by Wendy Rosnau
The shot that rang out seconds later shattered the window above the sink. Still screaming, Sunni tried to reach the door but he caught her around the waist and dragged her to the floor. She went down kicking and swinging her arms, but she was no match for a madman who had been a cop for ten years.
Stud's fist punch sent Sunni clutching her stomach and gasping for air. The second rendered her unconscious.
* * *
While Jackson stood staring at the proof he needed to put Stud Williams in a cold, dark cell, his phone rang. He pulled the phone from his jacket pocket and flipped it open. "Ward here."
"Detective Ward?"
"That's me, who's this?"
"Fletcher. You know. Me and Guthrie are staking out the Mallory house. Only Miss Blais must have left the house, sir. She must've taken a ride somewhere."
"A ride?"
"Yeah, with Detective Williams. He's not here, either, like he said he'd be."
Jackson felt dizzy, as if his lungs had collapsed and no air was reaching his brain. Or maybe he'd just been knifed in the back. Either way, he couldn't breathe, could barely think. He heard himself say, "He took her … but you don't know where or when?"
"We went for coffee, sir. Detective Williams suggested it. He said he'd watch her until we got back. But when we got back—"
"Keep trying his cell phone. I'll give you the number." As he recited the digits, Jackson turned to look at Joe, who was back staring at the many pictures of Rhea Williams. "Let me know if you raise him."
He disconnected, then phoned Sunni at the house just to make sure Fletcher was on the level. When she didn't answer, he called her apartment. When the answering machine clicked on, he swore, jammed the phone into his pocket and said, "Stud just made his move. He's got Sunni. Let's go."
They took separate cars. Both men, breaking all the speed limits, arrived back at Tom Mallory's house twenty minutes later. As they pulled up Fletcher and Guthrie were in the front yard arguing.
Jackson jumped from the car. "Know anything more?" he hollered on his way to the house. When the two men continued to argue, he stopped, pulled his .38 out from inside his jacket and fired it into the air. When the shot rang out, both detectives hit the ground and went fumbling for their weapons. "I asked a question, you sons of bitches! Any news?"
"No … sir." Fletcher scrambled to his feet. Guthrie stayed down. "Oh, except the kitchen window's broken. Looks like a gunshot caused it. No blood inside, though."
After a quick check of the house, Jackson picked up the file that lay on the table and opened it. Along with the report on Elizabeth Carpenter was a short message from Stud. Meet me at Rhea's. You know the place.
As he was exiting the house, Fletcher was helping his aging partner to his feet and dusting him off. When Jackson strode past them, he offered a quick punch to Guthrie that put him back on his ass, and when Fletcher looked up in surprise, he got an elbow up his nose that nearly tore him a new nasal passage.
While they moaned and rolled around in the front yard, both nursing broken noses, Jackson joined Joey in the street. "He wants me to meet him at Rhea's place," he said, handing over the note.
Joey leaned against his Jag and studied the message. Finally he said, "He doesn't know we've been there. That could be an advantage. We know what he's been up to. We know he killed Tom, and why. But it's unclear why he wants you dead." He rubbed his jaw. "He doesn't mention Sunni—what do you make of that?"
"I don't know." Jackson's chest ached, as if someone had ripped out his heart. It was how he'd felt last night when he'd found Sunni in the storage room at Silks.
Why hadn't he taken her with him today? Why had he let her out of his sight?
"He wants you, not her. He's using her as bait. That's all she is. Right?"
"He killed Milo and Elizabeth Carpenter, and they were bait."
"We don't know that for sure."
"I know it!" Jackson lost it. "I know it, Joe!"
Joey reached out and grabbed Jackson around the neck. Nose to nose, he said, "He wants something else from you, do you hear? He could have flown to New Orleans, popped you and flew back out. He wants something more and he's not going to kill Sunni before he gets it. Capiche?"
When Joey released him, Jackson checked his watch. "It's almost seven. Sunni's diabetes makes this a race against time. She's off her schedule already."
"Her schedule?"
"Food, Joe. If Sunni doesn't eat regularly, she'll have another insulin reaction like she had last night." Jackson's cell phone rang. Keeping his voice steady, he said, "Yeah."
"You haven't e-mailed me today. What the hell's going on, Ward? You forget why I sent you back home? You're not on vacation, you know."
The last thing he needed was Clide grilling him right now. "I've been busy." Jackson peeked into his car window. Mac was still lethargic, still sleeping off the anesthetic from his surgery. "I can't talk right now, Chief."
