by Cassie Miles
Cisneros smoothed his mustache and said, “Could this have been a kidnapping attempt.”
“I just told you that I’m not close to my dad.” Without looking up, Jayne shook her head. “I can’t imagine he’d pay a ransom for my release.”
“Does your father have any enemies?”
“Yes.”
“Any enemies who might want to hurt you.”
She lifted her chin and looked directly at Dylan. “My father isn’t a bad man.”
He didn’t believe her.
Chapter Three
Dylan excused himself to go next door and pack a suitcase for Jayne. He didn’t want to listen to her heavily edited version of what a great guy her dad was, and he expected that was all Cisneros would hear from her. Though Dylan gave her points for loyalty to Peter Shackleford, he doubted that she’d score high in the honesty department. He could almost see her digging in her heels. No way would she speak ill of her father even though her mysterious intruders were very likely tied to dear old daddy.
That was Jayne’s business. Not his. He was her bodyguard, not her therapist.
Before he left Brian’s kitchen, Detective Cisneros ordered Officer E. Smith to accompany him to the crime scene. Cocoa escorted them to the back door and wagged goodbye. The dog needed to stay inside while the strangers on the DPD forensic team ferreted out clues at Jayne’s house.
Dylan glanced down at the lady cop, whose short legs had to rush in double time to match his long-legged stride. “Does the E stand for Emily?” Dylan guessed. “Or is it Eva, Ellen or Eliza?”
“Eudora,” she said. “That’s why I go by Smith.”
“Nice meeting you, Smith.”
“Same here.” She had a broad smile and big, strong teeth. Her orange-blond hair stood out from her head in spikes. “Did Jayne give you a list of things she needs?”
“In detail,” he said as he took the list from his jeans pocket. “I’m not sure how accurate it is. She’s still shaky. Her map of the upstairs of her house shows three separate bathrooms.”
“That’s true,” Smith said. “The weird floor plan is because of the renovations she’s been doing on the house since she moved in four years ago. Brian told me all about it.”
Dylan had also heard a lot about Jayne and her intense renovating. Since Brian spent a lot of time working from home, his neighbors were a source of amusement. He’d told Dylan how she’d dive in and work like mad on some project, then she’d come to a complete halt while concentrating on her career. For several months, the eaves and porch in the front of her house were painted charcoal gray while the back was sky blue.
Though the electricity at her house had been reconnected, Smith pointed the beam of her Maglite at the back door. “If you look close you can see a couple of scratches from where they picked the lock and the high-security dead bolt.”
Since the intruders had already turned off the alarm system, breaking out a window would have been a simpler way to gain access. The neatly picked locks showed a level of finesse that made him think these guys were professionals. In her written account, Jayne had described a whispery voice with a slight accent.
As he strolled through Jayne’s house with Smith nodding to the forensic team, he noticed an eclectic sense of decorating that seemed to mimic the pattern of off-and-on renovations. He believed you could tell a lot about a person from their living space. If that was true, Jayne had multiple personalities.
Her renovated kitchen was ultramodern, sleek and uncluttered. Directional lighting shimmered on polished granite countertops, stainless-steel appliances and a parquet floor. This room told him that a modern, classy woman lived here...not necessarily someone who cooked but someone who appreciated gourmet food.
Walking through the archway into the dining room and living room was like entering a different house. The chairs and tables lacked any sort of cohesive style. The walls were bland beige and empty, without artwork or photographs. The only notable feature was a dusted and polished baby grand piano. From these rooms, he might conclude that Jayne didn’t do much entertaining at home and was passionate about her piano playing. The sheet music on the stand was for Scott Joplin’s “Maple Leaf Rag.”
He caught a quick glimpse of the library opposite the staircase at the front door. The big, heavy, rosewood desk and wall-to-wall bookshelves showed an old-fashioned sensibility and a reverence for tradition. Not like the kitchen at all.
Climbing the carved oak staircase, he noticed the loud creak on the third step that had alerted Jayne to the intruders. The stairs and banister had been cleaned and refinished but otherwise remained unchanged from when the house was built in the 1920s. The same held true for the carved crown molding on the upstairs landing. Again, he had the feeling that she appreciated the work of a long-ago craftsman and was perhaps old-fashioned.
Her bedroom, which had been redesigned in shades of peach and gray, looked like the sanctuary of a fairy-tale princess...a tasteful princess but super feminine with a dainty little crystal chandelier. Set aside on a chair were three stuffed animals, all cats with white fur. The kitties were worn but sparkling clean. Though he didn’t see any fresh flowers, the room smelled of roses and cinnamon.
He doubted that anybody had sex in this room. There was zero hint of testosterone apart from the forensic guy who was crawling around on the carpet, peering and poking into the fibers.
Dylan noticed the wineglass on the bedside table. In her account, Jayne mentioned spilling the wine but never said that she’d picked up the glass.
“Excuse me,” he said.
The CSI popped up. “Who are you?”
Smith said, “He’s with me. Are you about done in here? We need to get some clothes for the owner.”
