Private Security

by Mallory Kane

  He knocked on the door. “Jules? I’ve got your groceries.”

  After a couple of minutes, the door opened. That haughty glare was in place, and there were tears on her cheeks. She held a wet cloth in her hand and the yogurt on the front of her skirt was smeared.

  He held up the bag. “I saved what I could.”

  She reached for the bag, but he held it out of reach. “Invite me in. I need to wash my hands.”

  She leaned against the door and shook her head. “I don’t know who you are or why you’re stalking me, but if you don’t leave right now, I’m going to call the police.”

  “I’m not stalking you. I rescued your butt and saved your groceries. Now we can leave the door open, or we can talk outside or I’ll buy you a cup of coffee—”

  At that she gave him a disgusted look and gestured toward her stained skirt and her yogurt-and-egg-streaked legs.

  “Okay. I can wait out here until you clean up, but I’m warning you, I won’t leave until we talk. I can promise you that you will thank me afterward.”

  Her brows rose. “I sincerely doubt that.”

  He stepped to the side of the door and slid down the wall to a crouch, his forearms resting on his knees.

  “Are you kidding me?” she blurted.

  Dawson glanced up at her sidelong. “Nope.”

  “What’s your interest in the Sky Walk?” she asked suspiciously.

  “I’ll tell you,” he said, rising, “if you’ll invite me in.” He waggled his eyebrows. “You know you want to.”

  She immediately reached behind her for the door handle, so he stopped, his hand up. “Okay. Jules—Ms. Caprese—you want to know who was responsible for your father’s death. I want to know the same thing. I have resources that you can’t possibly have. Plus I have experience in surveillance. I want to help you.”

  She stared at him for a long moment. She shrugged, then winced. “I don’t—” She stopped. She looked behind her, then back at him, frowning. “You have experience in surveillance?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  After a few seconds, she inclined her head, begrudgingly inviting him inside.

  Her apartment looked like her—trim and elegant and decked out in black and white. The walls were brilliant white. The couch was black and white striped and flanked by a white club chair with large black flowers. The only color was the red rug on the floor and the bookcase, which bulged with hardbacks and paperbacks.

  Juliana couldn’t believe her eyes. As soon as he stepped through the door, her small apartment changed. She’d decorated it to be elegant and sophisticated. But with him standing there, it suddenly seemed kind of prissy. She closed the door behind him but didn’t lock it. “Who are you?” she asked.

  He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a card. He glanced at it, his mouth set, before handing it to her.

  Juliana took the card reluctantly by its edge. She didn’t want to risk touching him again. It read D&D Services, Inc., Biloxi, Mississippi. John Dawson. It was a duplicate of the one sitting on her desk. There was no street address. Just a phone number and the words By appointment only.

  She looked up at him, searching his face. “John Dawson,” she said, trying out the name.

  He raised a brow. “Yep.”

  John Dawson. An average, run-of-the-mill name for a man who was anything but.

  “Okay, Mr. Dawson.” She took a deep breath. “You didn’t seek me out just so you could help me. What’s your game? And how do I know you’re not working for the same people who—” She stopped and pressed her lips together.

  “Who what?” he said sharply. “Did that to you?” He pointed to her shoulder and then to the scrape on her cheek. “What happened?”

  Juliana turned away, trying to figure out why she had such an urge to confide in this stranger. The little voice in the back of her mind that had protected her many times spoke up.

  Are we sure we can trust this Dawson? We don’t know anything about him except what he’s told us. For all we know he could be the person behind your attack.

  Chapter Two

  To give herself a little space, Juliana walked over to her refrigerator and filled a glass of water. She took a couple of sips, then turned around.

  “Would you like some water?” she asked. Only a few feet separated them. And that wasn’t nearly enough. He filled up her little apartment with his tall, lanky frame. She’d already been introduced, intimately, to his long legs and lean, powerful thighs and the fact that he was definitely a virile, heterosexual male when she’d fallen on him. Add to that his broad, sinewy shoulders and those really beautiful hands, and the sum was a seriously hot guy.