"How's Sunni?"
He glanced at Joe who was pulling his own phone from his pocket. "She's holding on."
"Finally got sprung from the hospital. You need me to jump on a plane? You think it would help if I showed up at the CPD and threw my weight around? Speed things up?"
"No. Stay put. Gotta go."
He disconnected before Clide could mention Sunni again, his ear turned to the last of Joe's conversation.
"Get yourself over to Bliss Avenue and stake out 623. I want to know who goes in and comes out. The minute you know anything, call me back. And get in touch with Lucky and find out where the hell he is. We could use him about now."
"That house is too damn small to get inside without being heard," Jackson offered the minute Joey hung up. "And Mac's still doped up, he's not going to be worth a damn."
"Gates said give him ten minutes. He's not far from Bliss Avenue." Joey opened the car door and tossed the phone onto the leather seat, then popped opened the glove compartment. He reached inside and pulled out a sleek black 9 mm Beretta and slid it into his pocket. "I don't have four legs, and as many teeth, but I'm willing to back you." He patted his jacket pocket. "Whatever you need, mio fratello, I'm here for you."
Twelve minutes later Joey's cell phone rang. He reached into his car to retrieve it off the seat. "What do you see, Gates?"
"I got Detective Williams pulling into the garage at 623."
"He alone?"
"No."
"Can you see who's with him?"
"Police Chief Mallory."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure."
"No one else?"
"No one."
Jackson waited until the phone landed in the leather bucket seat, then asked, "Is she with him?"
"No. He's at the house. But Sunni's not with him. Hank Mallory is. What do you make of that?"
No Sunni… Jackson turned away, felt his world tilt.
"That doesn't mean she's dead, Jacky. He could have stashed her somewhere."
"Like he did Elizabeth Carpenter?" Jackson squeezed his eyes shut. It was like a damn nightmare. A nightmare that he wasn't going to wake up from.
"The only way we're going to know what the son of a bitch did with her is to go and confront him," Joey said. "So let's do it."
Jackson started back to the house. Over his shoulder he yelled, "I've got to get a couple of things. You take off. I'll be right behind you."
* * *
Sunni was bound and gagged, and she was cold. Shivering, she stared into the darkness and wondered where she was.
She was lying on her back in a small black box of some kind. Her hands were tied in front of her and so were her ankles.
She was bruised and sore from being used as a punching bag for Stud Williams's fist, but she was alive. But for how long?
Her confrontation with Williams in Tom Mallory's kitchen had completely thrown her. One minute he was a police detective doing his job, and the next minute he was aiming a gun at her, his eye glazed over like a madman's.
When she'd tossed
the water at him, she had only one objective—to get away. But she'd realized her mistake the minute she'd seen him double up his fist. She had tried to protect herself, but he was bigger and so much stronger. And his fists had been so angry, and so determined.
He'd split her lip and she could still taste the blood. Her stomach ached and her jaw throbbed. Her bruises wouldn't kill her, but the cold and her reaction to it would. It would steadily seep into her bones and numb her senses, and eventually her body would succumb to its own inherent weakness—her diabetes.
Your death will be painless. You'll just slip away.
She didn't want to die, but her fear was for more than just herself. Stud Williams was an evil man and he wasn't done killing. She could see it in his eyes, see it in the way he spoke Jack's name. Jack was in terrible danger.
Stud Williams had ripped her blouse off and taken her shoes. She didn't understand why that was, why he'd left her in just jeans and her bra. But the cold night air was definitely advancing her condition more rapidly—the black box felt like a freezer.
The cold made her sleepy and she knew if she closed her eyes she would just slip away as Williams said.
She'd begun to feel nauseous and a little confused—the warning signs were closing in on her like a well-planned ambush. She needed to fight the weakness, fight the urge to close her eyes.
She concentrated on Jack, pictured him in her mind—pictured his warm hands on her body and his hot breath on her neck, on her breasts. She imagined him inside her, hard and pulsing, setting her on fire—an internal fire that warmed her from the top of her head to the tips of her very cold toes.
No, she wouldn't surrender and let the cold take her. If she kept her eyes open and her thoughts on Jack loving her and stroking her with his warm hands and kissing her with his hot mouth, she would survive.
* * *
Chapter 14
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Jackson entered Rhea Williams's kitchen with his .38 in one hand and Lucky's lupara in the other. The house was dark, except for a dim light coming from the basement. As he neared the open door, he heard Stud say, "Come on down, partner. Join the party."
