Private Security

by Mallory Kane

  He sat back against the couch cushions and regarded the three books. Why had she been so adamant about retrieving them from her dad’s house? What was so important about those three pages? He didn’t have a clue.

  He turned his attention to the small leather notebooks lying open, facedown on the table. He picked up the top one, the 2006 one, and quickly scanned the two facing pages. The dates were April 19 and 20 of this year. Then, even though he already knew who the pocket calendar belonged to, he flipped to the inside front page.

  Sure enough, printed in a neat, precise hand, was the name Vincent Caprese. He went back to the page for April 20.

  On the 2:00 p.m. line, he saw what Juliana had seen. A note her father wrote about Vega.

  Vega came through. Surprise! Got call from Meadow Gold Corp. Golden Galaxy, here I come! Opening June 1. Short notice…

  That’s what Juliana had told him on the phone. Vega had hired her father to manage the Golden Galaxy Casino. It was another piece of information that linked Vega to Meadow Gold Corporation.

  He remembered what else she’d said. Somehow all this is connected, but I can’t put it together on my own. That’s why she’d called him.

  As angry as she’d been at him for lying to her about who he was, she’d turned to him first when she needed help. And he’d blown her off. He blew out an exasperated breath. His parents had been grateful that he’d gone with them to review and sign their statements, but they’d have understood if he’d told them that he had to follow up a lead on the vandals who’d thrown the Molotov cocktail.

  He could have been here for Jules. He should have.

  He frowned at the yearbooks, trying to think the way she would. Why had she pulled out old grade-school yearbooks? What could be in them that could help her with her case?

  He did not have a clue, but because she’d thought they were important, he decided to go over each page thoroughly. By the time he’d gotten to the last row of names, he was more confused than ever.

  Then he zeroed in on the last name and the last picture. Anthony Vega. Dawson knew from his own research that Vega had two children—a daughter and a son. He didn’t remember their names, but there was something about the son. Hadn’t he gone to prison?

  Dawson looked at Juliana’s sixth-grade class photos. There Anthony Vega was again. But he wasn’t in the seventh-grade yearbook. So Tito Vega’s son had gone to school with Juliana from first to sixth grades.

  So what?

  Now he understood what she’d meant when she’d said that she was sure all this was connected, but that she couldn’t figure it out. He felt the same way. There was something important here, if he could just put it together.

  Tito Vega got Vincent Caprese the position of casino manager with Meadow Gold Corporation, who owned the Golden Galaxy Casino. Vega’s son went to grade school with Caprese’s daughter. Michael Delancey was convinced that Vega was behind the collapse of the Sky Walk. What was the missing link?

  He pulled out his phone. It was a smartphone but he’d rarely used all the features. But now he wanted to see what the story was with Vega’s son. With a few clicks, he was on his browser, searching for Vittorio Vega. There wasn’t much. At the top of Vega’s bio on his real-estate webpage was a family portrait, but there was no mention of the children’s names.

  Dawson searched the name Anthony Vega. He got over a hundred thousand hits. He added Mississippi to the search. That brought the number down a bit. When he added the word prison, he finally found a small archived Mississippi newspaper article that mentioned Anthony Vega. He’d been indicted and convicted of extortion in 2008. Dawson searched further, but nothing else came up.

  There was only one thing to do. He called Ryker. “What’s up?” he asked when his brother answered.

  “Me,” Ryker said disgustedly, “to my neck in paperwork. Did Mom and Dad get their statements signed?”

  “Yep. They’re back at the hotel fretting about when they can go home. I need you to do something for me.”

  “As long as it’s legal.”

  “Anthony Vega. What do you know about him?” While he talked, Dawson flipped through Caprese’s day planner for 2006, skimming the entries. Luckily, Caprese’s handwriting was neat and easy to read.

  “Tito’s kid? I believe he got a nickel for extortion, despite his daddy’s best efforts. He was a floor manager at a casino and was hitting up players who weren’t there with their wives. Seems to me he was killed in prison. Some kind of scuffle or lover’s quarrel.”

