Cold Case, Hot Bodies

“But now the area’s been rezoned, and if the property winds up in the hands of a developer—” Luther stared pointedly at Chuckie Haswell “—a high-rise will appear in its place.”

“This is what the Donato family gets for being patrons of the arts,” fumed Beppe.

“Patrons of the arts?” whispered Eliana. “By contributing to a sex museum?”

“Shush,” commanded Bianca.

“Of course Mr. Donato wants to sell!” Brice Jurgenson burst out, rising to his feet and shaking his fist. “On behalf of the few remaining tenants, I’m here to say the place is unlivable! Overrun with mice! Every Donato slumlord has renovated it, breaking it into ever smaller rental units, and now it’s full of architectural oddities and tenants can’t—”

“I’m no slumlord!” said Beppe in shock. Noticing how his father’s liver-spotted hands were starting to shake, Dario felt a surge of protectiveness. His folks had wanted a son desperately, so they hadn’t quit having kids until Dario came along; he’d been a late baby, behind seven sisters. Now his dad was too old to keep up with a rental property full of disgruntled tenants.

“There are strange sounds in the hallways late at night,” Brice pressed on. “Very strange sounds. Loud music. Footsteps. Some tenants believe the place is haunted, and—”

“It may well be!” added Luther. “That’s exactly my point. We must preserve this piece of history.”

“This isn’t about history!” protested Beppe. “Just mice. And that’s why my son, Officer Donato,” he emphasized, “has agreed to move in, starting tonight. He says he’s going to take care of everything.”

Inwardly, Dario groaned. “What?”

“I already told them,” assured Beppe under his breath. “Before you came. You’re a police officer, so you can fix anything.”

He was hardly a miracle worker. “I’m on an arson case.”

“Nope,” countered Eliana. “I tried to call you earlier, and wound up talking to Pat. He said you got bumped down to desk duty because you were dating criminals, and I told Pop.”

Chalk one up to sibling rivalry, but Sheila Carella wasn’t exactly a felon. “She forgot to pay her parking tickets,” Dario reminded in a hushed tone.

“A hundred of them?” returned Eliana.

Then Luther captured their attention. He was speaking again. “Gem O’Shea may have been the madam of Angel’s Cloud, but no one’s sure. We do know that her death in a carriage accident was rumored to have been a murder. She was believed to have a son, but he vanished, the father unknown. We have found a record of his son, however. He married a maidservant named Bridget in 1910. She had a daughter, Emma, who had Fiona, who had Erin, who—”

“Should be none of my business,” Beppe finished.

“Not so,” countered Luther. Erin is the mother of Cassidy Case.” Approaching the bench, he showed a letter to Judge Zhang. “Cassidy forwarded a copy of this letter to the museum. As you can see, it indicates that a will existed, giving Cassidy’s ancestor, Gem, all rights to the property in question.”

Beppe gasped. “Who wrote the letter?”

“Clearly, the owner of the property,” said Luther. “But it’s signed only, ‘your beloved.’”

“The property has been in the Donato family for over a century,” countered Beppe.

“Cassidy will be in town next week, with part of the actual will, as well,” Luther went on. “Legally, Mr. Donato may have only squatter’s rights to this property, Judge Zhang.”

“You say…” Judge Zhang stared down at his notes “…Mr. Case is going to be here next week, with the documents?”

“On Tuesday,” Luther confirmed.

“We’ll reconvene then,” said Judge Zhang. “Ten o’clock.”

“There’s just one problem,” said Chuckie Haswell, speaking for the first time. “Because my firm, Haswell Realty, had hoped to make Mr. Donato an offer on this property, we’ve been doing our own research.” Heading to the bench, he put a folder in front of Judge Zhang. “As these documents prove, the property was owned by my ancestor, Nathaniel Haswell. Even if Angelo Donato had wished to will the property to Gem O’Shea, it wasn’t his to give. He was a front man for Nathaniel Haswell. To protect his reputation, my ancestor only used Angelo Donato to conceal the true ownership of Angel’s Cloud—”

“Used Angelo?” Beppe shook his head. “The first guy wants to declare my building a landmark, so I can’t sell it, and now this one’s saying I don’t even own it.” Hearing his father’s disbelief, Dario winced. Beppe had hoped to use proceeds from a sale to pay for Eliana’s elaborate wedding.

