“Why do I need to be careful? What do you know? Who do you think—”
“I don’t know anything, Sky. But if there was anything to know, you slinking about trying to make someone guilty of something could put you in extreme danger.”
“You do know something,” she said.
He let out a soft sigh, staring straight ahead. “Again, I don’t know anything. But I do know if there’s anything to know, you snooping around could put you in danger. Sky, just—”
“You’re just repeating yourself. I don’t need you to worry about me,” she said.
He turned and studied her. “Yeah. You made that perfectly clear a few years back,” he said softly. “But you know, sorry, in memory of your father, I worry about you anyway.”
She was suddenly afraid she might burst into tears. And it was all so ridiculous. She had walked away. Her father’s death had been devastating to her, and she’d probably hurt herself—and her mother—with the way she’d retreated inward.
But that was long ago now. And she’d heard that Chase had moved on. He had kept studying, but he’d sat in with other groups in the past years. He’d been seen with a few of the hottest, newest female acts out there.
She lowered her head. She wasn’t about to cry.
“My father didn’t make a mistake with an amp,” she said simply. “Sorry. Something happened the night he died. And since you’re so determined that I’m up to something, you might as well know I will never accept that it was his fault in any way. Good night.”
She turned to head back to her own car.
And she wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed that he didn’t follow her.
If she closed her eyes, she could remember the past too clearly.
Along with all she had so foolishly thrown away.
Chapter Two
“Well?”
“Well?” Chase replied.
He’d come home to find his supervising director, Andy Wellington, was on his couch, stretched back comfortably, watching a sitcom and waiting for him.
Of course, Wellington had necessarily approved his undercover investigation into the death of Jake Ferguson. That he had done so had surprised Chase—Jake’s death had been accepted as an accident and had occurred years earlier. Even if it had been deemed suspicious in any way, a homicide case would have been tossed in with the rest of the cold cases by now.
Wellington didn’t have a personal interest in the case; he’d admired Jake Ferguson and liked the fact his undercover agent was part of the music world.
But his interest wasn’t personal, and customarily, Chase’s personal interest would have kept him on the sidelines.
But it was hard to find his kind of an in.
Chase had meant to take part in the show, one way or the other. But he’d expected he’d be taking personal days to do it, and Wellington might have even tried to stop him for being too close to any possible suspects if there was a case. Then, of course, he would have had to try to convince Wellington that no, he was just sitting in for his grandfather and if he didn’t, it could injure any good Chase did in undercover work since it was known—by hardened fans, at least—that he was the grandson of legendary rock drummer Hank McCoy.
Wellington sat up, folding his hands idly on his knees as he waited for Chase to talk.
The man was a good boss. Chase had read up on him and knew he was fifty-one, married, with two kids in college. He’d started in the field just like the agents he supervised now and worked his way up to his position, one he’d held for almost ten years. He could have a stern demeanor or a casual one. Six one, with a clean-cut head of silver hair and dark brown eyes, he was an impressive figure who could also look like a friendly dad.
“So? Anything?”
“Yeah, a good session,” Chase told him. He shook his head. “I have known these guys my whole life—Joe Garcia, Mark Reynolds, Chris Wiley and, of course, my grandfather, Brandon, Chris’s son and Skylar Ferguson. We rented the space—no roadies were with us.”
“And you want to believe it was a roadie and not a friend you’ve known all your life,” Wellington said flatly. He lifted his hands in the air. “That’s all well and good, except this person has to be someone who had worked with the group time and again. The particular—and deadly—brand of stuff they discovered has shown up in every area where the band played.”
“Yes, I want to believe a roadie is involved. And that it’s not Joe, Mark or Chris. Honestly, I think I’d know if it was my grandfather, and you know that—”
“Yes, he’s rehabbing from heart surgery,” Wellington said.
“And,” Chase told him, “a roadie would have had greater access to the stage and the stage equipment—including the amps.”
“There is logic in that. Just don’t wear blinders.”
“I never wear blinders.”
“But what you think is that Jake Ferguson was killed because he suspected what was going on, that someone involved was selling drugs, and he had to be shut up before he turned them in?”
Chase hesitated and shrugged. “Yeah,” he said at last. “And, yes, it shouldn’t be, but it is personal in a way. Jake was clean as a whistle. He had been since he’d returned from fighting in Vietnam. He wasn’t a monster who lit on anyone who ordered a beer, and if his friends wanted to light up a joint here or there, he could shrug it off. But he would have never tolerated someone selling drugs—especially when so many customers might be kids or young adults. And especially since the drugs had been showing up now and then where their shows had been playing. Yes, Jake was killed, I’m convinced, and for a reason. The same reason that has you agreeing with me, when protocol suggests that it’s not.”
Wellington actually grinned. “Yeah. I can’t bring back your rock-star friend. If my sanctioning your investigation while ‘just playing with your gramps’s band’ can manage that, then I can blink easily enough. But you will keep me posted every step of the way.”
Chase nodded. For a minute, he wondered if he should tell Wellington he was worried. Skylar Ferguson didn’t know a thing about the suspicions the FBI was harboring regarding drug sales revolving around the band, but she didn’t believe her father’s death had been an accident.
It worried him. It might worry Wellington enough to pull the plug.
Then he’d be more worried than ever about Sky, Chase knew.
And, really, what could he say about Skylar?
