A Murderer Among Us, page 3
“Thank you, Mark,” Chase said. Sky smiled and nodded, ready to head out herself. This rehearsal had been her return intro.
Now she needed to think. Maybe make a few notes.
A few notes about what? Did she think if one of them was guilty, they would just fall apart in front of her today?
“I’m heading out for a beer after that,” Brandon said. “Anyone want to join me?”
“I’ll go with you, kid,” his father said. “Joe?”
“Yeah, sure. I’m in,” Joe said.
“Sky, come on!” Brandon said.
“Maybe tomorrow night. I didn’t sleep well. A little nervous, maybe,” she lied.
“We’ll hold you to it!” Chris said.
“Chase?” Brandon asked. “You’re not going to make me go out alone with the old guys, are you?”
“Rain check for tomorrow night, too,” Chase said. “I have some work—”
“Work! Why do you work when you could hit the road with us forever?” Mark asked him. “Your granddad would love it!”
“I love sitting in. Not sure I’m ready to be a forever drummer,” Chase said. “Anyway, good night, all!”
He headed out as well with everyone trailing him. They waved again, breaking apart to head to their various parking places.
Sky was in a garage off Canal, and she walked down the street, deep in thought at first.
Then something seemed to disturb her; she felt as if she was being followed.
When she stopped and turned to search the area, no one was there. Well, people were there, but no one who seemed to be paying the least bit of attention to her.
No one from Skyhawk.
She shook her head, wondering again if she wasn’t crazy and if she wasn’t letting her suspicion turn to paranoia.
With a shake of her head, she hurried on to the garage.
It wasn’t until she reached her car on the third level that she stopped dead, staring.
Chase was there. Leaning against the front of her little SUV, arms crossed casually over his chest as he watched her approach.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
But he shook his head, staring at her curiously. “The question is this. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
She angled her head and narrowed her eyes. “I’m taking my dad’s place. Just like you’re sitting in for Hank—”
“I’ve sat in before. You’ve avoided the band like the plague.”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
He walked over to her, not touching her, just standing a few inches from her. “I know you,” he said softly. “And I know how you felt about your father. I don’t know what you’re up to, but I do know this. You’ve got to be careful, Sky.”
“I’m not up to anything. Why should I be careful? My dad died because of a tragic accident, right?”
“Please, be careful.”
He turned and left her. She saw that he had parked in the same area of the garage.
Had he followed her?
He was already in his car.
“Chase!” she called, walking toward him. His engine was running.
She stepped in front of his car. He wasn’t going to hit her; she was sure of that.
Of course, he didn’t. He looked to the side.
She walked around to the driver’s seat. He lowered his window.
“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?
“So, is it going to be a hell of a show? Shake the arena?” Wellington asked.
“You bet.”
“And you have tickets for me, right?”
“Backstage passes included, Uncle Andy,” Chase assured him.
Wellington frowned at that.
“It’s cool,” Chase assured him. “We all called friends Aunt this or Uncle that back when I was growing up. They’ll just think you’re a family friend they’ve never met.”
“But your folks—”
“Aren’t coming. They’ve been in Ireland for the last six months. My dad flew in and out to make sure I was taking good care of his father. This has been a great opportunity for my mom, working at the museum in Dublin, so Gramps and I both insisted that Dad get back over there.”
Wellington nodded. “I trust you. Obviously, you wouldn’t be working for me if I didn’t. All right, so I’m out of here for tonight.”
Chase stood to walk him out.
“Great place you have here,” Wellington told him, standing on the porch and looking toward the path that led around to the side courtyard. “You’re right in the French Quarter, away from the fury of Bourbon Street, just two blocks off Esplanade and about that distance in from Rampart. Very oddly neighborhood-y.”
Chase grinned. “Yeah. My grandfather, Hank, bought this place when the city was a disaster, right after Katrina. He paid too much for it, but he’s a good guy, too. The family he bought it from was in trouble, no jobs, kids in college... And, yeah, I have to admit, being the grandson of a rock icon has its perks. He gave me the house as a gift when I graduated from college.”
“You grew up here.”
“Yeah, in New Orleans. In a house my folks still own in the Irish Channel area.”
“And you’re working for me,” Wellington said, shaking his head.
“They still call it home, but they travel all the time.”
Wellington looked around, nodding. “Well, keep your head down. See you rockin’ out.”
