Special Forces Father - By Mallory Kane Page 0,22

man to know he’d made him.

Once he was sure the man was not following him, he dialed the number on an old card he had in his wallet, hoping Dawson’s office number was still the same.

“Hello?” a woman’s voice said.

“I need to speak with Dawson,” Travis said.

“Dawson?” Her voice was carefully neutral. Travis knew that Dawson’s investigations firm was exclusive. He didn’t advertise and he rarely gave out his business cards. He liked his referrals by word of mouth. He didn’t operate as Dawson Delancey for several reasons. He used John Dawson, his first and middle names.

“This is his cousin,” Travis parried. She wasn’t the only person who could be coy.

“Yes, and your name please?”

“Could you just tell him I’m here on leave? He’ll know who I am.”

“On leave? You’re Travis?” the woman said. “Travis Delancey?”

Travis was shocked—and worried. He didn’t recognize the voice, but then, he’d been gone five years, and it had been at least three years since he’d talked to any of his family. “Who is this?” he demanded.

“I’m Juliana Delancey. You don’t know me.”

Juliana Delancey? “No,” he said, a question in his voice. “I don’t.”

“First, are you all right?” Her voice was crisp, yet tinged with worry.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’m all right. I’ve just got a situation I need to discuss with Dawson.”

“Thank goodness,” she said. “Unless I’m mistaken, it’s been quite a long time since anyone has talked to you?”

Travis was getting more confused by the minute. “Who are you?” he asked again.

“I’m Dawson’s wife, and partner in D&D Investigations.”

For the second time, Travis felt as if someone had punched him. “Dawson’s—what?” he stammered. From what he remembered about his cousin, Dawson had a longer taboo list than he did. And marriage was number one on his, as well.

“Yes,” she said with a pleasant laugh. “It’s wonderful to talk to you,” she said. “You’re the only one I haven’t met. You said you’re on leave. You’re here, in New Orleans, right?”

Travis thought fast. “Listen—Juliana. I really need to get in touch with Dawson. But for the moment, I don’t want anyone to know I called. It’s kind of touchy and complicated, so—”

“Travis. Say no more. I understand. And as a matter of fact, Dawson is in Chef Voleur today. He’s helping his dad move some furniture.”

“What?” Travis blurted again. More surprises. The last time Travis had been home, Dawson’s feud with his father had been going strong.

“When’s the last time you talked to your family?” she asked.

“About three years ago, before I was sent overseas.”

“Then you’ve missed a lot. I’ll give you Dawson’s cell number. Give him a call. He was planning to be finished by noon or so. I’m sure you two can get together.”

“Thanks,” he said. At the next red light, he dialed the number she’d given him.

When his cousin answered the phone, he said, “Dawson, it’s Travis. Don’t say my name.”

There was an almost imperceptible pause, then, “You okay?”

“Yeah. Can I see you today?”

“Sure,” Dawson said without hesitation. “Hang on. Dad, I need to take this call. Be right back.” Then a few seconds later, “Okay, I can talk now. What’s up?” He sounded curious, but also crisp and professional, like his wife had.

Travis wanted to ask about Juliana and about Dawson’s dad, but family stuff could wait. Kate’s son—his son—was missing, and that was the most important thing right now. “I need your help, Dawson. Can we meet somewhere?”

“Where are you? Oh, you’re calling on a New Orleans exchange. When did you get back?”

“Dawson, nobody can know I’m here. Not yet. I need to meet with you somewhere where nobody will know me. I need your help.”

“Sure,” Dawson said. “We’ve got an apartment in the French Quarter.” He gave Travis the address and told him he could be there within an hour. “Depending on how traffic is on the causeway,” he amended.

“How many Delanceys know about this apartment?” Travis asked.

“None,” Dawson assured him. “Well, your brother Lucas did once, but he’s probably forgotten all about it by now. He borrowed it from me when he first came back here from Dallas. And truthfully, it’s not so much an apartment as it is a warehouse.”

Travis was racking up the questions. He’d store this latest one—what was Lucas doing back in New Orleans when he swore he’d never return—with all the others until he had the luxury of time to catch up, which he didn’t right now. “Should I wait in my car?” he asked.

“Nope,” Dawson said. He gave Travis the combination