Benediction: Diversion Book 9 Read online

  What the ever-loving fuck? Lucky? Caring? Well, yeah. Maybe. A little. The reason Landry took such drastic measures when Lucky wouldn’t turn a blind eye to the asshat’s attempt to close down Chastain’s business and steal his hard work.

  Even without owning a soft heart Lucky got pulled into entirely too many situations based on doing the right thing.

  Why had his mother tried so hard to raise him right?

  Would be the death of him someday. He pushed aside a half-full cup—coffee he didn’t remember buying—and retrieved a note pad with a ring dead center from being used as a coaster. He’d never typed fast enough to take notes on his computer. He dragged the tip of three pens over the paper before finding one with ink. “Details? What did you see, and when did you see it?”

  A little of the tension left Chastain’s voice. “It’s not always the same car, but they come by my house several times a day. I’ve caught them on my security camera.”

  “You sure it’s not just a neighbor?” Suspicion, like everything else, worked best in moderation.

  “You’ve been to my house. I live in a cul-de-sac, remember?”

  Oh, yeah. Right. “What kind of car?”

  “Sometimes it’s a red Tercel. Others, a white van. That one I’ve seen in my rearview on my way to work.”

  Lots of cars in the Atlanta morning commute. Someone on the same schedule likely got behind the man. “Get a look at the driver?”

  “No.”

  Landry was still out there, but so were a bunch of powerful businessmen facing serious charges, not to mention a few who remained in jail, but likely had a long reach. Enough to make anyone jumpy. “But you spotted him, right? That makes him an amateur. You’d never see a professional.”

  Chastain’s sigh wafted through the phone. “That’s not helping.”

  “It’s the truth.” Truth hurt sometimes.

  “What should I do?” The man couldn’t fake this level of desperation. He’d passed the point of “healthy dose of fear” and pushed into the scared shitless zone.

  Lucky glanced at the clock on his computer. Two more hours. Yeah, he had time. Go see Chastain, talk him down off the ceiling, convince him he’d only seen a neighbor. Or maybe he could look at the footage from Chastain’s security camera and possibly get a plate number on the suspicious car.

  What the poor guy went through. No wonder he’d gotten obsessed with every little thing.

  Lucky doodled a few more notes on the pad, next to a few baby names—most crossed out. “You’re at home now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me come over, take a look at the recording. Ask a few more questions.”

  “Would you?” Chastain sounded less scared now, more hopeful. Lucky might never get used to people viewing him as a positive thing. “I hate to be a bother, but I didn’t know where else to go.”

  Lucky’d been there, alone and with nowhere to turn. He’d never admit to going to calm someone’s nerves. Oh, right. This man shared a connection with Landry.

  Landry, who still roamed the earth, free, while so many others saw life through bars and razor wire-topped fences.

  Hell, Lucky should ask Johnson, sitting at the next desk and doing a pitiful job of pretending to work while listening in on Lucky’s conversation. She’d flirted with Chastain during one of their meetings. Maybe having someone else to drool over might make her forget—or at least distract her from— the no account dickhead who’d dumped her the moment the going got tough.

  She deserved better, and from what he’d seen, Chastain might be better. Hell, just about anyone beat Rett’s ex.

  Still, Chastain called him. “I’ll be there in twenty. Thirty if I hit traffic.”

  Lucky ended the call and turned to his cubemate. “I got something to do.” He wouldn’t mention Chastain’s name. That case had led to her boyfriend’s arrest. She didn’t speak of Philip often, and Lucky wouldn’t risk bringing up bad memories. He’d make a note for future reference—and have his sister make the suggestion. He wasn’t about to play matchmaker. Charlotte lived for meddling in the name of love. “Keep an eye on Salters and Robinson, okay?”

  “Yes, sir!” The six-foot-plus woman who’d shoved her way into Lucky’s life gave him a mock salute. “You coming back later, or will I see you tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow. Once this is done, I’m heading toward the house.”

  “Give my regards to Charlotte. Tell her to call me if she’s up for a girl’s night on Friday.”

  Charlotte and Rett out on the town? He’d better check his savings account for bail money. “Sure thing.”