“I’m wrapping it up.” Like Smith, he held a Maglite with a beam that flashed wildly when he gestured. “How come we’re making such a big deal about this break-in? Nobody got killed.”
“A weird situation,” Smith said, “what with cutting the power and disabling the alarm system and all. Have you found anything?”
“A bunch of prints, but they all belong to the lady who lives here and her employees—a maid and a cook.”
“How did you get them read so fast?” Dylan asked.
“Computer identifications, plus I’ve got one of those handheld fingerprint-readers.” As he stood, he picked his satchel up off the floor. “Everything I need to break open a crime is right in here.”
“When you arrived,” Dylan said, “was this wineglass on the floor?”
“No, sir, it was standing right where it is.”
“Have you checked it for prints?”
“I’ll be doing that right now.” He gestured over his shoulder. “I’m done with the closet and the dresser, if you need to pack.”
Dylan found Jayne’s hard yellow suitcase with spinner wheels in the back of the closet right where she said it would be. The organization of her clothing and shoes was impeccable, and he would have thought she was obsessive-compulsive but those characteristics didn’t fit with the casual messiness downstairs. He packed the three outfits that she had described precisely. One was for before the operation, then a pair of baby-blue scrubs and then another outfit for post-op.
When he opened the top drawer of her dresser, there was an outburst of colorful silk and satin. Jayne had mad, wild taste in panties and bras. He held up a black lace thong and a leopard bra. For a long moment, he stood and stared.
She baffled him. A brainy neurosurgeon who wore stripper underwear and played ragtime on her baby grand. Who was this woman? He needed to find out more about her.
The CSI made a harrumphing noise. “I’ve got two prints on this glass—a thumb and a forefinger. And they don’t look like all the others.”
“Run them,” Smith ordered. “I’ll step over here and help Dyla
n pick out the right undies.”
When she rapped his knuckles, he gratefully dropped the thong and said, “I’d appreciate your help.”
She lectured on why most women wouldn’t want to wear a thong in the operating room and how a sports bra was most comfortable for a long day’s work. Her anatomical details were too much information for Dylan.
The CSI had turned away and kept his focus on his handheld fingerprint-matching device while Dylan followed Smith across the landing to the incredible bathroom. With the marble and a fluffy white throw rug, this space was as feminine as the bedroom, but there was a difference. The bedroom was suitable for a princess. The bathroom was meant for a sensual queen.
Smith made quick work of packing the essentials on Jayne’s list. They were almost ready to leave when the CSI stepped into the doorway. “I’ve got a match for these prints.”
“And a name?” Dylan asked.
“You’re not going to like it.”
* * *
JAYNE APPROVED OF the downtown Denver hotel where Dylan had arranged for a suite, but she wasn’t pleased that he’d called in one of his partners to drive the car to the hotel and accompany them onto the elevator and into the room.
While Dylan stood beside her with one hand clamped around her upper arm, ready to yank her out of there at the first hint of danger, his partner, Mason Steele, drew his gun. Looking like a secret agent from an espionage movie, Mason searched the attractively furnished outer room with the sofa, chairs, table, television and kitchenette. He nodded to Dylan before entering the adjoining bedroom.
Though impressed by their professionalism, Jayne didn’t appreciate the show. She had a real life. No time for games. “Tell me again why all this is necessary.”
“Standard procedure,” he said. “When we take you to a new place, we search. It only seems overprotective because there’s nobody lurking in this room. If there was a monster hiding in the closet...”
With a start, she realized that Mason hadn’t yet looked in the closet by the entrance. A dart of fear stung her, and she stared at that door, remembering herself in the bathroom when the knob had jiggled. Don’t be scared. It’s just a door. Shivers trickled up and down her spinal column as Dylan helped her out of her heather-blue trench coat. When he opened the door, her jaw clenched.
And nothing happened. The boogeyman didn’t jump out. There was nothing to be scared of. The sooner she remembered that, the better.
After he hung up her jacket, he returned to her side. Towering over her, he pushed his glasses up on his nose with a forefinger. “You went through a scary time tonight.”
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah, you are.” Though she refused to meet his gaze, she knew he was watching her and had seen her fear. His voice was low and soothing. “Over the next couple days, you might have flashbacks or be jumpy or tense for no apparent reason. I’m sure you know all about post-traumatic stress. I mean, you’re a brain surgeon.”
“Not a behaviorist.”
“What’s that mean?”
“There are many theories about how the brain works, and I can only speak for my own opinion. The source of many emotions can be pinpointed on the naked brain, but it’s extremely difficult to control behavior.”
“Emotion isn’t your thing,” he said. “You’re into memory.”
“With my neurosurgery, I can stimulate old memories that have already formed, but I can’t implant new memories without the experience.”
“But you don’t have to experience something to recall it. I’ve learned about volcanoes but never seen one erupt.”
She hadn’t intended to meet his gaze, but she found herself looking into his cool, gray eyes and seeing the sort of deep calm associated with yogis and gurus. At the same time, she realized that her moment of panic and flashback had passed. Dylan had distracted her by luring her into lecturing him about her work.
