Chapter 2
For the next two days there was an uneasy truce. Perhaps it lasted that long because Jessica made a point of staying out of Slade's way. He in turn stayed out of hers while patiently noting her routine—
which, he discovered, was no routine at all. She simply never stopped. She didn't take time for the social rigamarole he had expected—luncheons, clubs, committees—but worked, apparently inexhaustibly. Most of her time was spent at the shop. At the rate he was going, he knew he would find out little in the house. His next move was the House of Winslow. It followed that he needed to make peace with Jessica to get there.
From his bedroom window, he watched her drive away. It was barely eight o'clock, a full hour before she normally left. Slade swore in frustration. How did the commissioner expect him to watch her—or protect her if that's what she needed—if she was always in one place while he was in another? It was time to improvise an excuse to pay her a visit at her place of business.
Grabbing a jacket on the way, Slade headed for the stairs. He could always claim that he wanted to do a bit of research on antique furniture for his novel. That would buy him a few hours, as well as give him a reason to poke around. Before he'd rounded the last curve in the steps he heard Betsy's voice.
"…nothing but trouble."
"Don't fuss."
Slade stopped, waiting as the footsteps came his way. There was a tall, gangly man walking down the hall. His mop of dark blond hair was long and straight, cut rather haphazardly just below the collar of a chambray workshirt. He wore jeans and wire-rim glasses and stood hunched over a bit—either from habit or fatigue. Because he was staring down at his sneakers, he didn't see Slade. His face was pale and the eyes behind the lenses were shadowed. David Ryce, Slade concluded, and kept silent.
"I told you she said you weren't to come in today." Betsy bustled after him, a feather duster gripped in her hand.
"I'm fine. If I lie around in bed another day, I'm going to mold." He coughed violently.
"Fine, fine indeed." Betsy clucked her tongue, swinging the duster at his back.
"Mom, lay off." Exasperated, David started to turn back to her when he spotted Slade. He frowned, choking back another cough. "Oh, you must be the writer."
"That's right." Slade came down the last two steps. Just a boy, he thought, taking David's measure quickly. Who hasn't completely thrown off the youthful defiance.
"Jessie and I figured you'd be a short, stooped little guy with glasses. I don't know why." He grinned, but Slade noted that he placed a hand on the newel post for support. "Getting anywhere with the library?"
"Slowly."
"Better you than me," David murmured, wishing for a chair. "Has Jessica come down yet?"
"She's already gone," Slade told him.
"There, you see." Betsy folded her arms over her chest. "And if you go in, she'll just send you right back home. Thunder at you too."
Because his legs threatened to buckle, David gripped the newel post harder. "She's going to need help with the new shipment. Another's due in today."
"Lotta good you'd do," Betsy began. Catching the look in David's eye, Slade cut in.
"I was thinking about running down there myself. I'd like to see the place, maybe do a little research. I could give her a hand." He watched David struggle, caught between his desire to go to the shop and his need to lie down.
"She'll try to move everything herself," he muttered.
"That's the truth," Betsy agreed, apparently switching her annoyance from her son to her employer.
"Nothing stops that one."
"It's my job to move in the new stock, check it off. I don't—"
"Moving furniture around shouldn't require any great knowledge of antiques," Slade put in casually.
Knowing it was too perfect to let pass, he slipped into his jacket. "And since I was heading that way anyway…"
"There, it's settled," Betsy announced. She had her son by the elbow before he could protest. "Mr.
Sladerman will go look out for Miss Jessica. You go back to bed."
"I'm not going back to bed. A chair, all I want's a chair." He sent Slade a weak smile. "Hey, thanks. Tell Jessie I'm coming back on Monday. The paperwork oh the new stock can wait over the weekend. Tell her to humor the invalid and leave it for me."
Slade nodded slowly. "Sure, I'll tell her." Turning, he started out, deciding that the new stock interested him very much.
Fifteen minutes later Slade parked in the small graveled lot beside Jessica's shop. It was a small, framed building, fronted with several narrow windows. The shades were up. Through the glass, he could see her tugging on a large and obviously heavy piece of furniture. Cursing women in general, he walked to the front door and pulled it open.
