Private Security

by Mallory Kane

  Did he dare?

  If you want to be a private eye, you can’t be squeamish about snooping into other people’s stuff. He smiled to himself.

  He had to admit it was fun to tease Juliana about wanting to be a private investigator. An unexpected and disturbing vision rose in his mind—of the two of them working together, his handling the legwork and her working on the research and paperwork he found so tedious. The disturbing part of his little daydream was that when the day was over, they went home together.

  All right, damn it. He rubbed his eyes. What was he going to do? He glanced toward the bedroom, wondering how late she slept.

  He growled. He needed to listen to his own rules about being a private eye. He reached for the top folder, the one she’d been looking at when he’d come in. The tab was labeled Knoblock.

  Dawson’s pulse sped up. She had information on Knoblock. Hadn’t he asked her if she’d heard the name Knoblock? She said she wasn’t sure.

  She’d lied to him.

  He opened the folder. On top of the thin stack of papers was a building permit filed by Randall Knoblock for the Sky Walk inside the Golden Galaxy. He had listed himself as a subcontractor working under Michael Delancey.

  Dawson shook his head. He had to admit it wasn’t a stretch for Juliana to assume that Michael had not only been responsible for what Knoblock did on the Sky Walk, but that he’d ordered it.

  Hell, that’s what he’d thought himself—at first.

  The sheet under the building permit was a copy of a newspaper article listing indictments. A date, May 23, 1997, was handwritten as was the name of the newspaper, the Kansas City Star. The charges listed by Knoblock’s name included criminal negligence. Dawson cursed under his breath. Apparently, Knoblock had made a long and obviously successful career of skimping on materials.

  How had Jules tracked down all this information? As far as Dawson knew there wasn’t a centralized database of crooked contractors. He was impressed.

  Dawson set that sheet aside and looked at the next one. It was a copy of a three-line piece that stated that on April 10, 2000, Randall Knoblock was released from prison.

  Just as Dawson picked it up, he saw a movement out of the corner of his eye.

  “What are you doing?” Juliana stood in the doorway to the living room in her pink pajamas. Her hair was tangled and her eyes were heavy-lidded.

  “Jules—” he said defensively, setting the folder down and standing.

  “Don’t call me that,” she snapped. “What are you doing with my folders?”

  “I just wanted to take a look at them—” Dawson started.

  “You have no right. Those are mine! I did not give you permission to look at them.”

  Her anger was way out of proportion, he thought. “Come on, Jules. I only looked at one folder, Knoblock’s. It’s not like we haven’t already talked about him. Think about my—about the note. It mentioned him. In fact, I asked you specifically if you knew the name and you said you weren’t sure.”

  She glared at him and pushed her hands through her hair, pulling it back and twisting it up.

  “You shouldn’t be snooping,” she said, much less vehemently.

  “Hey,” he said, spreading his hands. “If you want my help, you’re going to have to trust me.”

  The look on her face gave him the answer to the question he’d asked himself earlier. Her cheeks were pink and she wouldn’t meet his gaze. Obviously, she’d decided that sex with him had been a mistake. Well, she could join the club.

  “Look,” he said placatingly, “I can see that you’re thinking the same thing I am. So I’ll make a promise to you right now. I swear to you that that—” he nodded toward the bedroom “—won’t happen again. Okay? How’s that? Because if we can’t trust each other, then neither one of us is going to get what we want.”

  Her cheeks flamed even brighter than before. “It won’t happen again?” she whispered.

  Dawson grimaced. He hated that her voice was so small and tentative. It was a blow to his ego that she regretted making love with him that much.

  “No, it won’t,” he said, but couldn’t resist adding, “unless you want it to.” He shrugged and smiled.

  She didn’t smile back. “I have to—” she cocked her head slightly backward “—to take a shower.” She turned on her heel and disappeared. He heard the door to the guest room close, then open a few seconds later. Then he heard the bathroom door close.

  He blew out a long breath. “Way to go, Delancey,” he growled.