Chase nodded and watched Wellington walk away, headed down the street. He paused for a minute. No way out of it, his grandfather’s success—or the success of Skyhawk—had given him amazing privileges. But he had always known that, and he had known it was because his grandfather, like Jake Ferguson, was just a good guy. From the time he’d been a child he’d been taught they were blessed and lucky and that meant they had to help others. Hank McCoy had practiced what he preached, and he was one of the few people who knew what Chase really did and who he worked for. Hank had been surprised at first about Chase’s deepening interest in criminology. But when Chase had been about to graduate with his second degree, he’d told Hank a little impatiently, “You told me to help people, that we’d led a charmed life and that meant giving back. Gramps, I think I can be good at delving into things, discovering the truth. I think I can really help people this way!”
Hank had grown silent, and then he’d smiled.
“All right. Maybe you’re right. But don’t forget the drums, huh?”
“I love the drums. And the guitar, though I’m better at drums.”
“Genetics,” Hank told him. “Go out and save the world. Do me proud. But remember this. Music. Seriously. Like love, it makes the world go around.”
Chase headed back in, locked the door, grimacing when he remembered it had been his idea to give Wellington a key for the times now when he might be waiting to see him privately, wanting a personal update.
His office was on the right side of the house, just behind the music room. He headed there, determined to go over everything he knew about the major players in the case.
Of course, that started with the band.
And his memories of the last concert Jake had played, and the last words Jake had said to him.
There had been about seventy thousand people in the audience, just as there had been for U2 and the Rolling Stones.
Seventy thousand suspects?
No. Because Jake wouldn’t have known or had contact with the majority of the audience, though of course, New Orleans had been his hometown, so he’d have had friends there. And the other band members would have had friends. And family.
But Jake wouldn’t have been talking with many people right before the show: he’d have been with the band, with the roadies and perhaps the venue supervisor. But he was angry about something he’d seen just as they had been setting up. Something he had seen someone do.
And because of the emotion involved, it suggested someone close to him.
Back to the band and the roadies.
Sometimes, roadies were attached to a venue, sometimes to a performer or group, and sometimes, a combination of the two were working.
That night...
Chase closed his eyes and leaned back. Though he’d already been intrigued by other courses in college, his focus in life that night had been music. And he’d been standing stage left, ready to sit in for Hank, something that still thrilled his grandfather since his father had chosen to follow another path, the restoration of ancient art pieces. Chase’s father’s work was impressive since he’d worked on pieces in major museums across the world—it just didn’t compare to the fame of being a rock star. Though Chase had failed miserably at drawing so much as a stick figure, his dad had never minded that he didn’t follow him into the art world, but rather he was glad that Chase made Hank so happy.
Jake hadn’t just been the lead singer. He’d been the true front man. He knew how to work a crowd. He also knew how to share, kicking over to other band members, never doing a show that didn’t feature each player, each instrument.
After his death...
The gigs hadn’t been enormous. Joe Garcia had taken over most of the vocals, Hank had taken on a few, and Chris and Mark the rest. During his life, Jake Ferguson had recorded sessions with his daughter, wildly popular on social media through the years.
Everyone had been beyond thrilled that she had agreed to be part of this concert. It was taking place in her hometown, and the guys had assumed that she had finally agreed in a moment of weakness. She’d never shown any of them hostility; she had always been not just cordial but friendly because she didn’t ever want to ruin the fact that her mom was still friends with the group and their families and when she’d been at the same place at the same time, she’d hung out with them.
But Chase knew her better. Even if it had been years now since...
They’d been together.
He winced. They’d been darlings on stage together, beloved by the group and by the crowds. So young and sweet in their puppy love, and how perfect that the grandson of the drummer and the daughter of the vocalist and lead guitarist should fall in love.
It wasn’t their time together on stage that he remembered.
It was her laughter, her smile, her eyes when she looked at him. Her way of making sure that she tipped any musician they ever saw playing on the street—and there were plenty. It was the spring break when they’d escaped their families and everyone to head to St. Augustine Beach. Days in the sun, nights spent on history and ghost tours and just being together.
And then Jake had died. And she’d never said another word to him; she’d stepped away. And when he’d tried to reach her after the funeral, she had told him that she couldn’t, just couldn’t, see him again. Ever.
After today, he thought, leaning back and stretching in his desk chair, he knew why.
To the best of his knowledge, she’d never taken any courses in criminology. And she hadn’t been near the stage when her father had died.
She couldn’t have heard her father’s last words—spoken just to Chase as he’d taken over for Hank on a number—so she couldn’t have his reasons for suspecting that something more than an accident had been involved.