  But there was no way she trusted him. He’d shown up like a good Samaritan just as she dropped her groceries. But unlike a helpful passerby, he knew her name. Had he been following her? Worse, had he been waiting for a chance to worm his way into her apartment?

  Suddenly, it didn’t matter how hot he was. He was a stranger—a stranger who knew an awful lot about her. Her gaze snapped to her front door.

  Big mistake, letting him get between us and the door, her little voice chided her. We’ll never make it before he catches us.

  He looked at her, glanced over his shoulder at the door, then back at her. “Come on. If you’re not going to trust me, then I probably should leave. But I’m betting that together we can figure out what happened at the Golden Galaxy Casino and put the person responsible for the Sky Walk’s collapse behind bars. I’m not sure either of us can do it alone.” He sighed. “So what do you say?”

  She leveled a suspicious gaze at him. “How do you know my name?” she asked.

  “Because you put an ad in the paper looking for information about the collapse of the Sky Walk.”

  She set her jaw and shook her head. “My name wasn’t on the ad.”

  “No, it wasn’t. I found the post office box and watched it. When you showed up to check it, I got your license plate.”

  She gasped, trepidation tightening her chest. “You’ve been following me,” she accused, but then a different emotion blossomed in her chest. “Wait a minute, if you were there…did you…did you see who attacked me and stole my letter?”

  Dawson frowned. “That’s what happened? Someone stole a letter you got through the ad? I can’t say I’m surprised. Didn’t you realize putting that ad in the paper made you a sitting duck? You’re lucky all you’ve got were a few bruises.”

  She flushed.

  “It didn’t take me any time to find you.” He’d hung around the post office box for a couple of days, long enough to spot her checking the box. Then he’d had his brother Reilly, a cop for the Chef Voleur Sheriff’s Office, run her plates.

  Juliana Caprese, the daughter of the casino manager who was killed when the famous Sky Walk at the Golden Galaxy Casino collapsed three months ago, owned the car. That surprised and intrigued him.

  “When did it happen?”

  “Two days ago—Tuesday. It was a small man in a hoodie. I’d just taken the letter out of the box. It was the first response I’d gotten to the ad. As soon as I walked outside, he knocked me down and grabbed it. That’s when—” She gestured toward her shoulder.

  “And that bruise on the side of your face?”

  “Where he hit me.”

  “Bastard,” Dawson said, not even trying to mask his fury at the scumbag. “Who sent the letter?”

  “I didn’t open it. It was addressed to the post office box and there was no return address.”

  “What about the postmark?”

  “I didn’t look at it that closely. I was late for work. I was going to open it on my break.” She made a face. “I should have opened it. There was something inside.”

  “What do you mean? Something besides paper?”

  “It was a regular number 10 envelope, the kind you pay bills in. But there was something besides paper inside it. About two inches long. Kind of flat.”

  “You couldn’t tell what it was? Wha
t it felt like?”

  “No, I was in a hurry.”

  “And that’s the only response you’ve gotten?”

  “I haven’t been back.” She indicated her shoulder. “It’s a little hard to get around.”

  “What about the man who attacked you? Did you get a look at his face? Any identifying marks?”

  “Yes, he had tattoos on his arms—” She touched her forearm just above her wrist. “At least that far, which was all I saw. Everything happened so fast. But they were colorful.”

  “What did the police say?”

  Juliana’s front teeth scraped her lower lip. She looked away. “I didn’t call the police.”

  Dawson’s fury morphed into irritation at her. “Why the hell not? Because you decided you’d handle this vigilante-style? Or because you don’t have a carry permit for that Ladysmith you’ve got in your waistband?”

  She looked surprised and guilty. “I’m no vigilante, but I did decide I wasn’t going to be attacked again.”

  “Good for you. Question is, do you know how to use that weapon? Because if you don’t—”

  She nodded. “My dad taught me.” Her mouth twisted. “He thought I should be prepared.”

