Thicker Than Water (4 page)

“Can't we at least get a statement?” Sean asked. And he
couldn't figure out why she hadn't asked it first. Was she that rusty when it came to actual reporting? The elevator pinged and opened, and several plainclothes cops got out, including the one Sean thought of as the sexiest cop on the force—and maybe also the scariest—blond-haired, blue-eyed Lieutenant Cassandra Jackson.

“You want a statement?” she asked, honing in on the conversation as she strode toward the room. “Here's your statement. ‘An unidentified man was found dead in the Armory Hotel. Police suspect foul play and an investigation is underway.'”

Sean had started to write, then lifted his head. “That's
it?
”

“That's it.”

“Oh, come on, Jax. It's Senator Blackwood's lowlife brother, and his throat's been cut!”

“That's Lieutenant Jackson to you.” She took his camera bag from his hand, took out the camera and easily popped open the back. A second later his film was hanging from her hands like crepe paper. She stuffed it into the deep pockets of her olive drab trench coat. “Cause of death will be determined at the autopsy. The identity is unofficial until next of kin are notified and come in to verify it.”

“We won't release his name until we get the okay,” Julie Jones offered. “Just so long as you give us the okay before you tell anyone else.”

“Uh—both of us, that is. Not just her,” Sean put in, sensing that Jones was trying to scoop him, as usual. He had to admit, though, he was a little relieved that she was finally acting like the professional he reluctantly knew her to be. He tugged a card from a pocket. “My beeper number is on that.”

Jax took it and nodded. “As if I don't have ten of these?”

“Yeah, but you never call.” He gave her his most charming smile.

She returned a wink. “I'm way more than you could handle, MacKenzie.” Then she rolled her eyes. “Fine, fine, you two get the scoop. But only if you get out of here right now and let my people do their job.”

“Deal.” Sean turned to head to the elevator, surprised when the normally aggressive Julie Jones turned around and followed him. Something was up with her. He wanted to know what.

He got into the elevator; she got in beside him. The doors slid closed. She sighed audibly, and he swore her body sagged.

“Do you have another set of keys?” he asked.

“Not on me.”

“So then…you need a ride home?”

“I can get a cab.”

He shrugged. “I could drive you.”

She narrowed her eyes on him. “Why?”

“Why not?”

Frowning as if she trusted him about as far as she could throw him—a sentiment he understood well, since he felt the same way about her—she finally shrugged. “What the hell. Okay, fine. Drive me home.”

S
ean walked Julie Jones out of the hotel to his Porsche Carerra GT, which he figured would have impressed the socks off most women. With her, though, he wasn't expecting a hell of a lot.

She looked at the shiny black car, then at him. “Midlife crisis?”

Ignoring her, he depressed the button on his electronic key ring. The door locks popped open, the headlights came on, and the engine started. He opened her door for her.

“Am I supposed to take off my shoes or just sprinkle myself with holy water first?”

“Just get in, would you?”

She did. He closed the door and went around to his side. She was making with the sarcasm, yes, but not in her usual way. It was almost automatic. Almost as if she were speaking
with her mouth while her mind was somewhere else. The zings were hardly worthy of her and nowhere near up to her usual standards. She'd been zinging him for so long, she could probably do it in a coma.

He shifted into gear and pulled the car away from the curb. “So what was with the little crime-scene-trampling demonstration back there?” he asked.

She blinked at him. “I don't know what you mean.”

“What, do you think I'm as gullible as those cops are? I know you, Jones. You're a pro. You knew better than to walk in there like that.”

Her eyes were huge and dark, and she blinked them now, using them to their full potential as proof of innocence. “I was just so stunned at seeing a New York State Senator's brother like that.”

“Bullshit.” He shifted, told himself to keep his eyes on the road. It wasn't easy, because she was wearing a skirt, and her legs were a longtime weakness of his. She had this skin…It was the first thing he'd noticed about her. Her skin. Smooth, almost luminous, bronze satin. The color didn't fade, even in the winter months. He had often wondered about her ethnic background, but how did you ask someone a question like that in the age of political correctness?

“Turn here,” she said. “Take 92.”

“Huh? Oh!” He got his mind back on his driving and took the turn she indicated. “I forgot you live all the way out in Cazenovia.”

“Caz is only twenty minutes away from downtown.”

“Yeah, by air.” She sent him a look. He ignored it. “We got off the subject. Why were you so determined to get into that room?”

