The Dead Gigolo Caper (Suds and Sam Book 4) Read online

  Suds & Sam

  And

  The Dead Gigolo

  Caper

  By Stella Marie Alden

  Copyright (C) 2020 Stella Marie Alden

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

  [email protected]

  This book is dedicated to all the men and women who suffer with PTSD. Hang in there!

  A special thanks to Rich, my advance reading team, Michelle and Jennifer, my fans, and my personal assistant, Katherine. Thank you all for believing in me.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  From the Author

  THE BUSHWICK SERIES

  SLATE

  Chapter 1

  Suds Sutcliff

  “Are you the detectives?” A half-frozen, gray-haired woman stands in the sleet and points to the sign painted on our second floor window.

  My partner steps over a puddle, holds out her hand, and smiles. “That’s us. I’m Samantha Russo and this is Sebastian Sutcliff.”

  “I’m Martha Rossini. Nice to meet you both.” Judging from the icicles on her hat and coat, I’d estimate she’s been standing on the sidewalk in front of our building for over an hour.

  Goodbye hot-sex, so-long football, and bye-bye nap. Remembering my manners, I reach my elbow forward.

  Gnarled fingers grip my forearm and her wrinkled face leans in. “I think I may have witnessed a murder.”

  Samantha raises her eyebrows. Our hours are clearly printed on our front door and on Sunday, we’re closed. I’d say comeback tomorrow except for the age of our potential client. She might be suffering from dementia and wandered away from a senior center. Who knows how long she’s been out in the elements?

  My gorgeous, somewhat waterlogged partner unlocks the front door and points up the steep flight of stairs. “Our office is on the second floor but we can talk down here, if you’d rather.”

  “No problem, young lady. I’m not dead yet.” The woman lets go of my bicep, grabs hold of the banister, and spryly trots up the steps.

  Grinning, Sam shoots me a glance and runs up behind her. I follow them as they pass through the waiting area and into our office/living-space.

  “Coffee? Tea?” Sam unzips her parka in the kitchen space.

  “Do you have anything stronger?” The stranger stuffs leather gloves in her pocket, slips out of her soggy wool jacket, and looks around for someplace to put it.

  Taking her wet wrap, I hang it on a coat tree and do the same for Sam before directing the lady to the couch. Once seated, she removes her hat and shakes her gray curls free of water.

  Holy shit, I’m no expert but recently I’ve been searching for an engagement ring and have a pretty good idea of the cost of those earrings. If they’re real, they’re worth a small fortune.

  Whoever this old bird is, she has enough dough to afford us. Too bad she’s probably suffering from Alzheimer’s.

  Ice cubes clink, Sam pours a shot of whiskey, and I sit next to our client on the sofa. “Ma’am? If you saw a murder, why not call the police?”

  “Why does anyone come to a private detective agency?” Unsettling, intelligent, blue eyes search mine.

  Then she cackles. “I came to you because they don’t believe me.”

  Ah, shit. Another nutcase.

  With a wave of my hand, I point to the ’fridge. “Bring me a beer, would you please, sugar?”

  I need to wash down my disappointment. Bills piling up, it would’ve been nice to have a wealthy client.

  My partner, the eternal optimist, tosses her blond locks and smiles and clunks a glass down on the coffee table. Sitting on the far end of the sofa, I read her mind. Unlike me, she’s not giving up.

  I’m about to put my foot down when from out of nowhere, a yellow ball of fur zooms across the room putting her paw in my beer.

  “No kitty. Get down.” With me momentarily distracted, Sam gets the upper hand.

  “Why not start at the beginning, Mrs. Rossini?” Eyes bright, my pretty lady kicks off her boots and tucks her stocking feet under her butt.

  Hell no, we aren’t getting comfortable.

  “You can call me Martha, dear.” Wrinkled fingers wrap around her whiskey and she begins before I can put an end to this nonsense.

  “It happened last Wednesday. I’d already gone to bed when I heard a car across the street. Curious, I got up and observed out my front window. An old woman can’t be too careful, don’t you agree?”

  I try to butt in but Samantha bobs her head. “Wholeheartedly. Please continue.”

  “Well, I see my neighbor pick up a small vial. She tap, taps it over a wine glass.”

  At this point, I have to stop this ridiculous tall tale. “You saw all this through your window, ma’am?”

  “Night vision CFGH4 government-issue binoculars. Top of the line.” She glares and pauses, no doubt waiting for the shock to wear off.

  Hell, now she’s got my attention. “Sorry to interrupt. Proceed.”

  “No problem. I should have mentioned that to begin with.” Tilting back her head, Martha belts back her whiskey and swallows.

  I guess she figures I’m done interrupting because she leans in and lowers her voice. “So, after my neighbor poisoned the drink, she handed the glass to a man who took one sip, grabbed his chest, and keeled over.”

  She shakes her head, the diamonds on her ears glitter, and Cat zooms across the room to pounce on the reflections.

  “Oh my.” Standing, Mrs. Rossini walks across the room, pats our playful kitten, then twists our vertical blinds shut.