  He shrugged into his black leather jacket and strolled past the reception desk. “Lisa. Would you tell B… Mr. Schollenberger and Mr. Smith I had to go out?”

  The perky blonde receptionist smiled. “Yes, Mr. Harrison.” Mr. Harrison. Sounded so weird even after a few years spent answering to the name. Lucklighter. He needed to go back to Lucklighter.

  One day. Though he’d happily accept Schollenberger if Bo ever wanted to make things legal.

  Traffic remained fairly light, and in a little over twenty minutes, Lucky pulled into Chastain’s driveway. The same car he’d tracked while looking for the man over a year ago sat in the driveway of the upscale-but-still-modest white stucco house. Red shutters. Red door.

  Right. He needed to stop by the hardware store for paint on his way home. The shutters on his and Bo’s own house needed work.

  He and the clerks at Lowe’s were on a first-name basis.

  Quiet reigned in the cul-de-sac. Too quiet. No kids playing, no cars, no dogs barking, no noises from a neighbor’s house. No wonder a passing car caught Chastain’s attention.

  Prickles rose on the back of Lucky’s neck. Something wasn’t right.

  He rang the doorbell and paused, checking out the angle of the twin cameras mounted above the porch. One aimed at the front door, the other at the street. His breath fogged before his face. Northerners called Georgia downright balmy, but tried and true Southerners considered February cold.

  Chastain didn’t answer the door. He’d known Lucky was coming. Lucky rang the bell again and stuck his hands in his jacket pockets to keep them warm. Maybe he’d caught the guy on the throne. Best to give him a minute or two. The seconds ticked by.

  Oh, hell.

  Slipping the .38 Walter had given him from his hip holster, he avoided the windows while making his way to the back door, and tapped lightly on the panel.

  Nothing.

  He tried again.

  A whole lot of nothing.

  He rang the bell.

  Nothing.

  His internal alarm kicked up another notch or two. He tried the doorknob. Unlocked. Someone terrified of being followed wouldn’t leave the door unlocked, even expecting a visitor.

  He turned the knob and opened the door onto a small room with a stacked washer and dryer on one side, and an opening on the other. Lucky peered in. The kitchen would’ve made two of his and Bo’s, with not a single speck of dirt. Bo would be proud.

  The scent of bacon lingered, and coffee. His stomach reminded him breakfast happened a long time ago, and lunchtime crept right on by without slowing down.

  The hall ahead had to lead to the formal living room. He’d been here before, but never through the back. He stopped when he reached a door. “Chastain?”

  Silence.

  He should call someone. Not Bo. Could he call Johnson without causing bad memories for her?

  She’d kick the crap out of him if he didn’t call just to spare her feelings. He called.

  “Hey, Lucky. What’s up?” Her lazy tone made it easy to picture her smiling, lying back in her office chair, gripping her phone, nails painted some bright color that he hadn’t noticed earlier. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I’m about to check on a witness from a past case, and I’m thinking there’s trouble.”

  Her humor fled. “Where?”

  Lucky gave her the address.


  “Want me to come out?”

  “Only if you don’t hear from me in five minutes.”

  “Will do.”

  He pocketed his phone and pushed the door with his .38. The door swept open on silent hinges. Good. His nerves couldn’t stand a scary-movie-worthy screech. Yeah, living room, with stiff looking couch and loveseat and a definite lack of lived-in feel.

  If memory served, the den was this way, where he’d interviewed the guy before. He entered a vaguely familiar room, checking out the places where he and Chastain sat for their conversation. Some of the furnishings he remembered, some he didn’t.

  Old couch. Possibly a new chair. More books lying on the coffee table. A half-full glass of dark liquid sat on the end table by the chair where Chastain had sat. An old black and white movie played on the big screen TV, sound off.

  He bent and took a sniff of the glass. Rum and coke, maybe?

  “Chastain?”

  No answer. He crept past the only room he clearly remembered, back out into the hall, pausing to listen. No sounds but the whoosh of a heater. Back to the wall, he crept to the next door. His heartbeat kicked up a notch in his chest.