“I just wanted a closer look at Blackwood. I wasn't sure it was him.”

“Uh-huh.” She was lying through her teeth. “And what was up with emptying your purse onto the floor?”

She looked at him fast, almond-shaped brown eyes beaming purity, almost willing him to buy into it. “It was an accident.”

“The hell it was.”

Once she realized innocence had struck out, arrogance arrived to take its turn at bat. She folded her arms across her chest, straightened in her seat and faced him squarely, chin pulled in and slightly downward to give the illusion she was looking down her nose at him. She reminded him of royalty when she copped that attitude. Like some kind of queen who would have your head if you pissed her off much more than you already had. “If I
say
it was an accident,” she assured him, “then it was an accident.”

It was really too bad he hated her guts. He lifted his brows and tipped his head to one side. “If you
say
it was an accident, then you're lying through your pretty teeth, because
that
was no accident.”

She rolled her eyes. “Your powers of observation stink, MacKenzie. No wonder you got passed over for the anchor seat I won.”

“They passed me over for that job because you're easier on the eyes than I am, sweetie, and because your boss was narrow-minded enough to think he needed a male-female team. Don't even think for a minute it had to do with talent. It was those big brown eyes and that sexy little body.” And that skin, he thought to himself.

“Right.” She tossed her head, shook her hair a little. “You
honestly think the viewing public watches the evening news just to ogle me?”

“Hell,
I
watch the evening news just to ogle you. And I don't even
like
you. Much less your presanitized, government-approved idea of news.”

“You're an animal.”

He shrugged. “I'm also the guy whose beeper is going to go off when they release the name of the victim. So if I were you, I'd be nice to me.”

“I gave the lieutenant my number, and I have no doubt she'll call me first.”

“Yeah, well, I gave her my beeper number, and that's way easier and quicker for her. So I have no doubt she'll call
me
first.”

She sniffed. “For a date, maybe.”

He lifted his brows. “She always seems to look me over pretty thoroughly, now that you mention it. Gotta be that MacKenzie magic.”

She pursed her lips, looking as if she would like to strangle him. “Guess I must be immune.” Then she focused on the road ahead. “Turn left here.”

He did. Then he drove along a tree-lined lane, with rich, gorgeous homes scattered a half acre apart from each other and fifty yards away from the road, to be closer to the lake.

“Right there.” She was pointing out her place, a brown cobblestone split-level, with a lawn and gardens that were manicured to perfection, and with the midnight-blue of Cazenovia Lake as a backdrop. He almost gaped as he pulled into the long paved driveway.

“You, uh, live here?”

“Yeah.”

“The station pays that well?”

“Not quite. I bought it with some money I inherited a long time ago.”

“Uh-huh.”

She got out of his car. He shut it off and got out, as well, though she hadn't invited him in. She sent him a frown, but he pretended not to see it.

“You gonna be able to get in without your keys?”

“Of course.” She walked over the flagstone path, up the front steps to the door and poked the doorbell.

Oh, so that was it. She didn't live alone. He racked his brain for tidbits about Jones. Getting dirt on her would make his freaking year. But there was never much to find. She guarded her privacy like a goddamn pitbull. She wasn't married, he knew that much. Maybe she had some stud living with her. He expected someone too young, too skinny and probably unshaven to open the door when he heard footsteps approaching. It would be just like Jones to go for some underfed, left-wing Bohemian type.

“It's me, hon,” Jones called. And her tough as nails newswoman voice had gone all sugary sweet. It was enough to make him puke.

The door opened.

The teenager on the other side was pale and blond and cuter than hell. She smiled as if she really meant it. “Hi, Mom. Forget your key?” Then she caught sight of him and smiled even wider. “Hey, you brought home a date? Wow, we should declare a national holiday. And he's cute, too. You wanna come in?” she asked him.

“Sure,” he said, at the same time Jones said, “No.”

The girl smiled wider. She could have been a supermodel with a smile like that. “I'm Dawn.”

“Sean MacKenzie.”

“So are you coming in or what?” She stepped back. Julie rolled her eyes but walked in and didn't blow a gasket when he walked in behind her.

“You want coffee or soda or anything?” Dawn asked.