At the jingle of bells she spun around. That anyone would be by the shop at that hour surprised her—
that Slade stood inside the door frowning at her surprised Jessica more. "Well…" The physical exertion had winded her so that she struggled to even her breathing. "I didn't expect to see you here."
She didn't add that she wasn't particularly pleased either.
She'd stripped off her jacket and pushed up the sleeves of her cashmere sweater. Beneath it, small high breasts rose and fell agitatedly. Slade remembered their softness against the back of his hand very clearly. He forgot he'd come to make peace with her.
"Don't you have more sense than to push this stuff around yourself?" he demanded. With a quick oath, he pulled off his jacket and tossed it over a chair. Jessica stiffened her back as well as her tone.
"Well, good morning to you too."
Her annoyance rolled off of him. After crossing to her, Slade leaned against the large piece she'd been struggling with. "Where do you want it?" he asked shortly. "And I hope to God you're not one of those women who changes her mind a half dozen times."
He watched her eyes narrow and darken as they had that night in the parlor. Oddly, he found her only more attractive when she was agitated. If it hadn't been for that, the way her chin jutted out might have amused him. "I don't believe anyone asked for your assistance." For the first time he was treated to the ice in her tone. "I'm capable of arranging my stock myself."
"Don't be any more stupid than necessary," he shot back. "You're just going to hurt yourself. Now where do you want this thing?"
"This thing," she began heatedly, "is a nineteenth-century French secretaire."
He gave it a negligent glance. "Yeah, so? Where do you want me to put it?"
"I'll tell you where you can put it—"
His laughter cut her off. It was very male and full of fun. It wasn't a sound she had expected from him.
With an effort, she swallowed a chuckle of her own as she stepped back from him. The last thing she wanted was to find anything appealing about James Sladerman. "Over there," she said coolly, pointing. Turning away, Jessica picked up a washstand to carry it in the opposite direction. When the sounds of wood sliding over wood had stopped, she turned back to him.
"Thank you." The gratitude was short and cold. "Now, what can I do for you?"
He treated himself to a lengthy look at her. She stood very straight, her hands folded loosely, her eyes still dangerous. Two mother-of-pearl combs swept her hair back from her face. He allowed his gaze to sweep down briefly. She was very slender, with a hand-spanable waist and barely any hips. The trim flannel skirt hid most of her legs, but Slade could appreciate what was visible from the knees down.
Her feet were very small. One of them tapped the floor impatiently.
"I've thought about that from time to time," he commented as his eyes roamed back to hers. "But I came by to see what I could do for you. Ryce was worried that you might do just what you were trying to do a few minutes ago."
"You've seen David?" Her cool impatience evaporated. Swiftly, Jessica crossed the room to take Slade's arm. "Was he up? How is he?"
Suddenly he wanted to touch her—her hair, her face. She'd be soft. He felt an almost desperate need for something soft and yielding. Her eyes were on his, wide with concern. "He was up," he said briefly.
"And not as well as he wanted to be."
"He shouldn't have been out of bed."
"No, probably not." Did her hair carry that scent? he wondered. That autumn-woods fragrance that was driving him mad? "He wanted to come in this morning."
"Come in?" Jessica pounced on the two words. "I gave specific orders for him to stay home. Why can't he do as he's told?"
Slade's eyes were suddenly keen on her face. "Does everyone do what you tell them?"
"He's my employee," she retorted, dropping her hand from his arm. "He damn well better do what I tell him." As quickly as she had flared up, her mood shifted and she smiled. "He's hardly more than a boy really, and Betsy nags at him. It's just her way. Though I appreciate his dedication to the business, he's got to get well." Her eyes drifted to the phone on the counter. "If I call, he'll just get defensive."
"He said he wouldn't come in until Monday." Slade leaned against the secretaire. "He wanted you to leave the paperwork on the new shipments for him."
Jessica stuck her hands in her pockets, obviously still toying with the idea of phoning to lecture David.