Before descending the stairs, he handed Joe the shotgun, then motioned for him to remain in the kitchen. Their plan was lean and straightforward. But with so little time, and only one way into the basement, the odds were definitely in Stud Williams's favor.
Jackson descended the stairs. On reaching the bottom step, he saw Hank Mallory on the floor in a corner. He'd been shot—a shoulder wound that was bleeding heavy but wouldn't kill him.
His eyes locked with Jackson's in a silent plea to avenge Tom, but that would have to wait. It was Sunni who concerned him at the moment, and he prayed Joe was right. He prayed that Stud felt he still needed her, and she was alive.
He eased off the last step and focused on Stud where he sat behind a small metal work desk with a .38 in his hand. He sat close to the wall, which protected his back and, at the same time, offered him a perfect view of Rhea's pictures and the madness that surrounded her.
"So what do you think? Did you ever imagine that your old partner was capable of such an outstanding job of detective work?"
Playing dumb, Jackson glanced around as if it was the first time he'd seen the walls. "What's all this about, Stud?"
"It's about justice, Jackson. A man's wife is his most prized possession. Three years ago Rhea was taken from me. It was a crime against me and God. Tommy-boy was a fool flaunting his lust for my wife, and he paid for it quick and easy. But you … you were more clever. The evidence wasn't there, not until a month ago, that is." He shrugged. "'Course, justice always prevails, isn't that right … partner?"
Jackson glanced at Tom's funeral picture. "So you killed Tom because he was seeing Rhea?"
"He slept with my wife. He made the choice to live or die."
"She divorced you, Stud."
"That was a mistake. A mistake we were working out. But then you came along and confused her."
"You're wrong, Stud. You're wrong about all of this."
"No. I have proof." Stud gestured to the silver chain and cross on the desk. "I found that behind Rhea's dresser a month ago. I knew there was someone else lusting after my wife, someone besides Tommy boy. When I'd come to see her, I could smell cigarette smoke. Tommy-boy didn't smoke. Rhea didn't, either. I knew you were a smoker. I guess I just never thought you were her type.
"I wanted to kill you quick when I first found the evidence. I'd been trying to find out who the second man was for years. The man responsible for taking my wife away from me. Then I realized that 'quick' wasn't the answer. I wanted to show you what a good piece of detective work I'd done. You know how hard it is to stick with a tough case, Jackson. Especially when you keep hitting dead ends."
"Stud, you're wrong."
He pointed to the cross. "That's your chain. I remember seeing it around your neck. You convinced Rhea to leave me and go to New Orleans, didn't you? And what happened after that? Did you throw her away after you were finished with her?"
"You're crazy, Stud. Rhea never came to New Orleans."
"A crime was committed here and I'm honor-bound to extract justice. Now, ease that Diamondback of yours to the floor, partner, then shove it away. Go on, or I'll kill Mallory."
Jackson did as he was told. He squatted and sent the gun across the room. It split the distance between him and Stud—some twenty feet. As he eased back up, he said, "Where's Sunni?"
"Miss Blais is somewhere cold and dark, and all alone." Stud patted a shoe box on the table. "But there's still time. She could be rescued. Only I won't save her unless you tell me where Rhea is. Where has my wife been living for three years?"
Someplace cold and dark, and all alone. Jackson couldn't help but think about Elizabeth Carpenter and how she'd been found in a cold, dark place. He stared at the box and prayed that Sunni was still alive. Prayed for a miracle.
"Does Clide Blais know you've been sleeping on the job, Jackson? Sleeping with his daughter?" He grinned. "That's right. I broke into your apartment at the Wilchard and watched from across the alley. She really is a lovely woman. And generous, too."
Jackson felt another knife twist into his gut. "You're a dead man, Stud."
He shook his head, his grin gone. "No, you're dead, and Miss Blais will be, too, if you don't tell me where Rhea's hiding. Where's my wife living, Jackson?"
"I don't…" Jackson paused. "First I see Sunni and make sure she's alive. Then we'll deal."
"Cops don't deal with criminals, Jackson, you know that. Especially when I'm the one holding all the cards."
Suddenly Stud shoved back his chair and aimed his .38 at Hank Mallory's head where he sat on the floor. "You got two seconds to tell me where Rhea is or this good old boy is dead. Stall much longer and Miss Blais will be, too. I figure she's got maybe an hour left at the most."
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 stee
l 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."