“Coffee would be great, thanks.” The living room was two steps up, and it resembled, Sean thought, a woodland paradise. Hanging plants everywhere, dark wood furniture and a small bubbling fountain full of tumbled stones in the far corner were what produced the effect, he realized. The colors were earth tones, greens and browns, with touches of russet and mustard in the throw rugs and pillows. It was a great room, though it was dim, lit at the moment only by the TV, the screen of which was frozen in place.

Dawn hurried through the room, under an archway into the kitchen, flicking on the light as she did. “Go on in and sit. Help yourself to popcorn,” Dawn called. “I was just watching
Nathan Z's Power Hour.
”

“You taped that thing again today?” Julie asked.

“Oh, come on, Mom. It's Ms. Marcum's favorite show, you know, though I personally think Van Praagh is better. He's on right after—I taped them both.”

“Efficient of you.”

“I think he really helps some of those people.” She shrugged. “Besides, he's about to go big time. I read his cable show's going into syndication.”

Julie rolled her eyes and headed for the sofa. Sean followed, leaned over her shoulder. “I didn't know you had a daughter,” he whispered.

“Now you do.”

“She's a doll. She looks nothing like you.”

Jones sent him a scowl. “Gee, thanks.”

“What is she, fifteen?”

“Sixteen,” she said. “Barely. Just got her driving permit.”

He frowned. “Sixteen? Hell, Jones, what did you do, give birth at the age of ten?”

“Trying to flatter me now?”

“Here we go.” Dawn came in with a mug in each hand, handing one to her mother and the other to Sean. Jones sat in a nearby chair, so Sean took a seat on the sofa and glanced at the hottest New Age guru of the season in freeze-frame on the television screen. Dawn plopped down beside him, folded her legs under her and picked up the remote. Then she paused and looked at him, frowning. “Wait a minute. Are you
the
Sean MacKenzie? From the radio?”

“Yep. That's me.”

“Oh, God, I
love
your show. I listen to it all the time.”

That put a smile on his face. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah. Mom does, too.”

“Does she really?” He slanted Julie an amused look.

“What's not to love?” Dawn went on. “You're totally irreverent. I never know what you'll say next.” She pursed her lips. “I don't always agree with your politics, but your taste in music is awesome. Especially for someone your age.”

He had sipped coffee, beaming at her praise, but the last line had him damn near spitting hot java out his nostrils. Jones wasn't so reserved. She laughed out loud, smiling at her daughter.

He swallowed, cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome. Sometimes Ms. Marcum tapes your morning broadcast and lets us listen to it during study hall. You know, after she's edited out all the swearwords and stuff.”

He leaned toward Julie. “Ms. Marcum?”

“Favorite teacher, English Eleven.”

“Got it.”

“She says you're relevant and thought provoking.”

“Ms. Marcum has excellent taste.”

“Don't let it go to your head, MacKenzie,” Julie said with a nod toward the TV. “She just told you the woman's favorite show is
Nathan Z's Hour of Wasted Air Time.
”

He frowned, then returned his attention to the teenager beside him. “So do you like my show better than your mom's?” he asked, just to wipe the smug look from Jones's face.

Dawn frowned in thought, then sighed. “I guess I can't really compare. I mean, Mom does news.”

He blinked as if she'd hit him between the eyes. “Ouch.”

“Oh, crap, that's not the way I meant—” Dawn looked from her mother to Sean and back again. “I didn't mean you
don't
do news. I mean you
do,
sort of, it's just…different. It's like comparing Howard Stern to Barbara Walters, you know? You run this irreverent, wild commentary on the most notorious events and people, with your opinions right out there. Exposé stuff, mixed in with music and guests. And she just reports the news, sensational or otherwise, from an unbiased point of view. It's totally different.”

“He entertains and I inform,” Jones clarified.

“I enlighten. You enable,” he said.

“I report and you sensationalize,” she countered.

“You report what the powers that be want you to report. I pull the curtain away and expose the little man at the controls behind it.”

They glared at each other.

Dawn said, “This wasn't a date, was it?”

He slugged back his coffee. “Nope. It was just a nice guy giving a colleague a ride home.”

“Colleague,”
Jones muttered, shaking her head.

Sean put his cup down and got to his feet. “It was nice meeting you, Dawn. Thanks for the coffee.”

“Nice meeting you, too, Sean. Play some Stroke Nine for me tomorrow, will you?”

“You got it.” He started for the door.

Jones strode along beside him, and opened it when he reached it.

“Nice kid,” he said. “Amazing, with a barracuda like you for a mom. Who was her father? Ghandi?”