"Yes, all right. If he's going to come in on Monday, at least he'll be sitting down. I'll get the new stock situated in the meantime so he's not tempted." She smiled again. "He's nearly as obsessed with this place as I am. If I so much as move a candlestick, David knows it. Before he got sick, he was trying to talk me into a vacation." She laughed, tossing her head so that her hair swung behind her. "He just wanted the place to himself for a week or two."
"A very dedicated assistant," Slade murmured.
"Oh, David's that," Jessica agreed. "What are you doing here, Slade? I thought you'd be buried in books."
Half glad, half wary that the reserve of the last few days had vanished, he gave her a cautious smile. "I told David I'd give you a hand."
"That was very nice." The surprise in her voice had his smile widening.
"I can be nice occasionally," he returned. "Besides, I thought I might be able to get some information on antiques. Research."
"Oh." She accepted this with a nod. "All right. I wouldn't mind having some help with the heavier things. What period were you interested in?"
"Period?"
"Furniture," Jessica explained as she walked to a long, low chest. "Is there a particular century or style? Renaissance, Early American, Italian Provincial?"
"Just a general sort of lesson today to give me the feel of it," Slade improvised as he nudged Jessica away from the chest. "Where do you want this?"
He lifted and carried. Jessica arranged the lighter pieces while keeping up a running dialog on the furniture they moved. This chair was Chippendale—see the square, tapered seat and cabriole leg. This cabinet was French Baroque—in satinwood, gilded and carved. She ran over a little table with a polishing cloth, explaining about Chinese influences and tea services.
During the morning they were interrupted half a dozen times by customers. Jessica turned from antique lover to salesperson. Slade watched her show pieces, explain their background, then dicker over prices. If he hadn't been sure before, he was certain now. Her shop was no toy to her. She not only knew how to manage it, but worked harder than he'd given her credit for. Not only did she handle people with a deft skill he was forced to admire, but she made money—if the discreet price tags he'd come across were any indication.
So why, he wondered, if she was dedicated to her shop, if she turned a profit, would she risk using her business for smuggling? Now that he'd met her and spent some time with her, it wasn't as easy for Slade to dismiss it as kicks or thrills. Yet she wasn't lacking in brains. Was it plausible that an operation was going on under her nose without her knowledge?
"Slade, I hate to ask." Jessica kept her voice lowered as she came close to his side. Touching came naturally to her, it seemed, for her hand was already on his arm. Irresponsible or not, he discovered that he wanted her. Turning, he trapped her effectively between the chest and himself. Her hand remained on his arm, just below the elbow. Though they touched in no other way, he suddenly had a very clear sensation of how her body would feel pressed against his. His eyes brushed over her mouth, then came to hers.
"Ask what?"
Her mind went blank. Some sound filled her head, like an echo of surf pounding on the shore. She could have stepped back an inch and broken the contact—stepped forward an inch to consummate it.
Jessica did neither. Dimly, she was aware of a pressure in her chest, as though someone were pressing hard against it to cut off her air. In that instant they both knew he had only to touch her for everything to change.
"Slade," she murmured. Half question, half invitation.
He snapped back, retreating from the edge, from an involvement he couldn't afford. "Did you want me to move something else?" His voice was cool as he stepped away from her.
Shaken, Jessica backed toward the chest. She needed distance. "Mrs. MacKenzie wants to take the chifforobe with her. She's gone out to pull her car to the front. Would you mind putting it in the back of her station wagon?"
"All right."
She indicated the piece with a silent gesture, not moving until he was out the front door with it. Alone, Jessica allowed herself a long, uneasy breath. That was not a man a woman should lose control with, she warned herself. He wouldn't be gentle, or particularly kind. She placed the flat of her palm on her chest as if to relieve the pressure that lingered there. Don't overreact the next time, she advised herself.
It's the way he looks at me, Jessica decided, as if he could see what I'm thinking. She ran an unsteady hand through her hair. I don't even know what I'm thinking when he looks at me, so how could he?
And yet… and yet her pulse was still racing.
When the door jingled open again, she hadn't budged from her spot in front of the chest of drawers.
