by LENA DIAZ,
She answered his questions as best she could, without revealing any of the details about her secret web pages. Her clients wanted those behind-the-scenes proprietary pages kept secret and she had no reason to reveal anything about them.
As they volleyed back and forth, she wondered what the point of his questions were. Other than the ones about her company, everything else that he was asking was common knowledge. Most of the answers could be found through a simple internet search. Her life wasn’t exactly a mystery. She wasn’t one of those people who worried about what they put on social media, even though she probably should.
He was good at interviewing people, putting them at ease. Was it his background as a cop? Or some kind of strategy?
Instead of answering his latest question, she asked one of her own. “What do you do for a living? You said you weren’t exactly a private detective. But you’re not a cop either. So why do you have an investigation file on Bethany?”
The speaker went silent.
“Dalton? Are you still there?”
Static sounded. “Still here. I guess you could think of me as a PI, sort of. I’m more a jack-of-all-trades—investigator, problem solver, bodyguard when necessary.”
Bodyguard? She could see that. He definitely had the physique for it. And she could see how her website could interfere with that work. He probably needed his identity kept secret so people wouldn’t zero in on him as a bodyguard when he was with clients. Guilt rode her hard again. “But you work for Mason.”
“He’s my employer. Regarding your website business, you—”
“Is he a bodyguard, too?”
Low murmurs indicated they were having a side conversation in the booth. But she couldn’t make out what they were saying.
A moment later, another voice sounded. Mason’s. “I run a company called the Justice Seekers.” Where Dalton’s voice was patient and soothing, Mason’s was gruff and borderline hostile. “My team is a diverse group of men and women with all kinds of strengths and talents. We do whatever it takes to get justice for our clients. The actual work we do varies depending on their needs. And I’m adding five minutes onto our half hour since you’re asking questions instead of answering ours.”
She blinked. “You can’t do that.”
“Did you read the fine print in the agreement you signed? I can, and will, if we need the extra time.”
She crossed her arms, frowning at the mirror. “Let me guess. One of your talents is that you’re a lawyer. They’re really good with fine print.”
“Actually, no.” His voice sounded ridiculously cheerful compared to his earlier gruffness. “But I do have a lawyer on staff. He’s the one who put together that NDA.”
“Of course he did,” she grumbled. “I’ve never heard of these Justice Seekers. They didn’t come up when I was looking into the ownership of the building where Dalton goes to work every day. I gave up on that, by the way. Never could figure out who owned it.”
“I prefer to keep my company off most peoples’ radar so I’ve set up a few hurdles that you obviously ran into during your investigation,” Mason said. “We prefer to get our clients through word of mouth rather than through any traditional advertising. Plenty of people know about the work we do, or we wouldn’t risk telling you about it, NDA or not. But we like to keep it as quiet as possible for a variety of reasons.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the fact that everyone I hire is either former law enforcement or worked very closely with them, and they were each double-crossed or set up in some way that destroyed their careers. For that reason, most of the law enforcement people that we work with on behalf of our clients don’t trust us. But the few who do, and realize how much value we can provide them on their cases in exchange for helping us with ours, do it secretly in order to protect their own careers. That’s the main reason that we try not to advertise what we do. To protect those who risk everything to work with us.”
“Sounds admirable, actually. Giving wronged people a second chance,” she said. “I certainly wouldn’t want to jeopardize any police officers’ careers by blabbing about your company. But you said that’s the main reason you want secrecy. What’s another?”
“It’s an extension of the first reason, Miss Nash. In order to do their jobs effectively, my employees need to be as anonymous as possible. Undercover work, for example, is common. When someone broadcasts information about them, like you do with your blog posts, it shines a spotlight and makes undercover work almost impossible.”
She curled her fingers against her palms, hating that he was once again making her feel guilty. “Okay, I get the need for secrecy. But what do you want from me?”
“Taking down your website against Dalton would be a great start,” Mason said, his voice laced with anger again.
Dalton chimed in as if to head off an argument. “Did you know that your freelance journalist friend, Miss Miller, hired the Justice Seekers to help with the last news investigation she was working on before she died?”
She grew still. “What are you talking about?”
“That thick folder that Mason brought into the interview room is our file on Miss Miller. She was doing a freelance investigation, hoping to sell it as an exposé to one of the national TV news programs. But things started getting dicey and she was worried she might be in over her head. She shared what she had with us, and we’d just started our own deep dive into what she was uncovering when she was killed. The fact that her body was discovered on my property is no coincidence. We believe the killer was sending a message, to me and the rest of the Justice Seekers, that if we didn’t stop digging, we’d meet the same fate.”
What he’d said actually made sense. Bethany had journaled that she’d reached out to a group to help her nail down her story and get more hard evidence before she could take it to a news network. But she’d never mentioned them beyond that one entry. And the name Justice Seekers was never mentioned. But Dalton’s name was, over and over.