“Very clever,” she said. “You handled me.”
He directed her to a side chair upholstered in a patterned blue silk that echoed the colors of the wallpaper, while he sat on the sofa and opened a metal suitcase on the glass-topped coffee table in front of them. After removing a laptop computer, he flicked a switch on a mechanism inside the case. A small red light went on.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“It means we can talk freely in here without fear of someone listening in.”
The various dials and keyboards in his case were nowhere near as complicated as the equipment she dealt with in neurosurgery. “You can be more technical, Dylan. I’m capable of understanding.”
“I don’t doubt your smarts,” he said. “I just don’t expect you to be interested in my security tools.”
“Unless I say otherwise, you may talk to me in the same depth you use with your colleagues.”
“That won’t be too hard.” Dylan called out to his partner. “Hey, Mason, do you want to know about the circuitry in my white-noise machine?”
His partner stepped into the bedroom doorway. “As long as it works, I don’t care.”
She glanced between the two men. Mason was clean-cut and muscular. Dressed in a leather jacket and khakis, he looked like a bodyguard. Dylan was a different story. With his horn-rimmed glasses, his purple Colorado Rockies baseball cap on backward and his long hair, he didn’t appear to be a tough guy. And yet, if given a choice, she’d pick Dylan every time. There was something about him that connected with her.
He motioned for Mason to join them as he explained the machine to her. “Much of my equipment is proprietary. I invented this stuff for my own use in security. This machine emits a noise that disrupts any other listening device but is too sensitive for our ears to hear. While we’re in this room, we can speak freely.”
As a neurosurgeon, she understood the concept of blocking different frequencies of sound, but she didn’t understand why this sort of machine was needed. “Who would want to overhear?”
“I have something important to discuss.” He glanced toward his partner. “You need to hear this, too.”
“Shoot.”
“There were prints found in Jayne’s bedroom. They were on the wineglass that was on the bedside table.”
“I didn’t pick up the glass.” Revulsion coiled through her as she visualized the man in the ski mask touching her things.
“The fingerprint belonged to Martin Viktor Koslov, a hired assassin from Venezuela who learned his trade with the Columbian drug cartels.”
Mason growled, “What kind of trade are you talking about?”
“Think of the worst torture you heard about interrogation methods,” Dylan said. “Koslov has worked for Middle Eastern emirs and superrich oil men from his home country. For the past eight years, he’s been sighted in the US, including Alaska.”
“Why Alaska?” She couldn’t imagine why an assassin would take a side trip to Juneau.
“The pipeline,” Dylan said. “He’s not a bomber or a terrorist, but he’s suspected in several murders, thefts and complex arms deals.”
Mason looked toward her and asked, “How did you get away from this guy?”
“He said he didn’t want to hurt me.” She remembered his accent. It didn’t sound like Spanish, but she really didn’t know. Languages weren’t her thing. “Detective Cisneros seems to think he wanted to kidnap me and hold me for ransom so he could get something from my dad.”
“Your father is...?”
Dylan filled in the blank. “Peter Shackleford, international oilman with interests in the Middle East and in South America.”
Mason nodded. “Kidnapping seems like a neat, logical working theory.”
“I’m not so sure,” Dylan said. “I’d like more evidence, starting with interviewing the person who disabled Jayne’s home alarm system. That hack took a high level of expertise
, and I can only think of three or four locals who could pull it off.”
“Did you contact them?” Mason asked.
“I’m the bodyguard, not the investigator. I gave their names to Detective Cisneros.”
Mason sank back in his chair and rubbed his hand across his forehead. “What do you want me to do?”
“That depends on Jayne.” Dylan turned to her. “You had a surgery scheduled for tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock. My advice is for you to postpone.”
Though she had been thinking the same thing, she didn’t like having her plans dictated by some South American assassin. Koslov didn’t rule her life. She took her cell phone from her jeans pocket and checked the time. “It’s just after midnight. If I could sleep until nine in the morning, I could operate.”
“We don’t know what to expect from this kidnapper. He might come after you again. Are you sure you don’t want to schedule the operation for another time or have someone else take over for you?”
“I’m the best surgeon for this procedure, possibly the best in the world.” She wasn’t bragging, just stating a fact. “Also, I have a relationship with this patient. He’s a professor of philosophy in his early sixties. A stroke robbed him of his memory. I can get it back for him, and I don’t want to wait.”
Dylan regarded her with a measured gaze. “Is his condition life threatening?”
“No, but this is about the quality of his life. He’s brilliant and wise. He needs to be able to use his memory.”
“Agreed,” Dylan said, “but he could wait a few days.”
“I want my life to proceed as normal. That’s why I hired you as a bodyguard.” She rose to her feet as she played her final card. “But if you can’t protect me...”
Dylan unfolded himself from the sofa and stood, towering over her. Though she was above average height at five feet nine inches, he was over six feet, maybe six-five. He was taller, broader, stronger. An archetypal male, he was everything a man should be. She felt herself melting.