  Dawson sat back. “Are you any good?”

  Her eyes snapped. “You want to go to the pistol range and check me out?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll wait until your shoulder gets better. Wouldn’t want you claiming a handicap.” He regarded her solemnly. “Why did you put the ad in the paper?”

  Her chin went up. “Because someone out there knows what happened to the Sky Walk.”

  “You’re looking for someone to blame for your father’s death.”

  “No, that’s not it, Mr. Dawson,” she said.

  He held up a hand. “Hey, just Dawson, okay?”

  “Fine. Dawson. I’m not looking for someone to blame. I know who’s to blame. I just need evidence to prove it.”

  Dawson’s eyes narrowed. “You know? Who? Who do you know caused your father’s death?”

  “Michael Delancey, the contractor who built the Golden Galaxy. I’ve talked to the detectives, the crime scene investigators, Mr. Kaplan, the architect who drew up the plans—they all believe that something must have been wrong with the metal framework. Whether it was substandard materials or shoddy workmanship they don’t know. But although Mr. Kaplan told me the materials list was marginally up to code, there were definite shortcuts taken. That’s what happens when a contractor cuts costs to make a bigger profit.”

  Dawson kept his expression and his voice even. “From what I hear, the Delanceys are loaded. Why would he bother?”

  “Maybe he’s in money trouble. Maybe he just wasn’t concerned. I don’t care why he did it. I just care about getting justice for my dad. He didn’t deserve to die like that.”

  Dawson nodded grimly. “I’m interested in what happened to the Sky Walk, too. For a client who was injured.”

  Juliana’s brows rose. “A client? Who?” Her gaze narrowed. “Just what is D&D Services? Your card is pretty snobbish, with no indication of what your services are.”

  “I figure if someone needs my services, they’ll know.”

  “Well, assume I don’t.”

  “I own a security agency. I provide bodyguards, security systems, investigative services. My motto is Dedication and Discretion.” He made a little gesture. “D and D.”

  She gasped, then her eyes widened and to his surprise, her mouth widened in a grin. “You’re a private eye?” she asked.

  He frowned at her. What the hell was so funny? “Yep, you could say that.”

  “A real private investigator! Wow!” Her dark eyes snapped with interest. “I’m going to be a private investigator.”

  Okay. That shocked him. “You’re what?”

  “I’ve always wanted to be a private eye. I got my degree in Administrative Justice. But I can’t afford to start my own business, and nobody wants to hire someone with no experience.”

  “So you’re working as a dealer in a casino.”

  She studied him for a few seconds. “I need to know who your client is.”

  “Look, Jules—”

  Her jaw set again. “Don’t call me that. My name is Juliana.”

  “Fine. Juliana. I have a contractual obligation to my client. I can’t tell you anything.”

  She shook her head. “I see what this is about. You don’t want to work with me. You just want to get your hands on what I’ve found out, so you don’t have to reinvent the wheel.” She waved a hand. “Just how long have you been following me? Quite a while, I’d guess, because you figured out that I would be going to visit Kaplan Wright Architects, and left your card there. Pretty good detective work. But no, I have no reason to work with you. It could have been your client who stole my letter.”

  Then a harsh laugh escaped her lips. “You could be working for Michael Delancey, for all I know.”

  Dawson fought to keep his face from showing any reaction. “I guarantee you I’m interested in the same thing you are.”

  “Yeah? What thing?”

  “Getting to the truth. What’s your thing?”

  “I told you. I want to know who was behind the collapse of the Sky Walk.”

  “Didn’t you just say you know who it was? Michael Delancey.”

  Her gaze wavered. “I think it’s him. He was the contractor after all, but I need to be sure.” She paused. “What about you? Do you think it was Michael Delancey?”

  Dawson didn’t trust his ability to hold on to his placid expression, so he stood and walked over to the window. “I don’t know whose fault it was, but I can tell you this. I will do everything I can to get to the truth.”

  “No matter who it hurts?” she persisted.