"I'm starved," she improvised swiftly, then started to move. As Slade watched she hurried from window to window, lowering shades. She hung a sign on the door and then locked it. "You must be too," she said when he remained silent. "It's after one, and I've had you dragging furniture around all morning. How about a sandwich and some tea?"
Slade managed to smile and sneer at the same time. "Tea?"
Her laughter eased her own tension. "No, I suppose not. Well, David keeps some beer." She hustled to the back of the shop and pulled open the door of a small refrigerator. She crouched, then rummaged.
"Here. I knew I'd seen some." Straightening, Jessica turned and collided with his chest. He took her arms briefly in reflex, then as quickly dropped them. Heart hammering, she stepped away. "Sorry, I didn't know you were behind me. Will this do?" Safely at arm's length, she offered the bottle.
"Fine." His expression was bland as he took it and sat at the table. The tension had settled at the base of his neck. He'd have to be careful not to touch her again. Or to give in to the urge to taste that subtly passionate mouth of hers. Once he did, he'd never stop there. Desire tightened, a hard ball in the pit of his stomach. Almost violently, Slade twisted the cap from the beer.
"I'll fix some sandwiches." Jessica became very busy in the refrigerator. "Roast beef all right?"
"Yeah, that's fine."
What goes on in his mind? she wondered as she kept her hands busy. It's just not possible to tell what he's thinking. She sliced neatly through bread and meat, prudently keeping her back to him. Looking down at her own hands, she thought of Slade's. He had such long, lean fingers. Strong. She'd liked the look of them. Now, she caught herself wondering how they would feel on her body. Competent, experienced, demanding. The flare of desire was quick, but not unexpected this time. Fighting it, she sliced the second sandwich a bit savagely.
He watched the sunlight stream through the window onto her hair. It fell softly on the varied hues of blue in her sweater. He liked the way the material clung to her, enhancing the straight, slender back and narrow waist. But he noted too the tension in her shoulders. He wasn't going to get very far if they were both preoccupied with an attraction neither wanted. He had to make her relax and talk. Slade knew one certain way of accomplishing that.
"You've got quite a place here, Jessica."
He wasn't aware that it was the first time he'd said her name, but she was. That pleased her as much as the careful compliment.
"Thank you." Belatedly she remembered to turn the burner on under the kettle as she brought his sandwich to the table. "People have finally stopped calling it Jessica's Little Hobby."
"Is that what it started out to be?"
"Not to me." She stretched on tiptoe to reach a cup. Slade watched the hem of her skirt sneak up. "But to a lot of people it was just Justice Winslow's daughter having a fling at business. Did you want a glass for that?"
"No." Slade brought the bottle to his lips and drank. "Why antiques?"
"It was something I knew… something I loved. It's sensible to make a career out of something you know and appreciate, don't you think?"
He thought of the standard police-issue revolver hidden in his bedroom. "When it's possible. How'd you get started?"
"I was lucky enough to have the funds to back me up the first year while I gathered stock and renovated this place." The kettle shrilled, then sputtered when she switched off the heat. "Even with that, it was hard enough. Setting up books, getting licenses, learning about taxes." She wrinkled her nose as she brought her plate and cup to the table. "But that's a necessary part of the whole. With that, the traveling, and the selling, the first couple of years were killers." She bit into her sandwich. "I loved it."
She would have, he mused. He could sense the pent-up energy even as she sat there calmly drinking tea. "David Ryce work for you long?"
"About a year and a half. He was at that undecided point of his life I suppose we all go through when we've finished being teenagers but haven't quite grasped adulthood." She smiled across the table at Slade. "Do you know what I mean?"
"More or less."
"You probably less than most," she commented easily. "As it turned out, he resented the offer of a job and the fact that he needed one. David and I grew up together. There's nothing harder on the ego than having big sister give you a break." She sighed a bit, remembering his moodiness, his grudging acceptance, his initial lack of interest. "Anyway, within six months he stopped being resentful and became indispensable. He's very quick, particularly with figures. David considers the books his province now. And he's better with them than the selling angle."
"Oh?"
Her eyes danced. "He isn't always… diplomatic with customers. He's much better with bookkeeping and inventory. Michael and I can handle the buying and selling."
