Mysterious Millionaire. Cassie Miles
Liz found it hard to believe that Ben Crawford—millionaire adventurer and playboy—would show up in person. Didn’t rich people hire underlings to do their dirty work?
But she hoped Harry was right. The Schooner Detective Agency could use the cash. They’d been retained by Ben’s estranged wife, Victoria, who wanted enough dirt on her husband to void the prenup and gain sole custody of their five-year-old daughter. Photos of Ben making a drug buy would insure that Victoria got what she wanted, and she’d promised a huge bonus for the results.
Though Liz felt a twinge of regret about separating a father from his child, Ben Crawford deserved to be exposed. He’d been born with every advantage and was throwing his life away on drugs. In her book, that made him a lousy human being and definitely an unfit father.
A shiny, black Mustang glided to the curb in front of the house. This had to be their millionaire.
Harry shoved the camera into her hands. “You take the pictures. Don’t worry. I’ll back you up.”
“Stay in the car, Harry.”
“Get close to the front window,” he said as he flipped open the glove compartment and took out an ancient Remington automatic.
A jolt of adrenaline turned her stakeout lethargy to tension. If Harry started waving his gun, this situation could get ugly. “Put that thing away.”
“Don’t you worry, Missy. I don’t plan to shoot anybody.” With another grunt, he opened his car door. “Go for the money shot. Crawford with the drugs in his hand.”
The camera was foolproof—geared to automatically focus and adjust to minimal lighting. But she doubted she’d get a chance to use it. Most of the visitors to the house went inside, did their business and came out with hands shoved deeply into their pockets.
She darted across the street toward the dealer’s house and ducked behind one of the junker cars in the driveway. Ben Crawford stood at the front door beside a bare bulb porch light. His shaggy brown hair fell over the collar of his worn denim shirt, only a few shades lighter than his jeans. He looked like a tall, rangy cowboy who had somehow gotten lost in the big city.
Holding the camera to her eye, Liz zoomed in on his face. Wow. Not only rich but incredibly good-looking, he had a firm jaw, high cheekbones and deep-set eyes. What was he doing here?
She pulled back on the zoom to include the dealer in his black mesh T-shirt and striped track pants. He pushed open the torn screen door and stepped onto the concrete slab porch under a rusted metal awning.
The pounding beat of rap music covered any noise Liz made as she clicked off several photos to make sure she caught them together.
Instead of going inside, Ben remained on the porch. For a moment, she hoped he wasn’t here to make a buy, that there was a legitimate reason. Then he pulled a roll of bills from his pocket. The dealer handed over three brown, plastic vials.
Click. Click. Click. She had the money shot. A big payday for the Schooner Detective Agency.
The two men shook hands. Ben pivoted and returned to his Mustang while the dealer stood on the porch and watched Ben’s taillights as he drove away.
Another man with a scraggly beard staggered outside and pointed.
Liz glanced over her shoulder to see what they were looking at. Harry crouched between two cars at the curb, his white hair gleaming in the moonlight.
“Hey, old man.” The dealer came off the porch. “What the hell you doing?”
Harry straightened his stiff joints. “Guess I got lost.”
“You watching us?” The two men stepped into the yard. From down the street, she heard ferocious barking, the prelude to a fight, and she knew Harry wasn’t up to it.
She stashed the camera in the pocket of her windbreaker and rushed toward her partner. “There you are, Gramps. I’ve been looking all over for you.” To the two men in the yard, she said, “Sorry if he bothered you. He wanders sometimes.”
Their cold sneers told her that they weren’t buying her story. The dealer snapped, “Stop right there, bitch.”
“I’ll just take Gramps home and—”
The crack of a gunshot brought her to a halt. She froze at the edge of the yard, praying that Harry wouldn’t return fire. A shootout wouldn’t be good for anybody.
Liz turned and faced the two men, who swaggered toward her. Her pulse raced, not so much from fear as uncertainty. She didn’t know what to expect. Forcing an innocent smile, she said, “There’s no need for guns.”
“What’s in your pocket? You carrying heat?”
As long as they didn’t immobilize her, she ought to be able to take these two guys. Her five years studying martial arts at Dragon Lou’s gave her an edge. Liz was capable of shattering a cinderblock with her bare hand.
From across the street, Harry yelled, “Leave her alone.”
Please, Harry. Please don’t use your gun. She had to act fast. No time to wait and see.
Liz aimed a flying kick at the bearded guy, neatly disarming him. Before his buddy could react, she whirled, chopped at his arm and kicked again. Though her hand missed, the heavy sole of her boot connected with his knee, and he stumbled.
The bearded man grabbed her forearm. Worst possible scenario. Both men had more brute strength than she did. Her advantage was speed and agility. She twisted and flipped, wrenching her arm free. He still clung to the sleeve of her windbreaker. She escaped by slipping out of her jacket.
Before they could brace themselves for another assault, she unleashed a series of kicks and straight-hand chops. Not a pretty, precise display. She wouldn’t win any tournament points for style, but she got the job done with several swift blows to vulnerable parts of their anatomy. Throat. Gut. Groin.
Both were on their knees.
Another man rushed out the door. And another.
Behind her back, she heard Harry fire his automatic. Five shots.
She ran for the car.
Harry collapsed into the passenger side as she dived behind the wheel and cranked the ignition. Without turning on the headlights, she burned rubber and tore down the street.
Gunfire exploded behind them.
Liz didn’t cut her speed until they reached a major intersection, where she turned on the headlights and merged into traffic. Her heart hammered inside her rib cage. They could have been killed. The aftermath of intense danger exploded behind her eyelids like belated fireworks.
Thank God for Dragon Lou and his martial arts training.
Beside her in the passenger seat, Harry was breathing heavily. With the back of his hand, he wiped sweat from his forehead. “Did you get the pictures?”
She cringed. “The camera was in my windbreaker. The bearded guy pulled it off me.”
“It’s okay.”
“But you’re not.” She took note of his pasty complexion and heaving chest. “I’m taking you to the emergency room.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Kick the old man out of the way and take over his business.”
“Yeah, that’s my evil plan. Adding your debt to my student loans.” Sarcasm covered her concern for him. “That’s every girl’s dream.”
“Seriously, Liz. I don’t need a doc.” He exhaled in a long whoosh that dissolved into a hacking cough. “This was a little too much excitement for the old ticker.”
“Is this your way of telling me that you have heart problems?”
“Forget it. Just drive back to the office.”