  * * *

  JULIANA LIFTED HER FACE to the hot spray, pretending that the wetness on her face was a hundred percent water and zero percent tears, and that the heat was the steam rather than embarrassment and humiliation.

  That won’t happen again. Dawson’s emphatic declaration had sent hurt and embarrassment stabbing through her. She’d woken up in his bed, stretching languidly, satiated after a night of lovemaking that could only be described as mind-blowing, to find that his side of the bed was empty and cold.

  Uh-oh, her little voice said. Are things going to be awkward? Dawson probably brought women to his apartment all the time. If she judged by his looks, personality and performance in bed, she’d have to conclude that he got a lot of practice.

  She, on the other hand, did not. She got offers and come-ons, but she was very picky about who she went to bed with. The trail of lovers she’d left in her wake was extremely short—practically nonexistent, in fact. Two hardly qualified as a trail.

  She turned around to let the hot water run on her back as she remembered his hot, hard body against hers. She didn’t know what made his touch different, but as soon as he’d caressed her, all the careful control she brought to everything had dissolved.

  When she thought about how abandoned, maybe even wanton, she’d been, her face burned again. She’d done things, and so had he, that she’d never experienced before.

  An aftershock of pleasure centered in her core, turning her knees to jelly. She moaned and steadied herself with a hand against the shower wall as she arched in reaction and tears welled in her eyes. To have a climax, even a tiny one, by just thinking about what they’d done—nothing like that had ever happened to her, either.

  And never would again. To her dismay, she was crying again. She had to get a grip. She couldn’t let Dawson know how much he’d hurt her. She’d just have to act as though she was as blasé about the sex as he was. It’s probably what he was used to—given the type of women she imagined him dating.

  She shivered. The shower water was cooling off. She quickly bathed and washed her hair, then grabbed a towel. As she dried off, she thought about him sneaking a look at her folders.

  Anger swept through her—at him for snooping. At herself for hanging on to those few pages of information she’d unearthed. She ran her fingers through her wet hair, then dried off the mirror and looked at herself.

  Her eyes grew wide and her mouth fell open as a disturbing thought occurred to her. Dawson had come to her. He’d been the one to suggest that they work together. And he’d been eyeing those folders from the beginning.

  Juliana didn’t like what her brain was telling her, but it made sense. Pitiful sense. She knew that whatever tiny bits of information she’d gleaned needed to be shared with Dawson if they were going to ever figure out what had happened to the Sky Walk. But she’d clung to those folders—not because they contained valuable information she didn’t want Dawson to have, but because they didn’t.

  As soon as Dawson realized how little information she had, he’d realize he didn’t need her a quarter as much as she needed him. And then he’d be gone.

  A brisk knock sounded on the door, startling her. “Jules, I just got a call from Brian—Detective Hardy. They’ve got a match for the fingerprints they lifted off the beam. The guy’s in custody, and they want us down there.”

  She frowned at herself in the mirror. “But we didn’t see anybody.”

  “Just hurry up,” he snapp
ed.

  She winced at the tone in his voice. “Do I have time to dry my hair?” she called out, but she heard his footsteps walking away.

  She towel dried her hair and rushed to pull on jeans and a top. Obviously, there was no time to put on makeup or fix her hair. So she caught her damp waves up in a ponytail, grabbed her purse and headed to the kitchen.

  Dawson was waiting, jingling his car keys. When he saw her his brows drew down for an instant, but he didn’t say a word. He just opened the door to the garage and stood back for her to precede him down the stairs.

  * * *

  AT THE POLICE STATION, which was nearly vacant because it was Saturday, Dawson glanced around. He saw Brian Hardy coming out of what must have been the break room, carrying a steaming cup of coffee. He saw them and walked over.

  “Morning, Dawson, Ms. Caprese. Coffee?”

  Dawson shook his head.

  Jules leaned forward and sniffed near Brian’s coffee cup. “Yes, please, if it’s even half as good as it smells.”

  Brian smiled at her. “Maybe half as good, if you’re lucky. How do you take it?”