“Dalton, are you saying that you were working with her? You specifically? Not one of the other Seekers?” She clutched her hands together on top of the table, waiting for his answer.
“Yes. I was. I worked undercover, meeting the contacts she’d made in the underworld, trying to get them to trust me so I could figure out who was running the show. Unfortunately, she was killed before I got very far.”
“Were you ever in a bar with her? As part of that work?”
He laughed. “Are you kidding? Most of our meetings were in bars. I meet lots of clients that way. It’s an easy cover, just a couple of people drinking and talking in a roomful of other people who are drinking and talking. No reason to think there’s anything important being discussed. It’s an easy cover for a lot of things.”
She stood and crossed to the mirror. “Bethany gushed about you in her journals. She talked about how, ah, hot you were. She said you were an item, that you two were dating.”
A cough sounded, then he cleared his throat. “That’s news to me. I assure you, our relationship is, was, always professional. I certainly never did anything to give her the impression that it was anything more, not intentionally at least. Is that why you think I killed her? Because of some journal entries?”
She squeezed her eyes shut a moment, then let out a shuddering breath. “You’d have to read her journals to understand. They’re quite convincing, especially if you combine them with the pictures and the lack of other suspects. And that she never mentioned that you were helping her. I thought you were an ex-cop on the take, working with bad guys, and that you double-crossed her. That’s how the journals read. All along, I wanted the police to do a thorough investigation, and became more and more convinced that you were the one who killed her. Now, I don’t know what to think.”
Static crackled. “You still have these journals? And pictures?” Dalton asked.
She hesi
tated. “You don’t sound angry.”
“Why would I be angry? Nothing I’ve heard makes me think you’re arbitrarily being vindictive. On the contrary. You’re listening to me and doing everything you can to solve the murder of your friend. I’m not angry. But I’d like to hear more, especially about the pictures.”
She thought about the stack of photographs in her purse, the purse that was currently in lockup with her other personal effects. Dare she mention that they were in this very building? They were her ace in the hole, the one thing she took with her everywhere she went, just in case she found a witness who might recognize some of the people Bethany had photographed. Not that it had done her any good so far. The police hadn’t been interested in either the journals or the pictures when she’d first complained that their investigation into Dalton hadn’t been extensive enough. Her hope had always been to find more evidence, then try again.
Maybe this was the perfect time. She could at least show the photos to Detective Olson, since they were in the building.
He’d been nice and helpful. He might actually do something, unlike the other detective she’d spoken to. If she could hand off this investigation to someone who’d actually pursue it, she could move on with her life. She’d be more than happy to take down her website and go back home, as long as someone figured out who killed her friend—and brought them to justice.
“Hayley?” Dalton asked. “You still have the pictures?”
She stepped back from the mirror. “I do. They’re in my purse, with my other personal effects. Right here at the station.”
Another hesitation, then, “Are there date and time stamps on them?”
“Bethany was an investigative journalist. Of course there are dates and times on them. Not that the police seemed to care,” she grumbled.
“What do you mean? You showed them to the police?”
She didn’t see the point in lying. “The detective I spoke with wasn’t impressed. She said anyone can Photoshop things these days, and that without corroborating evidence, the photos were worthless. I told her about Bethany’s letters and journal entries and she still wasn’t interested. That’s why I’ve been trying so hard to both protect the public from you and get you to break, maybe even confess.”
“Did she get copies of the pictures from you?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No. She thought I was crazy. Barely glanced at them and said they didn’t prove anything.”
Again, one of those aggravating silences. She could imagine them muting their side of the speaker and having side conversations about her.
She rubbed her hands up and down her arms again. She was a jumble of nerves, the effects of this past week making her ramble all over the place, accusing Dalton one moment and regretting it the next. Getting out of this place couldn’t happen fast enough. “Is the half hour up?”
“Just a few more questions,” Dalton said. “Do you remember the name of the detective you spoke to, the one you showed the pictures?”
“Simpson, or Sampson. Something like that. She told me I didn’t have any proof of any wrongdoing and that I should just let it go.”
“You mentioned they were in your purse here at the station?”
“Yes. But I’m not turning them over to you. I’m not ready to give them up just yet. I have some thinking to do.”
“If I get Detective Olson to bring you your purse, will you at least hold the pictures up to the glass so we can view them? And grant us more time in the interview to allow for some follow-up questions, if needed?”
She shrugged. “I don’t see the harm in that. As long as it’s not that much longer.”
A few minutes later, she was standing in front of the mirror, holding each photo up one at a time while they looked at them. Since there were over fifty pictures, it took a while, especially since they asked questions between them, and often would have her hold a specific one up longer than the rest while they obviously conferred with each other in the booth.
She didn’t have to turn the pictures around to know what they showed—known criminals, Bethany in some shots with Dalton, then Dalton in many of the others without her. There was no denying the exchanges of cash for what appeared to be kilos of cocaine or some other illegal drug. But if he really was undercover, playing a role, that could explain everything.
