The two stepped forward, looked down the street, and exchanged nervous glances.
The man put a protective arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Exactly what is going on here?”
“Does the name Todd Conklin mean anything to you?” I asked the woman.
Her eyes narrowed, worry lines forming between her brows. “That’s the man who owns Say Cheese!, right? He did some head shots for me a week or so ago.”
“I hate to tell you this,” I said, “but I don’t think those head shots were the only photographs he took of you.”
The woman’s hand flew reflexively to her chest. “What are you saying?”
I motioned for them to follow me. “Come take a look.” I led them around the side of their house, admonishing them not to touch the camera that lay on the grass lest they contaminate the evidence. “I caught him with a camera to your window a few minutes ago.”
The woman shrank back. “Oh, my God! I was taking a shower!”
Her husband swelled with rage and his hands clenched by his sides. “I’m going to beat the shit out of him!”
When he took a first step, I stopped him with a hand to the shoulder. “No need, sir. When I caught Conklin at your window, I gave him a good whack with my baton. He tried to make a break for it, but my partners tackled him on the asphalt.”
“Good! I hope he’s in a world of pain.”
The woman went on to tell me that when she’d gone to him for the head shots, Conklin had tried to convince her to have boudoir photos taken at his studio. She looked up at her husband. “He said they’d made a good anniversary present for you.” She shuddered. “I’m glad I chickened out!”
“Me, too,” her husband said, though he seemed a little less convinced.
Conklin’s arrest gave FWPD probable cause to search his photography studio and home. After leaving Frankie and Brigit at home and collecting my car, I met Detective Bustamente and the evidence collection team at Say Cheese! They seized a laptop and desktop computer from the photography studio, along with a multitude of cameras and their memory cards.
Conklin’s brand of choice seemed to be Canon, and I noticed that the original lens covers on most of his equipment bore the Canon logo. However, the lens cover on the video camera he’d used at the Chastains’ home tonight was a cheap, generic replacement. Looked like I was right about that broken piece of plastic found under Korinna’s bedroom window. It had been part of a lens cap.
On a shelf in the storage room, we found a box of disposable darkroom gloves, the same type I’d found in the street near the Lowrys’ house. According to the text on the box, the gloves were a special lint-free type used for handling photo negatives.
“Check this out,” I told Bustamente, pointing to the box.
“Just as you’d thought,” he said.
“Yep.” Damn, I’m good.
When we finished at the studio, we drove to the Conklins’ home.
Nora answered the door in a short satin robe. Her gaze volleyed between the detective and me. “What’s going on?”
“Your husband was arrested in Westcliff an hour ago,” Bustamente told her. “He was peeping in a window and videotaping a woman inside.”
“What?” Nora’s face contorted in confusion and shock. “What are you saying?”
“We’re saying we believe your husband is the Berkeley Place Peeper.”
Her shock and confusion turned to humiliation, her face turning as pink as bubble gum.
“We’re going to have to search your home,” Bustamente said, stepping past her into the foyer. The evidence collection team followed, with me on their heels.
“Todd can’t be the one!” Nora cried as the techs rummaged through their dresser drawers. “I’d never marry a pervert!”
Not knowingly, anyway, I thought. “He took advantage of his watch assignments to peep,” I explained. “Several of the incidents happened on nights when he was on patrol.”
“But he was home with me on at least some of the nights,” she insisted.
“All night?” I asked.
“Yes! I’m sure of it!”
A crime scene tech pulled a bottle of extra-strength liquid sleep aid from under a stack of underwear in the bottom drawer of Todd’s dresser and held it up. “How sure?”
Nora eyed the bottle in surprise, clearly much less certain now.
Over the course of several days, the evidence continued to mount against Todd Conklin. It took one of the department’s computer experts to work around the password protection on a file identified as “PeeperT,” but once she’d managed to break through she found photographs and videos of several women, including a video of Garrett Hawke and his wife having sex in a hot tub in their backyard. Of course the men on the crime scene team insisted they had to watch the video several times in order to extract its full evidentiary value.
Yeah, right.
The tech who’d broken the encryption sent me an e-mail that read these pics might be of special interest to you, along with several attachments. I clicked on the first to open it, gasping when it revealed a photo of me in shorts and a bikini, bending over to sponge off the wet bumper of my car in my driveway. Holy crap! Todd Conklin had even photographed me!
I prayed that was as far as he’d got with me, that he hadn’t somehow managed to capture me naked, coming out of the shower. Surely Brigit would have alerted me if someone were outside our house, right?
I clicked on the other attachments, opening each of them in rapid-fire succession, breathing a huge sigh of relief to see that the most titillating shot was a close-up of my ass as I stood on my toes, sponge in hand, to wash the top of Frankie’s Juke.
I knew the violation I felt was only a fraction of that experienced by his other victims, who’d been photographed and videoed nude or only partially dressed. Luckily, despite their humiliation and horror, each one of them was willing to testify against Conklin. While voyeurism alone might be only a misdemeanor, under Texas Penal Code Section 21.15 it was a state jail felony to photograph or record a person without their consent with the purpose of sexual gratification. Such felonies carried a minimum punishment of six months in jail, with a range of penalties up to two years in jail for each violation, plus a fine of up to ten grand. Conklin would be getting a little more than a slap on the wrist for slapping his salami to these women’s images.
It took Nora Conklin only three days to file a petition for divorce and to put a FOR SALE sign in her yard. She was moving on, in more ways than one. Who could blame her? If I were in her position I’d want a fresh start, too. I’d also want to peel off my skin. It had to be beyond repulsive to know she’d slept with a pervert.
