask. It's best that way. Knowing how when it comes to Lucky can only bring on a powerful headache or turn your stomach inside out. But he never fails to get the job done. That's why he's always the go-to guy."
"You should have told me what to expect."
Jackson shrugged. "I didn't come up with the idea to spring you until after I left the hospital. The fewer people who know where you are, the better. I don't trust anyone at this point."
"No one except Joey and Lucky Masado."
"That's right. As hard as it is for most people to believe, they're good guys. They just don't wear white hats."
"Lucky told me you grew up sharing the same neighborhood."
Jackson nodded. "We grew up sharing the same everything. They're the brothers I never had, and Vina and me are the family they couldn't buy no matter how rich their daddy was. Did Lucky bring you what you'll need to be comfortable for a few days?"
"You mean did he pack my insulin? Yes."
"Good." Jackson sent his eyes around the room, then curiosity had him open the closet. Inside he found a black silk robe, a few colorful silk blouses, a skirt and two pairs of jeans. He'd never seen her in jeans, but the idea of her small backside outlined in denim sent a surge of heat into his groin.
"I called your father." He heard her swear, and he closed the door and turned. "No, I didn't share your secret with him, or that you were attacked tonight. But I did tell him that I was moving you out of your apartment for a few days. I also told him about Elizabeth Carpenter."
"You're sure you didn't mention I was a diabetic?"
"No."
She stood, and her sure movements confirmed what the doctor had told him—Sunni hadn't been injured by her attacker. Still, he needed to make sure. "You feeling okay?"
"I feel fine."
She certainly looked fine. Better than fine, really. That's why he hadn't considered she might be ill. He would never have guessed.
He headed for the hall. "Lucky stocked the kitchen cupboards, and the bathroom. You should have everything you need."
"Whose place is this?"
Jackson stopped in the doorway. "It's Tom Mallory's house. A cop I partnered a few years ago."
"Is he away on vacation?"
"No. He's dead."
"Oh."
"He was shot and killed off duty."
"Did it happen three years ago?"
"Yes."
She stood and walked to the closet. A moment later the black silk robe was tossed to the bed. His gaze fell on the silk, then tracked back to Sunni. She turned around and was sizing him up in much the same way he had been doing to her since he'd stepped inside the bedroom. "I thought you were leaving."
"I was. I am… Listen, at the hospital I was—"
"Forget it, Jack. You think it, you say it. That's what I like about you. No bull."
Jackson winced inwardly. "I was—"
"Being honest. You really did say it best. Diabetes is a disease and someday I'll die from it. That's the bottom line."
How could he have said that to her? What kind of a monst
er was he? "Sis, that's not really true, you know. The medical field has made some remarkable advancements in—"
"Cold hard facts, Jack. That's what I'm interested in. Actually, I have you to thank for bringing me back to earth. Things are much clearer now, and that's good."
He needed to apologize, needed to explain to her why he'd taken the coward's way out earlier and lashed out at her. His mother was right—out of his own fear, he'd attacked the one person he would cut his arm off to keep safe and make happy. "Sunni, I want to—"
"It's late, Jack, and I'm tired."
He nodded, watched her turn her back. A moment later her silk blouse slid off her shoulders. He stared at her smooth, flawless back, her delicate spine and narrow waist. There were no visible signs that she wore a bra. He let out the dammed-up air inside his chest and said, "I want you to call Mary tomorrow and tell her you'll be off work for a couple of days. Joe agreed to keep an eye on Silks for you. Hank Mallory's offered round-the-clock protection out front on the street. No one gets in or out of the house who isn't on the list I gave him. I'll be on the couch if you need something. The bathroom is—"
She turned around clutching her blouse to the twins, pushing them up so that the creamy swell teased his eyes and sent another voltaic charge of heat into his groin. "I know where everything is. Lucky gave me a tour. Good night, Jack."
* * *
Sunni opened the fridge and stared at two gallons of orange juice. She had woken up hungry minutes ago and it had driven her downstairs. It was the middle of the night, but hungry was hungry.
She'd slipped out of bed and crept down the stairs as quietly as a gnat. The living room was off to the left and she'd entered the kitchen without disturbing Jackson's sleep.
She took one of the gallons of orange juice from the fridge, and by the small light on the stove, poured a glassful, then returned the gallon to the fridge. Sipping the juice, she raided the cupboard and munched a handful of peanuts. She had just set the juice glass in the sink when she sensed she wasn't alone.
She turned slowly to find Jackson leaning against the doorjamb. He had definitely been sleeping—his hair was tousled, his chest and feet were bare. His jeans were riding low on his hips and his zipper was half hitched.