“Can you put that last one up again?” Dalton’s voice sounded oddly strained.
She fanned out the ones in her hand. “This one?”
“Yes. Please.”
A few minutes later he asked, “How did you get the pictures, and the journals you’ve mentioned, if they belonged to Miss Miller?”
She set the stack on the table beside her purse. “They were in a storage unit she kept outside of town. I remembered her mentioning she had one and I went around to every storage company around here until I found one under her maiden name. It was prepaid for a year, but I showed them the local news article about her death. And the owner went ahead and let me get into the unit. I may have claimed to be her sister and that I didn’t want to wait for the courts to go through probate.” Her face turned warm. “I told him I just wanted something to remember her by. It was a treasure trove of information on her investigation.”
She leaned back against the table, but it wobbled so she straightened. “She wrote about you, a lot. She described your truck, down to that huge toolbox or whatever it is that you keep in the back, even wrote down the license plate number on some of her notes that I found later. It was easy to believe she had a thing for you, and that it was mutual.”
“I’m sorry it looked that way to you, Hayley. I assure you those pictures that you just showed us are from after she hired the Justice Seekers. Mason can vouch for that, based on the date and time stamps. I’m not a drug runner, or a gun runner.”
She smiled sadly. “Yeah, I kind of don’t believe that either. Not anymore.”
“Thank you for that, at least,” he said, sounding tired.
“I’m sorry, Dalton. I still need some time to come around on the whole murder thing. I have to—”
“Think on it. I know. Thanks for your honesty. And your time. I’ll tell Olson to come get you.”
“Remember the NDA that you signed.” Mason’s voice crackled through the speaker. “It covers any physical evidence shown by either party to the other during the discussion. Originally, that was intended so that you could review our folder—if you’d agreed to sit with us face-to-face. Which you didn’t. But that clause also extends to the pictures you have. If you show them to Olson, or anyone else, our agreement is null and void. You go back to jail. And we press charges. I assure you, I will pursue you to the fullest extent of the law, even if I can’t convince Dalton to do the same. Even if your harassment doesn’t rise to the legal level of stalking, I imagine my contacts in the FBI would be interested in pursuing a case of cyberbullying against you. I suggest that you think really hard about that before you do anything else to harm Dalton, or any other of my company’s employees.”
“Mason, stop it,” Dalton said. “She doesn’t deserve to be treated—”
“Oh yes, she does,” Mason continued. “And frankly, Miss Nash, I don’t care one whit whether you believe that Dalton is innocent. Your defamation against him ends today. And if you doubt for one second that I’ll follow through, I suggest you perform an internet search on my name and Beauchamp, Louisiana, a little town in Sabine parish. That will tell you just how far I’ll go when someone wrongs the people I care about.”
She stared at the mirror, her pulse rushing in her ears. “Are you threatening me, Mr. Ford?”
Silence met her question.
“Hello? Are...are you still there?”
A knock sounded on the door, making her whirl around in surprise. It opened to reveal Detective Olson and a female uniformed officer.
Olson smiled. “Ready to go to Proce
ssing?”
So that was it. After Mason tossed out those threats, the Justice Seekers were gone. And now she had a choice to make. She glanced at the stack of pictures, considering her options. Above all, the most important thing, the only thing that would allow her to sleep well at night and face herself in the mirror, was to get justice. For her friend. But also for Dalton. So what was the best way to make that happen?
“Miss Nash?”
“Coming.” Decision made, she grabbed her purse, then the stack of pictures, and started toward him.
Chapter Twelve
Dalton pressed his palm against the panel to the right of the door frame. A split second later, after his prints were scanned and authenticated, the massive steel door swung open on silent hinges. He strode across the stone floor of the massive room that he and the other Justice Seekers affectionately called the great hall. Most of the team was already there, sitting at the giant round stone table with a computer tablet sitting in front of each of them.
Mason gave him an aggravated look as Dalton took his seat. “Nice of you to join the rest of us.”
Since Mason was already nodding at one of the other Justice Seekers to continue what she was saying, Dalton didn’t bother to explain why he’d been late. His boss would find out soon enough.
“Go on, Kira,” Mason said. “You were giving us the rundown about the photographs.”
She gave her report as she tapped a pen on her yellow legal pad, which she tended to favor over her computer tablet. A habit that Dalton often took up as well. It came in handy, like when he was in a visitation room at the local jail where they wouldn’t allow electronics. But Kira favored it because of her previous occupation as a prosecutor, and the need to be able to take notes during courtroom testimony without the noise that a keyboard might make.
“Our contacts at Gatlinburg PD indicated that Miss Nash has adhered to the NDA,” Kira continued. “She didn’t disclose the pictures to Olson, or anyone else that we’re aware of.”