  “That’s what I thought. Got any idea when that was?”

  “Hang on.”

  Dawson heard the soft stutter of fingers on a keyboard.

  “Here it is,” Ryker said. “He went to prison in 2008. He was killed sixteen months later.”

  “What about the name of the casino?” Dawson asked.

  “It’s right here—yeah. The Beachview Casino in Gulfport.”

  At that exact moment Dawson’s gaze lit on Anthony Vega’s name, printed in Caprese’s neat handwriting. “Great. Thanks,” he said.

  “What are you up to, Daw? You’re not going to tangle with Tito Vega, are you?”

  “I’ve got a theory. If it’s right, then I may know who killed Vincent Caprese and five other innocent people.”

  “Do me a favor, maverick. Call the police. Don’t go up against Vega by yourself.”

  “Do me a favor and tell me why nobody has put him away before now.”

  Ryker sighed. “You know what Con Delancey always said. Politics and crime are like love and marriage.”

  “Right,” Dawson put in sarcastically. “You can’t have one without the other. Tell that to Aunt Bettye.”

  “It’s just a saying, Daw.”

  “Don’t tell me you buy into that?”

  “Luckily, I don’t have to worry about Vega. His influence doesn’t reach as far as Chef Voleur. He concentrates on the Mississippi Gulf Coast.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “Just watch out, Daw. You mess with Vega and somebody’s going to get hurt.”

  “You know, nobody has messed with Vega so far, and it looks like a lot of people are getting hurt.” Dawson thought about the threat Vega had sent his dad. “Dad ever mention anything about Vega to you?”

  “Dad? No. Why?”

  Dawson didn’t want to go into it. If Michael had thought Ryker or Reilly could do anything, he’d have told them about the threat on his wife’s life. “Nothing. Something I was thinking about. I’ve got to go,” he said. “Talk to you later.”

  “Daw, be careful.”

  “Always am,” Dawson tossed back, then hung up. He read Caprese’s note written on April 6, in his 2006 day planner.

  Anthony Vega. Flr mgr hired 01/2006. Q re: blackmail! Davis interviewing complainants.

  Anthony Vega worked for Caprese in 2006! He turned to the front of the day planner. On the inside front cover Caprese had printed his name and his position. General manager, Beachview Casino, 3700 Beach Blvd, Gulfport, Mississippi.

  This was the missing piece of information that Jules was working on. Vincent Caprese had hired Anthony Vega as a floor manager at the Beachview Casino. Dawson glanced at the yearbooks. Maybe because Vega had claimed to be a friend of Juliana?

  He flipped through the pages and found more notes about Anthony Vega’s illegal activities. Finally on September 10, 2006, Vincent Caprese had Anthony Vega arrested for extortion.

  It was motive for Tito Vega. Caprese had sent his son to prison and the son had died there. Dawson stuck the day planner in his pocket to give to Detective Hardy. This really could be the missing piece that could end up linking Vega to Juliana’s father’s death.

  Dawson looked at his watch. “Damn it,” he muttered. “Where are you, Jules?” The clock in his phone read three-fifteen. He’d been here over an hour, and she knew he was going to call her after two o’clock. Hadn’t she realized she didn’t have her phone with her?

  He’d go after her—if he had a clue wh
ere she’d gone. He looked at the rest of the items on the coffee table. It appeared she’d left in a hurry. What had she been looking at besides the yearbooks and day planners?

  Among the items on the coffee table were the things she’d pulled out of her dad’s desk at the casino. The loose paper and torn file folder he’d pulled from the back of the desk, the pen set and the photograph album. He skimmed the loose pages. They were an original and a copy of a routine memo to the Golden Galaxy administrative staff. No help there.

  He dismissed the pen set Jules had found in Caprese’s desk drawer, and although he wanted to look at them, he also dismissed the collection of photos in the leather pocket-size photo album.

  Wasn’t there something else she’d found? She’d felt around the back of the drawers, searching for anything of her father’s.