“As you’ll see,” continued Chuckie, “Nathaniel Haswell willed the property to his son, Dirk, and his wife, Isme. The original records, of which you now have copies, are still on file at the courthouse.”

Judge Zhang said, “This is all the more reason to reconvene next week. Then we can take a look at whatever documentation Cassidy Case is bringing to town.”

“Next week!” exploded Brice. “On behalf of the tenants, I have to protest! We’ve already had a cold snap, and the boiler didn’t come on. And like I said, there’s something fishy happening. We hear music late at night. Sounds of dancing. I’m a reasonable man, Judge Zhang, and I don’t believe in ghosts, but—”

“Apparently, Officer Donato has promised to oversee the property during this upcoming week, as a favor to his father,” Judge Zhang said. “That means you’ll have on-site police protection until the matter is resolved.” The judge’s dark eyes landed on Dario. “Am I right?”

Dario bit back a sigh of annoyance. He hadn’t anticipated the dovetailing cases to entail him moving into an old brothel. “Absolutely, sir.”

“Then I’ll see you next week. Mr. Matthews, you may inform Mr. Case.”

A second later, Bianca said a quick goodbye and forced Beppe toward the door, clearly fearing he’d unleash his temper on Chuckie, Brice or Luther, and Dario took the opportunity to open the folder Luther had given him, feeling glad he wasn’t going to have to hunt for a cold case to work on. He’d never heard of Gem O’Shea, much less her possibly unsolved murder, but now it looked as if he could both help his dad and appease his boss by delving into the matter.

He surveyed a picture of the bawdy house, then a photocopied daguerreotype of his own ancestor, Angelo. His hair was wild, and his piercing dark eyes held a devilish glint. Often, Dario had been told he was the spitting image of the man. When he moved on to the next picture, his heart missed a beat. Gem O’Shea, he thought, feeling a tug at his groin. God, she was hot. Untamed waves fell over her shoulders, and the ends of the curls looked like flaming tongues. They licked an ample chest that spilled from a laced-up dress that was sexy as hell. Lots of cleavage.

The picture was black-and-white, of course, but Dario would bet her hair was flame-red. Her eyes would be blue or green. But which?

Eliana chuckled. “And they say normal men only think about sex sixty times a day.”

Dario blinked. “Huh?”

“What’s this for you? Six hundred?” When he didn’t immediately respond, she chuckled. “Since you’re going to be staying in Dad’s building, maybe you’ll get lucky. Maybe Brice will introduce you to that woman’s ghost. But be careful, little brother.”

“Because?”

“Sheila Carella might get jealous.”

“Who?” he teased, still staring at Gem O’Shea’s picture. “I don’t remember any woman named Sheila.”

“You’re incorrigible,” his sister muttered, rising on her toes to peck-kiss his cheek. “But be forewarned. When guys like you fall, they fall hard.”

Dario held up Gem’s picture. “Let’s just hope when I fall, that it’s right on top of a woman who looks like this.”

Eliana hooked her arm through his. “You really are impossible.”

“But you love me,” he guessed.

“In exactly the way all women love guys like you,” she assured.

“How’s that?”

“Completely against my will.”

2

“GEM, YOU’RE A HOTTIE,” Dario said late that night as he tossed back a shot of whiskey, drinking from the bottle. He’d showered in a cramped stall down an unlit hallway, deciding against using a tub in the empty apartments upstairs, then he’d put on briefs, gotten into bed and opened the file, mostly so he could look at Gem’s picture again.

Her finger was crooked and her mouth was pulled into a sexy pout. She would have looked frivolous, but her eyes held too much awareness. Pain, maybe. Something that hinted at emotional depth. According to his information, she’d survived a famine and fled her country. She’d crossed the Atlantic, only to find herself in one of the world’s worst slums, but she’d made a decent life, anyway.

Dario felt a magnetic pull, a sense of impending fate. Plain old lust, too. Or else maybe he’d just had too much to drink. Whatever the case, he was fantasizing about playing out the age-old cliché about hookers and cops. It had been a long night, and he was desperate for release. Pat had called about another arson case, and although Dario was supposed to be laying low, he’d visited the scene. Then, because Beppe’s tenants had waylaid him to air their grievances as he was leaving court, Dario had wound up hauling in surveillance equipment to appease them.

Now cameras were arranged strategically around the premises. At least, by the end of the week, Dario would be able to prove his pop’s building wasn’t haunted. When he glanced at the tripod-mounted camera placed discretely in a corner, his lips stretched into a slow grin.