"Michael." Before he drank again, Slade repeated the name as though it meant nothing.
"Michael does almost all my buying, all the imports at any rate."
"You don't buy the stock yourself?"
"Not from overseas, not anymore." Jessica toyed with the last half of her sandwich. "If I'd tried to keep up with it, I wouldn't have been able to keep the shop open year round. Watching out for estate sales and auctions just in the New England area takes me away from the shop enough as it is. And Michael… Michael has a real genius for finding gems."
He wondered if her analogy was fact. Was Michael Adams shipping gems as well as Hepplewhites across the Atlantic?
"Michael's been handling that part of the business for nearly three years," Jessica went on. "And he's not only a good buyer, but a terrific salesman. Particularly with my female clientele." She laughed as she lifted her cup. "He's very smooth—both looks and manner."
Slade noted the affection in her voice and speculated. Just how much was between owner and buyer?
he wondered. If Adams was involved in smuggling, and Jessica's lover… His thoughts trailed off as he looked down at her hands. She wore a thin, twisted band of gold on her right hand and a star-shaped group of opals on her left. The sun hit the stones, shooting little flames of red into the delicate blue. It suited her, he thought, taking another swig of beer.
"In any case, I've gotten spoiled." Jessica stretched her shoulders with a sigh. "It's been a long time since I've had to run the shop alone. I'll be glad to have both Michael and David back next week. I might even take Uncle Charlie up on his invitation."
"Uncle Charlie?"
Her cup paused halfway to her lips. "Uncle Charlie," Jessica repeated, puzzled. "He sent you."
Slade gave a quick silent oath as he shrugged. "The commissioner," he said blandly. "I don't think of him as Uncle Charlie."
"The commissioner's awfully formal." Still frowning at him, Jessica set down her cup.
She's not a fool, Slade concluded as he swung an arm over the back of his chair. "I always call him that. Habit. Don't you like to travel?" He changed the subject neatly, adding a quick, disarming smile.
"I'd think the buying end would be half the fun."
"It can be. It can also be a giant headache. Airports and auctions and customs." The line between her brows vanished. "I have been thinking about combining a business and pleasure trip next spring. I want to visit my mother and her husband in France."
"Your mother remarried?"
"Yes, it's been wonderful for her. After my father died, she was so lost. We both were," she murmured.
And after nearly five years, she mused, there was still an ache. It was dull with time, but it was still there.
"There's nothing harder than to lose someone you loved and lived with and depended on. Especially when you think that person is indestructible; then he's taken away with no warning."
Her voice had thickened, touching off a chord of response in him. "I know," he answered before he thought.
Her eyes came up and fixed on his. "Do you?"
He didn't like the emotion she stirred up in him. "My father was a cop," he answered curtly. "He was killed in action five years ago."
"Oh, Slade." Jessica reached for his hand. "How terrible—how terrible for your mother."
"Wives of cops learn to live with the risk." He moved his hand back to his beer.
Sensing withdrawal, Jessica said nothing. He wasn't a man to share emotion of any kind easily. She rose, stacking plates. "Do you want something else? I imagine there're cookies stashed around here somewhere."
She wouldn't probe, he realized, wouldn't eulogize. She'd offered him her sympathy, then had backed off when she'd seen that it wasn't wanted. Slade sighed. It was difficult enough to deal with his attraction to her without starting to like her as well.
"No." He rose to help her clear the table.
When they entered the shop, Jessica went straight to the door to snap up the shade on the glass. Slade whirled sharply as he heard her quick cry of alarm. It was immediately followed by a laugh. "Mr.
Layton." Jessica flipped the lock to admit him. "You scared the wits out of me."
He was tall, well dressed, and fiftyish. His bankerish suit was offset by a gray silk tie the same color as his hair. The rather thin, stern face lightened with a smile as he took Jessica's hand. "Sorry, dear, but then, you did the same to me." Glancing past her, he gave Slade an inquiring look.
"This is James Sladerman, Mr. Layton. He's staying with us for a while. David's been ill."
"Oh, nothing serious, I hope."