  While Sam reaches for a lamp, I wonder why the old woman’s so jumpy. “What you witnessed is hardly evidence of foul play, ma’am.”

  “Agreed. That’s why I need you.” Our new client reaches into her purse and comes out with a pen and checkbook.

  My partner’s eyes glitter, no doubt seeing dollar signs but I’m nowhere near as eager. I don’t fleece old ladies and I’m not convinced there’s anything to investigate. “Did you see this woman remove a body?”

  “No. I watched all night and into the next morning, as long as I could.” She sighs. “That poor, poor man. I couldn’t make out his features but I have to assume it was her husband.”

  Samantha pulls out her laptop and her fingers fly across the keyboard, no doubt taking detailed notes. “Do you know your neighbors names?”

  “Oh yes.” Martha digs back into her leather bag and hands me an index card. “Here’s her name and address.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Gallo. Hmm.” As I read the perfect cursive,
I whistle through my teeth. “That neighborhood is one of Bensonhurst’s most expensive.”

  Upon hearing my appreciation, Mrs. Rossini nods. “My house has been in my family for several generations. I decided to move back with my daughter when I retired. It’s very safe… generally.”

  I glance over at Sam, again wondering if we should take the case. A crime seems unlikely and if the police wouldn’t believe her, why should we?

  How the hell do I politely back out of this job?

  Mrs. Rossini senses my hesitation because she turns her back to me and hands a dog-eared, business card to my partner. “My contact information is here.”

  Ignoring all my nonverbal warnings, my reckless sugar-pie smiles broadly. “Our retainer is five hundred and we charge by the hour.”

  Mrs. Martha Rossini writes us a check and stands. “That sounds very reasonable. Thank you. I should be going.”

  “Can I call you an Uber?” Sam reaches for her cell phone.

  “No need. Bye-bye. I look forward to hearing from you.” After her footsteps echo down the stairs and the outside door slams shut, Catrina scratches the couch.

  “Bad kitty!”

  “Meow.”

  “I mean it, no claws.” Sam points and Cat, thinking it’s a game, pounces on her hand.

  Standing, I open a drawer, unwrap a favorite feather toy, and bounce it in front of Cat’s nose. She’s not interested until I did it in my glass.

  “Sebastian. You’re not helping.” Samantha’s beautiful brown eyes narrow yet she can’t help but laugh when Catrina flips in the air.

  “I read online we need to keep her amused or she may start breaking shit.”

  “Well, try to do it without the beer. I’m not at all convinced she doesn’t have feline fetal alcohol syndrome.”

  “Could be. After all, her auntie Chloe is a lush.” Grinning, I recall the night we kidnapped Frankie-the-hitman’s cat.

  The cat-napping brings to mind the heated sex we had after and I wonder if we can return to my previously-scheduled afternoon agenda.

  “Did you believe Martha’s story?” I pull my woman onto my lap, kiss her, and as we pause for air, she cups my cheek, dark eyes sparkling.

  “I’m quite certain she thinks she saw something.”

  “What about her hi-tech night vision goggles? If she really owns a pair, she could’ve seen a flea on a dog’s ass. Still… she must be what, eighty?”

  “More like eighty-five or ninety. How about we discuss it after we have new-case-sex?” She grabs her beer, finishes it off, and then smirks.

  “I was thinking Sunday-afternoon-after-the-game-sex, but I’m flexible.” I kiss the top of her head, inhale her shampoo, and as she wriggles out of my lap, my cock grows hard.

  “I may have noticed.” Smirking, she stares at my junk as I stand.

  “How the fuck did I get so lucky?”

  “We could discuss it better, upstairs.” She pulls me toward the spiral staircase and pads up the iron steps in her stocking feet. Halfway there, her pretty butt dances in front of my face so I lean forward, hold her, and bite her ass.

  Laughing, she slaps my nose and races up the rest of the way. “Don’t bump your head.”

  “Noted.” Reminded how I can only stand upright in the center of the room, I bend over. The loft isn’t much but it sure beats living with Sam’s two cousins in her uncle Vinny’s building.

  Dropping onto my knees, I pull her beside me, and crash my lips to hers. My desire spikes as if I haven’t had sex for days but in truth, it’s only been since this morning.

  I thrust my tongue into her mouth, tasting her beer. Wanting more, I hold her cheeks for a better angle, her clever hands untuck my dress shirt and unbuckle my belt. My cock, no fool, swells for her attention. Obliging, she unfastens my jeans and my wet want pops up under the band of my tighty-whiteys.

  Craving her touch, I kiss her deeper. In response, she pulls out my length and wraps her fingers around me. Not wanting this to end too soon, I turn onto my back and take her with me.

  Butt on her ankles, squatting on top of my navel, she ducks out of her black sweater, exposing her sexy black bra. My hands cup her full, perfectly-sized breasts and while I play, she slides her wet center over my lower half.

  Cock teased to the max, I sit up, and she falls off. After pulling off of her tights, I climb up her body, and slip one bra strap down, then the other. With her upper arms tethered to her sides, I suck hard on the lace of her bodice until her nipples point.

