“What can I do for you, boss?”
Chase handed her a flash drive that held the scanned pages of the Dickerson file.
“I need info on a possible murder victim named James Monroe Dickerson. Forty years old, died of a heart attack. Wife’s name is Betsy Marie Dickerson. James’s father is convinced his son was murdered. No autopsy. Cremation three days postmortem. There was a big insurance policy.” Which he’d discovered as he’d gone through the file. “Find me whatever you can.”
“Your timing’s good. I just finished running down a lead for Maddox. I can get right on this. Let me take a quick look, see if there’s anything else I need.”
Chase waited while Tabby plugged in the drive and made a quick scan of the information. “You’ve got quite a bit here. I’ll go through it and get back to you.”
“Thanks, Tab.” Chase left the house and returned to the office. He finished up, made a few last-minute calls, then headed out the door.
He considered stopping to drown his sorrows at Clancy’s, the Irish pub just down the block, a locals’ joint The Max crew considered their second home. But he’d probably run into one of them, and he wasn’t up for hanging out.
Stepping out into the darkness, he crossed the lot to where his pickup was parked, clicked the locks and pulled open the door. If his mind hadn’t been a million miles away on Harper, he would have been ready. As it was, four men in ski masks were on him before he had time to react.
He took a hard punch to the jaw, spun around and took a deep blow to the stomach, doubling him over, damn near taking him to his knees.
“Stay away from Harper,” the stout man said, which gave him a few seconds to recoup. Chase swung a punch that came from the ground up, knocking his opponent backward, then muscle memory kicked in, and he went to work.
An elbow to the face of the second guy, a kick to the groin of the third. A couple of solid punches to the stout guy, who was back on his feet; and a kidney shot to the fourth, a lean, tough guy with ropy muscles in his arms.
Fists flew. Men grunted. A knee to the groin took one of them down, groaning and clutching his privates. Chase threw a left-right combination, crunching bone, breaking the bastard’s nose.
Then ski-masked men began flying backward as if they were on strings. Bran was in the fray, punching and kicking like a madman. Attackers rolled on the ground, groaning and cursing. One of them pulled a pistol that Bran kicked away, then the men scrambled to their feet and took off running.
Chase didn’t follow. Neither did Bran. Just watched them disappear into the darkness at the edge of the parking lot.
Both he and Bran blew hard, fighting to catch their breath. Bran bent over, braced his hands on his thighs and looked up at him. In the glow of the parking lamps, Chase saw him grin.
“Fun times,” his brother said.
“Yeah, a real laugh.”
Bran turned serious. “Fucking scumbags. You can figure Winston for the attack.”
“The question is did they get what they were after or will they be back?”
“Considering Harper told her dad she was finished with you, I’m guessing the old man’ll let it go. Plus those guys are going to give him a far more colorful version of what happened.” Bran grinned. “According to them, you got your ass kicked.”
Chase laughed. “Let’s hope you’re right.”
“Buy you a drink?” Bran asked, checking the abrasions on his knuckles.
Chase released a weary breath. Since the alternative was going home to face his empty condo, now filled with memories of Harper, he might as well.
“Why not? But considering your very timely arrival, I think I’m the one who ought to do the buying.”
Bran chuckled and slapped him on the back. As they headed for Clancy’s, Chase thought a drink had never sounded so good.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Though darkness had settled over the streets of Houston, computer techs in the BUZZ offices worked overtime to create new software programs, make repairs and implement changes to clients’ computer systems.
The company was running smoothly. Michael was proud of the way his team had managed the business during his ordeal. He should be smiling. Under different circumstances, he would be. Instead he was thinking of Pia. Missing her with every beat of his heart.
He never would have guessed he could fall so hard so fast. But he had never met a woman like Pia Santana, and he didn’t think he ever would again.
Sitting behind the sleek chrome-and-granite desk in his glass-enclosed office, he checked the time. The workday was over. Being an hour later in Miami, the day would also be over for Pia. Michael reached for the phone. He hadn’t called her since he’d left her at the airport, had respected her wishes, given her time.