"Just the flu," Jessica told him. "But a heavy dose of it."
She gave him a sudden shrewd smile. "You always manage to pop in on me when I've just gotten in a shipment. I've just managed to get this one arranged, and another's on its way."
He chuckled, a hoarse sound due to his fondness for Cuban cigars. "It's more your predictability than chance, Miss Winslow. Your Michael's been in Europe for three weeks. I'd asked him to keep an eye out for a piece or two for me before he left."
"Oh, well—" The jingle of the door interrupted her. "Mr. Chambers, I didn't expect you back so soon."
Chambers gave her a rather sheepish smile as he removed his hat. "The box with the pearl inlay," he began. "I can't resist it."
"Go on ahead, my dear." Layton gave Jessica's shoulder a pat. "I'll just browse for the moment."
Pretending an interest in a collection of pewter, Slade watched both men. Layton browsed, lingering here and there to examine a piece. Once he drew out a pair of half glasses and crouched down to study the carving on a table. Slade could hear Jessica's quiet voice as she discussed a snuffbox with Chambers. He choked back a snort of derision at the idea of a rational man buying anything as ridiculous as a snuffbox. After telling Jessica to wrap the box, Chambers turned to fuss over a curio cabinet.
It was a simple matter for Slade to mentally note both men's descriptions and names. Later he would commit them to paper and call them in. Whoever they were, they appeared to have at least a basic knowledge of antiques—at least from what he could glean from their conversation as they both discussed the cabinet. Wandering to the counter, Slade glanced down at the ticket Jessica was writing up. Her handwriting was neat, feminine, and legible.
One eighteenth-century snuffbox. French with pearl inlay.
It was the price that had him doing a double take. "Are you kidding?" he asked aloud.
"Ssh!" She glanced over at her customers, saw that they were occupied, then sent Slade a wicked grin.
"Don't you have any vices, Slade?"
"Immoral, not insane," he retorted, but the grin had appealed to him. He leaned a bit closer. "Do you?"
She let the look hold, enjoying the easy humor in his eyes. It was the first time she'd seen it. "No." She gave a low laugh. "Absolutely none."
For the first time he reached out to touch her voluntarily—just the tip of her hair with the tip of his finger. The pen slipped out of Jessica's hand. "Are you corruptible?" he murmured. He was still smiling, but she no longer felt easy. Jessica found herself grateful that the counter was between them and there were customers in the shop.
"I wouldn't have thought so," she managed. Layton's hoarse chuckle distracted her. Coming around the counter, Jessica walked toward her customers, giving Slade a wide berth.
Dangerous curves ahead, her mind warned. One wrong turn with this man and you'd be through the guardrail and over the cliff. She'd been too cautious for too long to be reckless now.
"It's a lovely little piece," she said to both men. "It arrived right after you'd left the other day, Mr.
Chambers." She was aware, though he made no sound, when Slade turned his attention from her and wandered to the far end of the room.
In the end Chambers bought the cabinet, while Layton chose what Jessica referred to as a fauteuil and a console from the Louis XV period. Slade saw them as a chair and a table, too ornate for the average taste. But elegant names, he imagined, equaled elegant prices.
"With customers like that," he commented when the shop was empty, "you could open a place twice this size."
"I could," she agreed as she filed the slips. "But it's not what I want. And, of course, not everyone buys as freely. Those are men who know what they like and can afford to have it. It's my good fortune that they've taken to buying it here for the past year or so."
She watched him poke around, opening a drawer here and there until he settled in front of a corner cabinet. Inside was a collection of porcelain figures.
"Lovely, aren't they?" she commented as she joined him.
He kept his back to her, though that didn't prevent her scent from creeping into his senses. "Yeah, they're nice." She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. It wasn't often Dresden was described as nice. "My mother likes things like this."
"I've always thought this was the best in the collection." Jessica opened the door and drew out a small, delicate shepherdess. "I nearly whisked her away for myself."
Slade frowned at it. "She does have a birthday."
"And a thoughtful son." Her eyes were dancing when he lifted his to them.
"How much?" he said flatly.
Jessica ran her tongue over her teeth. It was bargaining time. There was nothing she liked better.
