Four Blind Mice

take this upstairs, get a room, before we get in trouble down here.”
    Jamilla leaned in and gave me another quick kiss. “We could get in a whole lot of trouble.” And then another kiss. “I don’t do things like this, Alex. What’s happening to me?
What
has come over me?”
    One more hug and then we headed for the hotel elevators.
    Our room was on the top floor with a view of the Phoenix skyline and also of a waterfall cascading into a mountainside swimming pool. In the distance, we could see jogging and hiking trails, tennis courts, and a golf course or two. I told Jamilla that a nearby football field we could see must be Sun Devil Stadium. “I think Arizona State plays there.”
    “I want to know all about Tempe and Arizona State football,” Jamilla said, “but later on.”
    “Oh, all right.”
    I touched my fingers to her blouse, which was brushed silk. “This feels nice.”
    “It’s supposed to.”
    I slowly ran my hands over the shirt, Jamilla’s shoulders, the tips of her breasts, her stomach. I massaged her shoulders and she leaned up against me and let out a long “mmmm, yessssss, please and thank you.” It was like an impromptu dance, and neither of us knew exactly what was going to happen next. So nice to be back with her again.
    “There’s no hurry,” she whispered, “is there?”
    “No. We have all the time in the world. You know, this is called entrapment in police circles.”
    “Yes, it is. I’m fully aware of that. It’s also an ambush. Maybe you ought to just surrender.”
    “All right, I surrender, Inspector.”
    There was nothing except the two of us. I had no idea where this was going, but I was learning to just go along, to enjoy each moment, not to worry too much about the destination. I hadn’t been with anybody recently except that day with Jamilla in Washington. Nobody else in a while.
    “You have the softest touch of anyone,” she whispered. “Unbelievable. Don’t stop.”
    “So do you.”
    “You seem surprised.”
    “A little bit,” I admitted. “It’s probably because I saw your tough-as-nails side when we were working together.”
    “Is that a problem for you? My tough side?”
    “No, it isn’t,” I told her. “I like your tough side too. As long as you don’t get too rough with me.”
    Jam immediately pushed me back onto the bed, then fell on top of me. I kissed her cheeks, then her sweet lips. She smelled and tasted wonderful. I could feel the pulse under her skin.
There’s no hurry.
    “I was a tomboy when I was a kid in Oakland. Baseball player, fast-pitch softball,” she said. “I wanted my father and my brothers to approve of me.”
    “Did they?”
    “Oh yeah. Are you kidding? I was all-state in baseball and track.”
    “Do they still approve?”
    “I think so. Yeah, they do. My pop’s a little disappointed I’m not playing for the Giants,” she said, and laughed. “He thinks I could give Barry Bonds a run.”
    Jamilla helped me with my pants while I unhooked her skirt. I shivered, couldn’t control it.
All the time in the world.

Chapter 53
    WHEN HE WAS finished with his interview of Mrs. Billie Houston, it was too late for Sampson to head back to Washington, plus he liked the atmosphere at the shore, so he had checked into Conover’s Bay Head Inn, a bed-and-breakfast in town that Billie had recommended.
    He had just stepped into his room on the third floor when the phone rang. He wondered who could be calling him here. At Conover’s Bay Head Inn?
    “Yeah?” he spoke into the receiver. “John Sampson.”
    There was a short silence.
    “This is Billie. Mrs. Houston.”
    He sat down on the edge of the bed and found that he was surprised, but he was smiling. He definitely hadn’t expected the call, hadn’t expected to hear from her again. “Well, hi. I haven’t spoken to you . . . in minutes. Did you forget to tell me something?”
    “No. Well, yes I did, actually. Here you are, helping Laurence, and I do absolutely nothing to make your visit more comfortable. Would you have dinner at the house tonight? I’m already cooking something, so please don’t say no. What do you have to lose? I’m a good cook, by the way.”
    Sampson hesitated and wasn’t sure if this was such a good idea. It wasn’t that he thought dinner with Billie Houston would be a chore. It was just, well, a potentially uncomfortable situation, maybe a conflict of interest.
    Still, the way she’d put it, what choice did he have? And what real harm