  Then he remembered. The last thing she’d found was the wedding ring. She’d had it in her fist when the beam had come crashing down. Only Dawson’s quick instinctive reaction had saved them.

  Oh, crap. It wasn’t here with the rest of the things she’d brought with her from her dad’s office. Had she dropped it when the beam fell?

  Something from the TV drew his attention. He looked up. The news anchor was announcing the top stories of the day. With a still photo from the Golden Galaxy Casino pictured behind her, she announced that because of the rain, demolition and cleanup from the collapse of the Sky Walk would be delayed until the next day, Tuesday.

  “Ah, hell, Jules,” Dawson muttered. She’d gone there. He knew it as surely as he knew his own name. She’d gone back to the site of her dad’s death and her own near-death experience to retrieve her dad’s ring.

  * * *

  JULIANA SNEEZED into the crook of her arm. Her eyes itched and her throat was getting scratchy from the dust and debris. She was never going to find her dad’s ring. It was after three-thirty and the sun was low enough that her dad’s office was cloaked in shadow. She continued her methodical search of the supply closet, thankful the beam that had nearly hit them had been removed.

  She blinked. Was that a glint of metal? It was, but she’d unearthed a pile of nails and screws that had reflected the beam of her flashlight. This was probably another one.

  Crouching down, she held the light steady, moving it a fraction of an inch at a time, as she tried to catch the metallic glint again. There it was. She reached out, but it was just a tiny piece of aluminum foil—a candy wrapper?

  She was about ready to give up and get out of the dark deserted building. From the moment she’d come in through the main entrance and discovered that the electricity was off, she’d felt like ghosts were breathing down her neck. As she’d made her way past the silent slot machines, she remembered the first time she’d sneaked in here on Friday, three days ago, looking for her dad’s things. The machines had lined up in front of her like grim soldiers guarding the dead, their pull levers sticking up like rifles. And that had been with lights on.

  Today they were much more ominous. She’d cringed as she’d hurried past them, the beam of her flashlight sending shadows dancing and her imagination spinning out of control. Every glass screen looked like a monster’s face in the stark flashlight’s glow. Sometimes from the corner of her eye, she thought she’d seen them move.

  She’d been practically running by the time she’d reached the office. It hadn’t helped that for every step she’d taken, she’d been sure she heard footsteps behind her.

  Even now, creaks and rattles and rustling noises plagued her ears. Were other precarious beams working loose from their bolts? Rats and cockroaches? Ghosts?

  Another creepy sound swirled around her. She hoped it was the wind, but it sounded like people whispering. The susurrous mutterings rose then faded, rose then faded. It had to be the wind, didn’t it? Human beings’ whispers wouldn’t fade in and out. Juliana shivered and ran a hand across the back of her neck where she could swear she felt a cold breath.

  We know there’s nobody there, her little voice assured her. Do we? she countered. She set her jaw and concentrated on searching the dirty floor.

  The flashlight’s beam glinted again. This time the flash was definitely yellow rather than silver. Carefully, she slid her hand down the beam of light, and patted the small circle of illumination on the floor.

  She felt something. Swallowing the hope that sprang up to clog her throat, she closed her fingers around the hard, circular object and stood. Without daring to breathe, she shone the light on her fist and slowly opened her fingers.

  She’d found it. Her dad’s ring! The wedding band he’d worn for years until it became too small. She held it up and blew the dust off it, then shone the light on the engraving inside the gold band.

  Love forever, J.

  Her dad had told her the story of their wedding many times. Her mother, Julia Mills Caprese, had placed it on her dad’s finger the day they were married. Her dad had given Juliana her mother’s ring when she’d graduated from high school. It was in her safe-deposit box. She carefully tucked her dad’s ring into the pocket of her jeans.

  As she turned to look at the wreck of her dad’s office, where he’d drawn his last breath, more creaks and thuds echoed through the main floor of the casino. She needed to get out of here before the sun went down and left the casino pitch-dark.