"Twenty dollars," she said impulsively.
He laughed shortly. "I'm not stupid, Jessica. How much?"
When she tilted her head, the stubborn line appeared between her brows. "Twenty-two fifty. That's my last offer."
Reluctantly, he smiled. "You're crazy."
"Take it or leave it," she said with a shrug. "It's your mother's birthday after all."
"It's worth a hell of a lot more than that."
"It certainly would be to her," Jessica agreed.
Frustrated, Slade stuck his hands in his pockets and frowned at the figurine again. "Twenty-five," he said.
"Sold." Before he could change his mind, Jessica hustled over to the counter and began to box it. With a deft move, she peeled the price tag from the bottom and dropped it in the trash. "I can gift-wrap if you like," she said. "No charge."
Slowly he walked over to the counter, watching as she laid the porcelain in a bed of tissue paper.
"Why?"
"Because it's her birthday. Birthday presents should be wrapped."
"That's not what I mean." He put a hand on the box to stop her movements. "Why?" he repeated.
Jessica gave him a long, considering look. He didn't like favors, she concluded, and only took this one because it was for someone he cared for. "Because I want to."
His brow lifted and his eyes were suddenly very intense. "Do you always do what you want?"
"I give it my best shot. Doesn't everyone?"
Before he could answer, the door opened again. "Delivery for you, Miss Winslow."
Slade felt a stir of excitement as the delivery was offloaded. Maybe, just maybe, there'd be something.
He wanted to tie this case up quickly, neatly, and be gone… while he still had some objectivity. Jessica Winslow had a way of smearing the issue. They weren't a man and woman, and he couldn't forget it.
He was a cop, she was a suspect. His job was to find out what he could, even if it meant turning evidence on her. Listening to her steady stream of excitement as he uncarted boxes, Slade thought he'd never known anyone who appeared less capable of dishonesty. But that was a feeling, a hunch.
He needed facts.
In his temporary position as mover and hauler, he was able to examine each piece carefully. He caught no uneasiness from Jessica, but rather her appreciation for helping her check for damage during shipping. The twinge of conscience infuriated him. He was doing his job, he reminded himself.
And it was her damn Uncle Charlie that had put him there. Another year, Slade told himself again.
Another year and there'd be no commissioner to hand him special assignments as a baby sitter cum spy for goddaughters with amber eyes.
He found nothing. His instinct had told him he wouldn't but Slade could have used even a crumb to justify his presence. She never stopped moving. For the two hours it took to unload the shipment, Jessica was everywhere, polishing, arranging, dragging out empty crates. When there was nothing more to do, she looked around for more.
"That's it," Slade told her before she could decide that something might be shown to a better advantage somewhere else.
"I guess you're right." Absently, she rubbed at the small of her back. "It's a good thing those three pieces are being shipped out Monday. It's a bit crowded. Hey, I'm starving." She turned to him with an apologetic smile. "I didn't mean to keep you so long, Slade. It's after five." Without giving him a chance to comment, she dashed to the back room for their jackets. "Here, I'll close up."
"How about a hamburger and a movie?" he said impulsively. I'm just keeping an eye on her, he told himself. That's what I'm here to do.
Surprised, Jessica glanced around as she pulled down the last shade. From the look on his face, she thought, amused, he was already half regretting having asked. But that was no reason to let him off the hook. "What a romantic invitation. How can I refuse?"
"You want romance?" he countered. "We'll go to a drive-in movie."
He heard her quick gurgle of laughter as he grabbed her hand and pulled her outside.
It was late when the phone rang. The seated figure reached for it and a cigarette simultaneously.
"Hello."
"Where's the desk?"
"The desk?" Frowning, he brought the flame to the tip and drew. "It's with the rest of the shipment, of course."
"You're mistaken." The voice was soft and cold. "I've been to the shop myself."
"It has to be there." A flutter of panic rose in his throat. "Jessica just hasn't unpacked it yet."
"Possibly. You'll clear this up immediately. I want the desk and its contents by Wednesday." The pause was slight. "You understand the penalty for mistakes."