It felt good to know I’d ended Conklin’s reign of terror. And in other good news, Hurley’s victim in San Antonio had turned the corner. She’d need months of physical therapy, but things were looking good for her. Not for Hurley, though. He was looking at a life sentence for his crimes. So long, amigo.
* * *
A week later, Seth and I took an overnight trip to a campground along the Brazos River west of Fort Worth. While the dogs romped around the site, we’d pitched an old army tent, rolled out sleeping bags inside, and set up housekeeping at a picnic table nearby.
“How’s Frankie doing at the fire academy?” I asked as I spread a checkered tablecloth. Once she’d made the decision to become a firefighter, she’d wasted no time, snagging a seat in a class that started immediately.
“She’s putting everyone else to shame,” Seth said. “She’s faster than most of the men and just as strong.”
“Good for her.”
With her newfound sense of purpose and direction, she seemed happier, too. I knew how much my job meant to me, and I was glad my roomie had finally found a profession that could bring her the same sense of achievement and satisfaction.
Our temporary home complete, Seth dragged the scratched and dented aluminum canoe we’d rented down to the water’s edge. The dogs trotted after him, bounding in an
d out of the water, sending up a shower of river water as they shook themselves dry.
He held out an oar. “Ready to explore the river?”
I took the paddle from him. “Aye-aye, captain!”
We spent the day canoeing, drifting in the currents, rowing in to explore hidden coves. I’d sat in the back so I could get away with paddling as little as possible. Also so I could ogle Seth. But unlike Todd Conklin, I’d chosen a willing victim. Seth had taken off his T-shirt, giving me a nice view of his broad back and strong shoulders as he rowed, the dogs sitting happily between us. The wings of the army eagle tattooed across Seth’s shoulder blades moved with each stroke, as if the bird were flying.
The sun warmed our skin as we floated, a gentle breeze keeping the temperature pleasant. Occasionally one of the dogs would stick their head over the side of the boat and lap water directly from the river. At one point, they both jumped into the water to chase a couple of ducks. Brigit cocked her head and barked, unsure what to make of a turtle that floated by.
When we’d tired of canoeing, Seth and I strung the wide hammock he’d bought me for Valentine’s Day between two trees and lay side by side in it. The hammock made a fantastic reading spot, and it was great for cuddling, too, the perfect place to retreat from the world.
Seth intertwined his fingers with mine and raised my hand to his mouth, giving my knuckles a soft kiss. “You’re some kind of woman, Megan Luz.”
Lying on the grass next to us, Brigit issued an insistent arf!
Seth chuckled. “You’re some kind of dog, too, Brigit.”
I had to agree. I reached down to ruffle her ears.
As the hammock swayed in the breeze, Seth turned his head to face me. “You two caught a peeper and took a killer off the streets. What’s next for the dynamic duo?”
I groaned. Though I loved my job, the last thing I wanted to think about with the sun shining, and the birds chirping, and Seth lying next to me was work. “What’s next?” I said. “How about this.”
With that I leaned over and pressed my lips to his.
Look for the other titles in
Diane Kelly’s K-9 mystery series!
LAYING DOWN THE PAW
UPHOLDING THE PAW
(an e-original novella)
PAW ENFORCEMENT
PAW AND ORDER
From St. Martin’s Paperbacks
Don’t miss these Tara Holloway novels from Diane Kelly
Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure
Death, Taxes, and a Skinny No-Whip Latte
Death, Taxes, And Extra-Hold Hairspray
Death, Taxes, and a Sequined Clutch (an e-original novella)
Death, Taxes, and Peach Sangria
Death, Taxes, and Hot-Pink Leg Warmers
Death, Taxes, and Green Tea Ice Cream
Death, Taxes, and Mistletoe Mayhem (an e-original novella)
Death, Taxes, and Silver Spurs
Death, Taxes, and Cheap Sunglasses
Death, Taxes, and a Chocolate Cannoli
Death, Taxes, and a Satin Garter (coming in August)
From St. Martin’s Paperbacks
ST. MARTIN’S PAPERBACKS TITLES BY DIANE KELLY
Paw Enforcement
Paw and Order
Upholding the Paw (an e-original novella)
Laying Down the Paw
Against the Paw
THE TARA HOLLOWAY NOVELS
Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure
Death, Taxes, and a Skinny No-Whip Latte
Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray
Death, Taxes, and a Sequined Clutch (an e-original novella)
Death, Taxes, and Peach Sangria
Death, Taxes, and Hot-Pink Leg Warmers
Death, Taxes, and Green Tea Ice Cream
Death, Taxes, and Mistletoe Mayhem (an e-original novella)
Death, Taxes, and Silver Spurs
Death, Taxes, and Cheap Sunglasses
Death, Taxes, and a Chocolate Cannoli
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DIANE KELLY is a former CPA and tax attorney, who had several brushes with white-collar criminals during her career. When she realized her experiences made excellent fodder for novels, her fingers hit the keyboard and thus began her Special Agent Tara Holloway romantic mystery series. Diane is a proud graduate of the Mansfield, Texas Citizen Police Academy, and “Mom” to three very spoiled canines.
For more information or to sign up for Diane’s newsletter, visit her web site at www.dianekelly.com. You can also find her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/dianekellybooks, or follow her on Twitter at @dianekellybooks. Or sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Also by Diane Kelly
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
AGAINST THE PAW
Copyright © 2016 by Diane Kelly.
All rights reserved.
For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
eISBN: 9781250094810
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St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / May 2016
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