  “Black is fine.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Once the detective had walked away, Dawson said, “While we’re here, I want to ask Brian if he knows anything about Randall Knoblock.”

  Jules looked at him with a frown. “Go ahead,” she said.

  He clenched his jaw. “I don’t want to step on your toes, seeing how upset you were that I looked at your little folder.”

  He was being mean and he knew it, but it frustrated the hell out of him that she didn’t trust him enough to share with him information that could help to figure out who had caused the Sky Walk to collapse. He wanted to tell her that there was nothing in her precious folders that he couldn’t find out on his own, given enough time. He wanted to point out to her that the whole concept of working together meant sharing information.

  Jules shot him a glare. “Like you said, we’d already talked about Knoblock.”

  His brows shot up. What was that? A semiapology for being so possessive about her folders?

  Brian came back with a second steaming cup of coffee. “The suspect is in the interrogation room. His name is William Maynard. I’m going to take you two into the viewing room, where you can see him through the one-way mirror. See if you recognize him.”

  “I don’t understand,” Jules said. “I didn’t see anybody and I don’t think Dawson did, either.”

  “I don’t remember seeing anyone,” Dawson agreed. “But it’s amazing what your subconscious notices—someone walking on the street or sitting in a car. It doesn’t register at the time, but if you see them again, like this—” he gestured toward the interrogation room “—you might remember.”

  The detective led the way to the viewing room, which was dark as pitch. He flipped on a light switch, and the glass panel on the wall revealed a skinny guy fidgeting in a wooden chair. He had on a black T-shirt and his arms and neck were covered with tattoos. He was facing the one-way glass. When Brian closed the door, he looked up.

  “He can’t see us, right? Can he hear us?” Jules whispered.

  Dawson shook his head as Brian answered. “Nope. He might have heard the door close, but he can’t hear us. This room is soundproof. He sees a mirror. But he’s been around enough to know that we’re in here watching him.”

  Jules was staring through the glass with a frown on her face. “His fingerprints were on the beam that fell on us?” she asked.

  “Right,” Hardy said. “Why? Do you recognize him?”

  “No, I don’t think so. How could he have dropped that steel beam by himself? It was huge.”

  “I wondered that myself,” Hardy answered. “He’s worked construction in the past. In fact, he signed on to work on the Golden Galaxy, but he never got a paycheck. To answer your question, our genius in there dropped the bolt cutters he used to shear the bolts that held the beam. My crime scene investigator found them lying in the office area near the beam.”

  “Genius is right.” Dawson laughed. “What’s the charge—assault with intent?”

  “He’ll probably deal it out, but it should be worth a couple of years.”

  “So his fingerprints prove he dropped the beam, right?” Juliana asked. “What do you need from me?”

  “It would be better if we had an eyewitness who could put him there at the right time.”

  “I can’t do that. I did hear noises, but nothing that would prove anything.” She spread her hands in a helpless gesture.

  Brian glanced at Dawson. “What about the guy? Any chance you might have seen him somewhere else?”

  Jules glanced narrowly from Brian to Dawson. “Somewhere else?”

  She looked back at the tattooed man. Dawson followed her gaze. The little skunk was picking his teeth with a fingernail. Both teeth and nails were mottled and broken. Crack addict.

  Jules said, “You think he’s the one who stole my letter, don’t you?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Brian replied. “I was just thinking you might have spotted him somewhere if he’s been following you.”

  Jules met Dawson’s gaze. Her look said, I know that’s what he means.

  “Well?” he asked. “What do you think? Ever see him before?”

  She unconsciously arched her shoulder and put a hand to the fading bruise on her face. She didn’t say anything, just stared at the man.

  “Talk about what you remember from the attack,” Brian suggested. “Try to picture what you saw, what you felt.”

  She nodded, not taking her eyes off the suspect. “I walked out of the post office. I don’t know where he was—not in the building. There was no one else in there.” She took a breath. “I hadn’t taken three steps on the sidewalk when I was hit from behind.” She stopped and shook her head.