  He thought about Michael Delancey, the heir to a vast fortune and a tainted legacy. Infamous Senator Con Delancey’s son. Michael had gone into construction rather than pursue politics, wanting to distance himself from his scandalous father.

  Once his firstborn son was old enough, he’d brought him into the business. But the son soon grew suspicious of his father’s business practices. Then when Michael was indicted for gross negligence and gross misconduct, his son had separated himself from his father. He’d quit the construction business and started his own company.

  No matter who it hurts? Juliana Caprese had asked Dawson.

  If he pursued the truth, he wouldn’t stop until he’d found it. And if the truth led him to Michael Delancey’s door, then so be it.

  “No matter who it hurts,” John Dawson Delancey answered.

  At that instant his phone rang. He fished it out of the holder at his belt and checked the display.

  Speak of the devil. He grimaced as he killed the connection. “That’s a call I’ve been expecting,” he told Juliana. “I have to go. I’ll call you later.”

  “But you don’t have my phone—” She stopped when he sent her an amused glance. “Oh.” Her eyes sparked with interest. “You used your private eye tricks to get my number, didn’t you?”

  He shook his head tiredly. But as he headed for the door, she called after him, “You have got to tell me how you did that.”

  He grinned to himself as an image rose in his mind of a gorgeous, long-legged private eye with her left arm in a sling, her right hand brandishing a weapon and her skirt blowing up to reveal pink panties. It would be very interesting to see if Juliana Caprese became a private investigator. Only trouble was, eventually she’d figure out who he was, and once she did, the only thing he’d see of her was that firm butt disappearing from his life. But for now he could enjoy his image of her as a gumshoe. Did they make high-heeled gumshoes?

  Dawson climbed into his nondescript Honda Accord and set the phone down in the console. He didn’t like driving the boring silver mom car, although it handled well. He much preferred driving his new Corvette, but the Accord was perfect for tailing or surveillance. Its greatest attribute was that it looked like any other car on the street.


  As he pulled away from the curb he frowned. He had to call his father back. He hit Redial and listened to the phone ring on his Bluetooth connection. The name on the display read Michael Delancey. He’d removed the word Dad years ago.

  “Yel-lo.” The familiar voice pricked Dawson’s chest like a thorn. His dad had finally come out of his melancholy and started answering the phone. For months after he was released from prison, he’d sat in front of the TV, not speaking unless he was forced to.

  “It’s me,” Dawson said shortly. “You called?”

  “Hey, son. I was just checking to see if you had any news.”

  Dawson grimaced. He didn’t want Michael Delancey to call him son. “No. I told you, I’d call you when I found out anything. I warned you not to call my cell phone. It’s for work only. Leave me a message at my condo or I swear I’ll get my number changed.”

  “Okay. No problem.” Michael’s voice was almost toneless. Dawson knew he wasn’t really listening to him.

  “I mean it!” he snapped.

  “I get it!” Michael snapped back and Dawson knew he did. “What about that ad? Did you track down who placed it?”

  “I’m working on that.” He wasn’t about to tell his dad that it was Vincent Caprese’s daughter who’d offered ten thousand dollars for the name of the person responsible for the Sky Walk’s collapse.

  “You’ve been working on it for weeks. Damn it, Dawson, the police have already questioned me three times. I can’t go back to prison. I can’t!”

  “Why do you think they keep coming back? Obviously they don’t like something you’re telling them. Why don’t you give them the straight story for once?” Dawson turned into the parking lot of his waterfront condo overlooking Biloxi’s Back Bay.

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. “You still think I’m not? Damn it to hell, if I had anything else that would help—” He broke off with a frustrated huff.

  There was no mistaking the desperation in his father’s voice. Dawson steeled himself against the compassion that he felt rising in his chest—compassion his dad didn’t deserve.

  “Dawson? You’ve got to believe me. I didn’t have anything to do with the Sky Walk’s collapse. If my own son won’t believe me, I guess I’m sunk.”