With this camera, he was going to catch a woman, not a ghost. As soon as he’d called and told Sheila about the history of Angel’s Cloud, apologizing since he’d be busy and unable to meet her this week, she’d said she’d never had sex in a haunted house and wanted in on the action.

“It’s different,” Dario had assured playfully. “And not something I can just tell you about. You’ll have to come over and experience it yourself.”

“See you at eight,” she’d said.

But eight had come and gone. Typical Sheila. Punctuality wasn’t her strong point. It was nearly midnight, and anticipation had left Dario as horny as the men who used to patronize the room where he was about to sleep.

To keep his mind occupied, he’d interviewed tenants. There was a middle-aged woman who ran an Italian ice stand, Carmella Liotella, and Chinese sisters, Zu and Ling, who shared an apartment on the otherwise vacant third floor. Brice, whose law office was around the corner, lived in the attic. Rosie, a liberal-looking single mom, was on the first floor, just beneath Carmella and opposite the apartment where Dario had set up camp. She had a crush on Brice, and an alarmingly flirtatious thirteen-year-old, Theresa, who’d been wearing skintight jeans, a midriff exposing a fake tattoo, and enough makeup that she could have been applying for a job as a madam herself.

Dario had moved in opposite them because everybody said that’s where the noise was coming from. The previous tenant had left in a hurry—supposedly due to the haunting—which meant the apartment had ramshackle furnishings. Shirts were still in the closet. The tenant had been a big guy, almost Dario’s size, so it was hard to believe he’d been scared off.

There were nine empty units, three per floor, discounting the attic where Brice lived—and that seemed weird, too, since Beppe was a soft touch and the rent was low. Ghost sightings increased whenever he made moves to sell, but Dario had always figured people would lodge complaints, no matter how absurd, to discourage the building’s ownership from changing hands.

Still, people had left despite having rent-stabilized leases, when they’d have difficulty finding similar bargains, and the place was creepier than Dario remembered. While in the basement, putting out environmentally friendly mouse traps Eliana insisted he buy, he could have sworn the air temperature dropped abruptly. Shrugging off the event, he’d spent an hour trying to fix the boiler before realizing he’d have to buy a new one. The whole time, he’d felt as if somebody were watching him. Most disturbing, the tenants seemed genuinely scared.

“The sounds started about two weeks ago,” Zu had reported. “We hadn’t heard anything in a long time, about six months, but then all of a sudden…”

“Gem O’Shea is walking the halls at night again,” Ling had added in a hushed tone. “Luther Matthews came by. He has a key to the place, you know. And he told us about Gem O’Shea. That she was murdered. I’m sure she’s haunting us.”

“Maybe trying to tell us who killed her,” said Rosie.

“The music’s, like, really loud,” added Theresa.

“Here,” Brice had added angrily, coming from the attic, and dumping a box of papers at Dario’s feet. “This is everything I was able to find out about the place. Something fishy’s going on. You should take a look.”

And Dario had. Apparently, these old walls had absorbed plenty of lovers’ whispered secrets, and many illicit backroom deals. The old news clippings collected by Brice jibed with records Dario had found in cold-case files at the precinct, as well as family materials related to the property that Beppe had kept, and that Dario had brought with him. A sheet in the police file indicated Gem had stashed jewelry in the house; an inventory list had been submitted in case of theft.

Definitely, the tenants hadn’t lied about the shoddy workmanship. It was Dario’s grandfather’s fault, since he’d hired bad contractors. The original bar, which had been about fifteen feet long, was still in Zu and Ling’s apartment. Someone had renovated it as a kitchen island. Brice’s shower stall was in his kitchen, and because his wiring was inadequate, he’d run an extension cord to an outlet in the hallway.

Outside, Dario had stood on the sidewalk, surveying the exterior, and something had niggled, but he didn’t know why. The building was tall and skinny, with a sharply graded roof and louvered windows. The bricks crawled with ivy, and a downstairs back door led into unkept gardens. The rear building, where Gem had lived, had been torn down long ago.

His cell rang. He clicked on. “Yeah?”

“Sorry I’m late.”

Sheila sounded tipsy, a good sign. “Are you coming now?”

“There’s more than one way to take that.”

“Not once you get here.”

“On my way,” she said, giggling. “Keep the bed warm.”