  “No, not hit. Shoved. He shoved me.” She nodded. “I fell on my knee, but for some reason I kept falling. I think he may have shoved me again because I landed on my shoulder—hard.” She arched it again, wincing.

  Dawson watched her carefully. When she didn’t say anything else, he prompted her. “When did he grab the letter?”

  She closed her eyes. “I had it in my hand. I don’t think I realized right away that someone had hit me. My shoulder was hurting badly, but I tried to get up. That’s when he—” She gasped and her eyes flew open.

  “Omigosh, that’s him!” she cried. “That’s him. Look at the tattoos.”

  “Tell me about them. Why are you so sure this is the guy?” Brian asked, his voice level.

  Jules pointed.

  Maynard rested his elbows on the table and was playing with a sandwich wrapper. His full sleeves of tattoos were clearly visible. “See the one on his left arm? It looks like a vine—” She paused. “Or is it a snake? Anyhow, it’s got all those colors in it. He reached around me and jerked the letter out of my hand and that’s what I saw. That—” She made a winding motion with her hand.

  Brian set his foam cup on the table. “Great. That gives me probable cause for a warrant to search his house and car for the letter.” He glanced at his watch. “I need to call Maura. Maura Presley, the A.D.A. With any luck, she can find us a judge.”

  “What else do you need from us?” Dawson asked.

  “Just a signed statement from you,” he told Juliana. “You’ll need to go into detail about where and when you saw him, describe exactly what happened, step by step if you can. And state how you’re positive he’s the man who attacked you.” Brian paused. “If you are. Please just state the facts. Don’t get into conjecture. I need this to be as clean as possible.”

  Jules nodded. “What will you do? Question him? Will I need to talk to him?”

  “No, no,” Brian assured her. “I doubt seriously this will go to trial. Our friend in there has priors. He’ll be anxious to plead this out. Maybe we can deal with him to give us whoever sicced him on you.”

  Jules met Dawson’s gaze. He knew exactly wha
t she was thinking. When the slimy little skunk gave up the person who’d sent him to spy on her and steal any answers she got to her newspaper ad, the name would be Michael Delancey.

  While Jules wrote out her statement, Dawson talked to Brian about Randall Knoblock and got him to print out a copy of Maynard’s mug shot. Then he gave Ryker a call to see if he had time to talk this afternoon. Ryker and his wife, Nicole, were painting the house they’d bought. He gave Dawson the new address.

  Ten minutes later he and Jules were back in the car. She settled back against the seat with a sigh. “Did you hear that? He was the guy who attacked me.”

  “I was standing right there,” he said with a smile.

  “Did you talk to Detective Hardy about Knoblock?”

  Dawson nodded. “He knew a little about him, mostly from the information they have on the Golden Galaxy—that he was the subcontractor for the Sky Walk.” He glanced at her sidelong. “Interestingly, Hardy didn’t have the information from Kansas City.”

  She lit up at that, just like he knew she would. She’d found something a police detective hadn’t found. “Really? Did you tell him what I’d found?”

  He shook his head. “I thought I’d wait and make sure you wanted to share that with him.”

  “Why wouldn’t I,” she snapped, “if it will help him figure out who’s responsible for my dad’s death?”

  “Hey, calm down. It’s Saturday and he’s still got to get a warrant to search Maynard’s property before some buddy of his goes in and cleans everything up.”

  “Maynard. He’s a creepy-looking guy.”

  “He’s a petty thief, a crack addict, a bully and a skunk. Likes to carry around a billy club.”

  “A billy club?” Juliana’s hand went to her shoulder. “That must be what he hit me with.”

  “Yeah, no.” He laughed harshly. “If he had, your shoulder wouldn’t have been dislocated. It would have been crushed. He must have had orders not to hurt you.”

  “Orders from whom?” she asked with a shiver. “When will Detective Hardy know something?”

  “I doubt we’ll hear anything until Monday. We’ll take him the information about Knoblock in Kansas City and see what he’s found out.”