  Gun drawn in front of him, he scooted around a doorframe and into the bathroom. He yanked the shower curtain back.

  Empty. And clean.

  He backed out of the bathroom and treaded softly on plush carpet. Each step added more rocks to his stomach. This wouldn’t end well. No way in hell. He’d either find something he didn’t want to see, or he’d find nothing.

  Which would be just as bad. Chastain struck him as a level-headed man. He wouldn’t have called without good reason, and he wouldn’t have left, leaving his back door unlocked. Not after what he’d been through.

  The bedroom consisted of a queen-sized bed, a dresser, twin nightstands. Blue comforter, blue curtains, blue carpet. Nothing out of place but a book on the nightstand.

  And a pool of red at the foot of the bed.

  CHAPTER 5

  The scent of blood had grown nearly unbearable since Lucky first called Atlanta PD. After years on the job, he normally adjusted to smells, no longer noticed them, or at least tuned them out. Pot, meth, and other drugs didn’t bother him much anymore, except to serve as a warning.

  Not so with blood. The odor grew stronger, choking him, twisting his insides around until he fought bile rising in his throat.

  Chastain’s body lay on the side of the bed closest to the wall, away from the door. The reason Lucky hadn’t seen him before the blood. Bare feet, shorts, polo shirt. He’d dressed the same the last time Lucky paid a visit to this house. The clothes of a man who should’ve been safe and comfortable in his own home.

  A single gunshot wound to the head, execution style. No sign of a struggle. Poor guy hadn’t stood a chance.

  If Lucky’d only been ten minutes sooner, or fifteen. Hell, maybe even five. Nothing he could do now. He backed away, letting a uniformed officer and the coroner through. No way left to help but let forensics do their thing.

  Cops and coroners—Lucky’d seen both too many times over the years.

  Voices broke the eerie quiet from earlier.

  He trudged out of the bedroom, breathing in slightly less nauseating air. Photos lined the walls in the hallway, one he recognized as a group picture from Chastain’s business, taken at a company get-together of some kind. Smiling faces, Chastain at the front. Funny how he’d proudly displayed the photo among other happy memories hanging on the wall. Especially since one of the subjects had betrayed his trust. Philip Eustace, O’Donoghue’s former lackey, Rett’s former lover, and an all-around piece of worthless filth.

  Additional photos showed Chastain and several others holding up strings of fish, a much-younger Chastain wearing a backpack in front of the Eiffel Tower. An award for Employee of the Year. Framed news articles, ranging from the ground-breaking at Chastain Pharmaceuticals, to company picnics. No apparent spouse, boyfriend, girlfriend, or children.

  He’d spoken once about a diabetic father, the reason he’d worked so hard on a drug to treat diabetes without injections.

  Someone would have to break the news, likely to the elderly man in the last photo with Chastain, who shared his blue eyes and slim build. Walter excelled at such, but this time the responsibility didn’t fall on the SNB.

  Atlanta PD would inform the next of kin. What would become of Chastain Pharmaceuticals? Would the revolutionary drug ever launch?

  The journey from bedroom to den didn’t take nearly long enough for Lucky to finish beating himself up with a heavy dose of shoulda, coulda, woulda.

  God, he’d love to see Bo about now. Their new jobs meant no more working together on cases. He’d have to stand on his own. Bo couldn’t hold his hand through every bad day. Funny how the changes crept up so gradually. Little pieces chipped away here and there, making Lucky more human, more caring. Bo had made him weak.

  No. Bo hadn’t made him weak. Made him strong. Took the half-life Lucky’d lived before and gave him so much more. How Lucky’d hated himself and his past. Bo knew his past, didn’t hold it against him. Told him he was a good man. Showed him he was a good man.

  Lucky didn’t stand on his own. Would never stand on his own again. Bo might not be here in the flesh, but he was here. Lucky pulled his phone from his pocket and scrolled through his pictures, finding one of Bo making a face at Alejandro. His reasons for living. He texted Bo, “I love you.”

  In less than a minute his phone chimed. “I love you too.”

  It was enough. Enough to keep Lucky going, straight into the den.