  She moans, her lips part, and when her big eyes meet mine, I kiss her with all my heart and soul. We catch our breath as her busy fingers unbutton my shirt and mine unlatch her bra. Seconds later, we’re skin to skin, rubbing all over each other.

  I slide off my jeans and underwear, bite my lower lip, and try to slow the fuck down. However, as the scent of her sex fills my nostrils and more blood runs south, I position myself at her entrance.

  Spreading her legs wide, she thinks I’m about to enter, but instead, I place my thumb on her nub and circle in her juices.

  “Sebs… Oh damn.”

  “C’mon sugar. I got you.” I press harder, she braces her heels into the mattress, and I slip in deep.

  She bucks, I pinch her nipple, and as she exhales out a scream of pleasure, I begin our dance.

  Bunches of little muscles pulse around me as I pump her into heaven. She arches up and down, doing this fucking number on me.

  More of my brain’s synapses forget to fire as I dive into her for more. Her nails dig into my upper arms, her heels clamp at the center of my back, and she clenches tight.

  “Oh fuck.” Groaning, I reach this high, this place where only she and I exist and explode inside her.

  I thrust two more mind-blowing pumps into her before collapsing onto her chest. “Hell, if I die now, I go a happy man.”

  “Amen.”

  A little while later, back in this world’s plane of existence, we lay side by side.

  “You think we can do this?” When she plays with my chest hairs, I tip up her chin so her gaze reaches mine.

  “I think we proved we can. Not only that, we’re experts.”

  She snickers, her fingertips now tracing my lips. “I know we’re good in bed, I was talking about our business, Suds and Sam.”

  My cock twitches, ready for another round but she covers him with a sheet and scolds. “Down boy.”

  “Not my fault. He’s got a mind of his own.” I snicker at her cute pout and when she stands to go, I pull her back to me.

  “We need sustenance.”

  “Man does not live by bread alone.”

  “I don’t think Jesus was referring to sex.”

  “After two thousand years, the translation probably got all messed up.”

  “You’re going to hell.”

  “Promise, if I do, you’ll come too.”

  “I will not. You need to rise up.”

  “Not a problem, sugar. Not a problem.” Done being patient, my interest swells and reaches toward her.

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  “If that means we need to make love again, you’re right.”

  After more incredible sex, I jog downstairs and grab a couple beers while she finds a bag of chips.

  She sits in my lap while I open up a shitload of emails. “We got plenty of detective business. You don’t need to worry.”

  “Uh-huh.” She points and leaves a greasy fingertip on my screen. “Mrs. Nardo? No way. We’re not doing any more work for her without money up front. Last time, she took her husband back and stiffed us on the bill.”

  Cheating spouses remind me of my mom and for a moment, I’m brought back to my childhood.

  Samantha, sensing something off, cups my cheek with her soft palm and searches my face. “You okay? I can take the divorce cases if you’d rather not.”

  “Nah. It’s nothing. I just don’t like how people don’t take their vows seriously. It pisses me off. Let’s send out some letters and
see if we get any nibbles.”

  One of my files is from Patten Securities. “Here we go. Slate says we’ll be testifying against Good Health in a class action suit.”

  “Those jerks deserve what they got coming. I kind of feel sorry for the guy we got arrested in Vermont. If he had insurance, he probably could’ve beaten his cancer and wouldn’t’ve become a criminal.”

  I squeeze her waist, thinking of our last case and how I almost lost her in a snowstorm. “He killed a woman, sugar. You shouldn’t feel too bad.”

  Nodding and chomping away on her chips, she swallows. “I know, I know. Still, with any luck, Good Health won’t be able to screw anyone ever again. So, what else do we have? Any more missing cats or missing Jesus-es?”

  I snicker at her references to our last capers. “Nope but I did ask Slate to find me a bodyguard gig. That and Mrs. Rossini’s check should see us through the month.”

  “Suds and Sam. We’re really doing it.” Grinning, she kisses me with her hot little mouth and seconds later, we’re back in the loft, football game forgotten.

  Chapter 2

  Sam Russo

  After making love, Suds and I fall asleep around midnight. The sun is barely creeping toward dawn when a jackhammer sounds as if in our living room.

  “What the…?” Squinting, I check my cell phone and yeah, it’s way too early for this shit.

  The kitten yowls downstairs as my lover stirs. “Daaammnn. What time is it?”

  “Six in the fucking morning.” I put the pillow over my head and he pulls it off.

  “Gawd almighty.” He opens his gorgeous brown eyes and my heart skips a beat at the beauty.

  “Want me to make coffee?”

  “What?” His mouth forms the words but I can’t hear a thing.

  I mime drinking from a mug, for a split second the noise stops, so I talk fast. “I’ll find out who they are. I’m pretty sure construction can’t start until seven or eight.”

  “Shit. That’s loud.” Naked, he stands in the center of our bedroom loft, the only place his head doesn’t hit the ceiling.

  Grinning, despite the rude awakening, I admire his amazing body. “Welcome to Brooklyn. It shouldn’t last more than a week.”