Nikki gently complained when he scooped her up and told her it was time to go. But there was no time for debate, they were already late for dinner.
He thanked Zach, “I owe you lunch sometime this week.” Then headed out the door before Wormley said something stupid or Sullivan lured him into another hand-rubbing conversation.
Erin and Mike, her five-year-old son, were already at Barnaby’s Grill when Chapa and Nikki got there, nearly forty minutes late. Chapa watched as Erin got up from where they were seated at a table by the front windows, and introduced herself to Nikki. He marveled at how natural this all seemed for her.
Chapa and Erin had met under circumstances that were less than romantic. He’d walked into her bank, the one where she still worked as a vice president, hoping to clear up the finances of his married past. They hit it off in every way, and by the end of their first month together they were seeing each other several times a week, and spending hours on the phone on nights when they were apart.
Erin had a casual way about her that fit nicely with Chapa’s often manic life, and he shared things with her in a way he never had with anyone else before—not even with Carla. Sometimes Chapa wasn’t sure what he brought to Erin’s life, and he wasn’t about to ask.
Though they had been together and going strong for more than six months, Chapa’s hesitancy to commit further was beginning to cause a strain. With Erin’s help he had succeeded in clearing up the financial fallout from his failed marriage, only to find that there were some other lingering issues that were also the product of his past failures.
The restaurant was crowded, mostly by families, and for Chapa the feeling of fitting in with this group was both alien and comforting. Nikki and Mike were getting along well, and Erin gave Chapa a look and tossed a nod in their direction. He knew what she was thinking.
They’re cute, aren’t they.
And they were, but something else had captured his attention. Chapa had first noticed the man and his car as he and Nikki were walking in the door. The banged-up, late model Ford had rumbled through the parking lot at a speed that was just a bit beyond casual.
Now the guy Chapa had seen behind the wheel was standing by his Toyota, eyeing it, and not trying to act like he was doing anything else. Chapa watched as the man with at least fifty hard years of living on his body circled the Corolla.
“Something wrong?” Erin asked in a way that let Chapa know she already knew the answer.
“Not sure, maybe.”
Four days’ worth of salt-and-pepper stubble crowded the guy’s face, but Chapa sensed it wasn’t the beginning of a beard. He looked like he’d dressed himself in the dark, putting on the first clothes his unsteady hands landed on.
The waitress brought a platter of appetizers, but Chapa didn’t notice right away. His attention was on the guy who was now staring right back at him from the parking lot.
“Who is he?” Erin had noticed him too.
“No idea. But I have a feeling we’ll know soon,” Chapa said as he watched the man stride across the parking lot, toward the front door of the restaurant, like he had to be someplace in a hurry. His eyes fixed on Chapa the entire time.
Chapter 13
Alex Chapa had spent much of his career kicking up piles of dirt and pissing off the people who’d built them.
He’d exposed area businessmen who had ties to the mob, cops gone bad, and all variety of cheats, chiselers, and shitheels. Chapa had paid a price for his efforts. His cars had been vandalized more times than he could remember, his front lawn was once set on fire, and there had been three death threats—at least one of which was taken seriously by the police.
But it had been some time—days, maybe weeks—since he’d last written anything that could be considered incendiary. This fact bothered Chapa, made him feel like he wasn’t doing his job.
At the moment, it was also a cause for confusion. Chapa could not imagine what he might’ve done to rile the thin but imposing man who had just burst through the door of the restaurant, rushed past the young lady offering him a table or booth, and was now rapidly narrowing the distance to where they were seated.
Maybe this was someone who’d landed in the joint after one of Chapa’s exposés. He certainly had that look. Chapa fought the urge to stand up and anticipate a confrontation. His first instinct was not to avoid trouble in front of the kids. But he was trying to work on that.
“You’re Alex Chapa?”
“As far back as I can remember.”
It was an off-the-cuff response, probably not the wisest one under the circumstances. Chapa knew that, but over the years he’d made a habit of answering that question with any one in a series of smart-ass lines.
“Then you’re the one investigating what happened to Jim.”
Chapa took a better look at the man fidgeting by their table. Did he look familiar? Maybe, though he couldn’t quite place the face. A waitress whose hands were filled with plates excused herself and did her best to shimmy past the guy who acted as though she wasn’t there.
“I’m not investigating, exactly. There’s nothing to investigate.”
“The hell there ain’t,” the guy said, then seemed to catch himself as he looked toward the children. “I’m sorry. It’s been a bad time.”
He looks like a bad time, Chapa thought as he excused himself, got up. and took the guy by the arm.
“Let’s go over here,” Chapa said and led him to the bar at the other end of the restaurant. “Can I buy you a drink?”
The guy shook his head. “Had too many already.”
Based on the stranger’s appearance and the way he smelled, Chapa had no reason to doubt that.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Warren Chakowski. I’m Jim’s brother.”
Chapa looked for a resemblance—maybe that was why the guy seemed familiar—but couldn’t find any.
“Were you two close?”
Warren Chakowski looked down, and Chapa had the answer to his question.
“I’ve had some troubles, you know?”
Chapa didn’t, but he could easily imagine, and nodded anyhow.
“I was born with some difficulties that I’ve fought to overcome,” Warren said as he rubbed his forehead. “Some times have been better than others.”
“I liked your brother a lot,” Chapa said, waving the bar-keep away. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“I’m sure you are. That’s why you need to investigate what really happened last night.”
Now Chapa remembered where he’d seen the guy. Warren Chakowski had been at the crime scene, standing along a tree line at the far end of his brother’s property. Even then it had seemed to Chapa like this guy was out of place.
“Look, Warren, I can see you’re upset, and hurt, and maybe a little confused—”
“I’m not confused about anything—” Warren said, raising his voice to an uncomfortable level.
Chapa put a hand on Warren’s shoulder and tried to settle him down.
“That came out wrong, it sounded condescending, and I apologize. But your brother’s death was a terrible accident.”
“No accident,” Warren stopped him. His demeanor had suddenly changed and he now appeared resolute, certain, and sober. “My brother knew he was going to die, knew they were out to kill him. He warned me to keep an eye out for myself and to watch who I talked to if anything happened to him.”
“Did