“I’m getting sleepy,” he returned with mock grouchiness. “Are you sure you’re going to show?”

“Put a key under the mat, sailor, and let Gem O’Shea wake you up.”

Not a bad idea. “Done. Two pots on the porch are planted with ivy. The key to the lobby doors will be in the one on the right. I’m the first door on the left—I’ll leave it ajar.” Maybe that wasn’t the brightest thing to do, but the neighborhood was relatively safe nowadays, and besides, he’d put his gun under the bed.

“Given what I’m going to do to you,” she was saying, “you’ll think you’re dreaming.”

“So you have plans for the bawdy house?”

“Just call me Gem O’Shea.”

She ended the call, and he grinned. “My kind of girl.”

Yawning, he thrust his legs into jeans, took the key to the planter and returned. Then he found a pen, scrawled “I’m in here, babe,” and taped it to the door, drawing an arrow toward the bed. The tenants were tucked in for the night and wouldn’t see it. Absently scratching his chest, he stared into the open folder before transferring it to the floor, suddenly glad Eliana had reminded him to bring sheets, a blanket and towels. Without a boiler, the steam heat hadn’t come on.

Where the hell was Sheila? He could sure use some body heat. After taking another swig of whiskey, he set the bottle on the nightstand, along with his wallet and badge. Checking to make sure his gun was under the bed, he switched on the video recorder.

Sheila was going to love his surprise. Pat would get a kick out of the story, too. Suddenly frowning, he thought about Pat’s engagement, then pushed aside the thought. Everybody he knew might be settling down, but Dario wasn’t going to let it get in the way of his own lifestyle.

Rummaging in his jeans pockets, he put some open condom packages and a twenty-dollar bill on the nightstand. Since Sheila was intent on playing Gem O’Shea, he’d pay her. As soon as she got here, he’d turn on the light, then they could make the homemade movie while polishing off the rest of the whiskey.

He smiled. He was glad he’d met Sheila. All she cared about was sex. She was like a female version of him. His other half. Taking off his briefs, he tossed them to the floor. Might as well be ready when she gets here, he thought.

A second later, he was out like the light.

“WAKE UP, SAILOR.”

Husky murmurings sounded beside Dario’s ear. Hot breath tickled his earlobe. His head was pounding, and he groaned when he realized he must have had way too much to drink last night. The warm whiskey had tasted great going down, burning a path from his mouth to his belly, just as surely as a kiss, but now…

Fingernails raked upward on his bare chest, then stopped to trace circles around his nipples. He groaned again, arousal catching him unaware. Music was playing, sounding faraway. Probably coming from one of the other apartments, he thought, but who was up so late? Zu and Ling said they went to bed early. Brice and Carmella had to work. And Rosie had a kid. Maybe he’d just drifted, and it was still only a little after midnight.

Weight was bearing down on him. Sheila, he guessed. He’d tossed and turned, so the sheet had tangled around his legs, and now, even if she hadn’t been on top of him, he couldn’t have moved. Opening his eyes a fraction, he saw only vague shadows, enough to know he wasn’t dreaming. A woman was definitely straddling him.

“Finally,” he whispered. Shutting his eyes again, he lifted his hands, curving them over hips. Nice, plump womanly hips. Not too skinny—he hated women who starved themselves—but not too padded, either. Just right. It was one of the many things he liked about Sheila. After uttering a lusty sigh, he smiled. Her muscles flexed beneath his fingertips as she rocked against him, her inner thighs squeezing.

She was so responsive. That was another thing he liked. Now, if she’d only move upward a tiny inch. She was a hair’s breadth from where he was aching for her. So close.

Please. He thought the word as soft hands curled around his shoulders, then dug deep—now exploring dips and crevices around his collarbone. After a moment, flattened palms pressed down hard on his pectorals, feeling like heaven.

“What time is it?” he whispered, his voice barely audible over all the racket. It was hard to believe somebody thought whatever was playing was music. He slitted his eyes open, but again, saw only inky darkness. The music sounded like show tunes, maybe something from Broadway.

“Three,” she whispered.

“In the morning?”

“Yeah.”

No wonder he felt like hell. “Better late than never.”

“Do we still have time?”

He didn’t have to be at work until nine. “We can get a lot done in six hours.”

“Sorry I didn’t make it earlier, the way I promised.”

“Me, too.”