  Black leather furniture, fireplace under the wall-mounted TV. Someone finally turned off whatever movie played. Curtains covered the top part of the window, like in Lucky’s living room. Also, like Lucky’s living room, this room screamed lived in. Closed blinds covered the windows. Fear might as well have hung in the air like the spice fragrance from one of those plug-in thingies Charlotte liked.

  Chastain’s personality permeated the home. Neat, practical, friendly. Or friendly before success drew a target on his back.

  A uniformed cop sat on an ottoman, a sprinkling of grey in this dark brown hair. Fifty-ish, hunched shoulders, a general world-weary look about him. Lucky knew that look. He’d felt the same far too often.

  He bypassed the chair he’d once seen Chastain occupy and dropped down onto the couch. The leather squeaked under his ass. A cop. Someone else who should’ve been here in time to save this man. He held nothing back from his accusation. “He told me he called y’all. You wouldn’t come out here.”

  “Sir, I don’t know anything about that,” the cop replied, hands up in surrender. “I can only respond if dispatch tells me about a call.”

  No excuse. The dispatcher should have put the call out. “He said he was being followed, had strange vehicles driving by his house. He was scared, so he asked me to come over.”

  Wasn’t this cop’s first rodeo. He ignored Lucky’s spoiling for a fight in favor of professionalism. “Did you get a description?”

  Lucky’d done his time both as interviewer and interviewee. He’d much rather be on the other side of the notepad. “White van. Red Toyota Tercel. They quit making Tercels in ’98. So, old red Tercel. And half the crimes you respond to probably involve a white van.”

  The cop shook his head, one side of his mouth quirking, more in disgust than amusement. “I’m telling you.” He let out a sigh and scrubbed stubby fingers through his close-cropped hair. He’d probably seen plenty in his day. Today was just another bad day of many bad days.

  Like Lucky, he probably told himself “I’m too old for this shit” on a regular basis.

  The officer scribbled on a note pad. “What time did you arrive?”

  “I didn’t check my phone. Around 15:30, I think.”

  The man looked up, dark blue eyes meeting Lucky’s. “What happened then? Did you notice anything suspicious?”

  Why bother to ask him questions? Lucky knew the drill, why not let
him jot down answers and let the cop get back to patrolling or not answering cries for help? “It was too quiet. He didn’t answer the front door, so I went around back.”

  “Did you call for backup?”

  “Not then. I had no idea what I’d find. He might just’ve been in the shower or something.”

  Scratch, scratch, scratch, went the officer’s pen on his notepad. Another who hadn’t given up old school for technology and a shiny new tablet computer. “How well did you know the victim?”

  Lucky hated answering a million questions. He hated the paperwork even more. Most of all, though, he hated that he hadn’t gotten there in time. Chastain’s death might reopen an old case that would’ve stayed closed if Lucky had tied up all the loose ends.

  “He was a victim in one of my cases. Owned a pharma company that somebody else wanted. A bigger company tried to buy him out because they wanted a drug his team developed. He fought back, so they tried to shut him down. Pissed off a lot of people that he kept saying no to.” They now paid the price.

  But not all of them.

  “Know anybody who’d want to see him dead?”

  Names and faces flashed through Lucky’s mind, some he’d met, some he’d seen only through mugshots and media. Some he’d glimpsed during a tour of the rival pharma company. “Several, I’m betting. That clusterfuck led to a lot of arrests.” If those arrests held up in court, those folks would see the world through bars for many years to come. “The SNB can provide a full case report.” Let the paperwork come in handy.

  “How did you come to be here today?” The officer kept his tones somewhere between bored and sleep-walking. Yeah. One too many murders tended to jade a man.

  Lucky closed his eyes a moment, recalling the frantic phone call, pushing his memory to spit out every single detail. “I done told you. He called me. Asked me to come.” Chastain had been scared. Scared enough to call Lucky, nobody’s idea of a savior.

  Lucky hadn’t taken him seriously. Not at first. If he had, he’d have put his foot up some asses and gotten Atlanta’s finest to respond. They might not have listened to a civilian without proof, but they would sure the hell listen to Lucky, if only to get him off their backs.