  Her flashlight had fresh batteries, but the place was giving her the creeps.

  She picked her way back to the door of the office and turned toward the main entrance. The day was cloudy, but a dull gray light shown in from the glass doors. The dim glow reflecting off the slot machines played tricks on her vision. She was sure she could see them moving, marching in sync, guarding the doors. She shivered. If only they were guards, keeping her safe.

  Then she saw a different movement, a paler, slimmer shadow among the one-armed bandits. She blinked and looked again, but it was still there.

  Suddenly, a light flashed. Her heart jumped into her throat and lodged there, interfering with her breathing. She gasped and gasped again, her breaths sawing loudly.

  Get a grip! she commanded herself. Breathe slowly, evenly, silently.

  The light was still there, glaring in her eyes. She squinted and saw the pale halo around the bright circle of light. It was a flashlight. Her heart jumped again, thudding against her chest wall and pounding in her ears.

  Who was it? The beam flared as the person swung it from side to side. He was just inside the main entrance, probably sixty or more feet away from her.

  Then the pattern of light changed. He was coming toward her. Her hand went to her throat and she could feel her pulse throbbing rapidly. She squinted again, but whoever it was, he’d walked out of the light from the glass doors and all she could see was the flashlight’s beam.

  Maybe it was Dawson, she told herself. But she knew it wasn’t. That pale shadow looked nothing like his long, lean body. Plus, he would have already identified himself to her. In fact, he’d already be berating her, telling her that if she wanted to be a private investigator, she needed to learn how to hide in plain sight.

  The police, she thought. It had to be the police. She sniffed in irritation. Were they watching the abandoned casino 24/7? But as the light came closer and she had to strain to hear the almost-silent pad of footsteps, she knew it wasn’t the police, either. They wouldn’t be sneaking up on her. They’d have their high-intensity flashlights next to their raised weapons and be shouting at her to put her hands up and freeze.

  Whoever was behind that beam of light had no more business being in the abandoned casino than she did. Had they come here to find something they’d lost, like she had?

  Or were they here for her?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Juliana reached into her purse for her phone, but it wasn’t in the pocket where she usually kept it. She felt frantically around the bottom where things tended to collect, but no luck. Then she remembered calling Dawson on it. She’d set it down on the coffee table or on the couch. How stupid of her to leave
without checking that she had it.

  She was on her own. Her pulse throbbed in her throat—those footsteps were coming for her. She could hear Dawson’s voice in her head. I told you to stay put.

  Damn it, Dawson. If you’d made time for me, I might not be here with faceless people coming at me in the dark. Her hand went to the small of her back, to her weapon tucked into the waistband of her jeans.

  Put that gun away. If you want to be a private investigator, you’ve got to know when to attack and when to hide, Dawson’s voice told her.

  Fine. This was definitely the time to hide. If she turned off her flashlight and didn’t run into anything, she might be able to slip out through the west side fire door before her pursuer could get to her.

  She pressed the off switch. The click was alarmingly loud in the suddenly pitch-black silence. The only thing she could see was the flashlight beam approaching. It stopped and wavered, then the person holding it lifted it and swung it in a wide arc, as if trying to find her.

  She shrank back against the wall. Without her flashlight, she felt disoriented. Without the wall, she’d certainly lose her balance and fall. It was an awful feeling. She blinked hard, as if blinking would help her eyes to adapt. The sun peeking through the windows barely spread a dusty sheen over the wreckage. Rather than helping, the dim glow actually hurt. The shadows seemed blacker, and the light kept her eyes from adjusting.

  The flashlight kept coming. She needed to get to the fire exit. That was her only chance of escape. It was to the left of her dad’s office door. If she worked her way to her left while hugging the left wall, maybe she could make it without tripping over anything.

  She inched her way along the wall, which had survived most of the damage when the Sky Walk collapsed. Shuffling, sliding her sneaker-clad feet carefully along the Italian tiles, she moved slowly, feeling for objects or debris that might trip her up. She kept her eyes on the flashlight beam coming toward her.