“You feel sorry,” she whispered, the brush of her belly making clear what she meant. He was as hard as a rock. Her voice sounded deeper than usual. So husky that she didn’t even sound like Sheila. She must have felt as sex-crazed as he, waiting all day for this. That’s why she was talking like a sex siren from an old movie. She sounded like Bette Davis, Lana Turner and Marilyn Monroe all rolled into one. All shivery and whispery, as if she’d had way too much to drink and had just smoked cartons of cigarettes, and was offering him something forbidden. He imagined her in a black-and-white picture, wearing a slinky gown, and holding a highball glass and a long black cigarette holder.

Then he remembered she was pretending to be Gem O’Shea. That’s why she’d worn a wig, too. Long strands of hair were brushing his face, teasing his cheeks and shoulders.

He rubbed her thighs, stroking them with the backs of his hands and shifted his weight, straining unsuccessfully to feel the crushing pressure of her pelvic bone against his erection. When she just missed the magic spot, he uttered a frustrated sigh. She was still in outerwear, a jacket and tight leggings, no shoes. “That’s the great thing about clothes…”

“What?”

“We can get rid of them.”

“That’s why I came over.”

Cold insteps with high arches were molding his calves, warming themselves. Threading fingers into her hair, he explored the wig and chuckled. Sheila really was great. She’d do anything to please a guy. What an imagination. “Are you ready to make up for lost time?”

“If you can forgive me for being late.”

“Kiss me and I’ll think about it.” Splaying his fingers, he dragged them through her hair, using the strands to pull her face down to his. Her mouth was open, and it melted against his as their tongues meshed, sparking electricity that began dancing wildly down his nerves, making them sizzle at the ends. Rushing between his fingers, tendrils of hair felt like palm fronds under water, softer than anything he’d ever felt, even softer than her mouth. His hands found her waist again, guiding the movements of her lower body, urging her closer, as he brushed his kiss-dampened mouth across hers.

When the friction turned maddening, he feathered, then nibbled. Judging by her soft whimper, it was working, really turning her on. She whispered, “What do I have to do to make absolutely sure you forgive me?”

“This.” He arched his hips, his body surging.

She pushed back, her thighs quivering, the inner flesh shaking deliciously as she scooted into the cradle of his legs and settled on the hard ridge of his sex. He gasped, a shiver ripping through him. Something in the back of his throat caught, and he said, “I’m glad you made it.”

She was panting softly, rolling her hips with the dexterity of a belly dancer and grinding herself against his groin. “I can tell.”

As she undulated, waves of need lapped through him. Pliable, ready lips fit to his again. Wet and promising, they clung as if she didn’t want to let go. His sentiments, exactly. Tonight, she didn’t even taste like Sheila. Her usual mint flavor had been replaced by chocolate and coffee, and the lipstick he’d eaten off was raspberry. Not a hint of alcohol, which was what he’d expected, given how tipsy she’d sounded on the phone.

“I tried to hurry,” she murmured.

“You’re here now,” he whispered back.

Against his, her cheek still felt cool from the night air, making the spear of her tongue seem even hotter. It was warm and runny—like hot honey or butter or molasses. It was like lazy sunshine on a Sunday morning, streaming through a window. And it was climbing, too, just like the sun, its radiance gaining intensity and heat.

Every time she licked the inner recesses of his mouth, renewed fire ignited in his abdomen. Warmth was pouring through her leggings, like jets of liquid joy, and when she started nuzzling the stubble of his beard, roughening her rel atively tender skin, Dario tilted back his head, simply reveling in the feel of her—her long legs bracketing his, her ample breasts cushioning his chest.

“Don’t stop.”

“Does it seem like I’m stopping?”

“No,” he murmured. “But you could.”

“I could do a lot of things.”

“Then do them.”

As she swirled hot saliva down his neck, in sloppy, looping kisses, the scratchy fabric of her jacket further aroused his nipples, chaffing until they were raw and painfully aroused. Merciless, she languidly licked his skin as if they had eternity, not just a night, then she dipped until a taut nipple was firmly in her mouth. Quick suckles made his mind fog….

He was sure he’d drifted again. He didn’t know for how long. He was floating in bliss. Sheila felt so good…impossibly good. Every time they got together, sex just got better. Tonight it was excellent. Better than ever before. Right now, the touch of her mouth was torture. Every fiber of his being was starting to sing for release. Slowly, he caressed her bottom, thrilled when she kept playing with his nipples…