Suspicion (Diversion Book 7) Page 5

  “What? No!” The SNB without Walter? Hell, Walter was the fucking SNB. “I supposed they’re trying to promote some college-educated hot shot who doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground and call it improvement.”

  Walter barked a laugh. “Despite how hard you are on yourself, you’re probably the most loyal agent, or man, for that matter, I’ve ever had the pleasure to know.”

  Now Walter sounded like he was dying, not retiring. Of course, given his dedication to the job, there might be little difference in his mind.

  “When?” Surely, they’d not force him out immediately.

  “My replacement is currently being sought. Given the stringent requirements, I estimate six months.”

  “Six months!” Lucky abandoned his back and forth tour of Walter’s office and dropped back down into his favorite chair. Six months? Only six months? “Any idea who?” While Lucky wouldn’t want Walter’s job—too many rules, too little wiggle room—he couldn’t imagine anyone else filling the boss’s formidable shoes.

  Walter stared at his hands, shoulders slumped for the first time in recent memory. “There’s a short list of candidates.”

  He probably didn’t want to know, but Lucky asked anyway. To even continue this conversation meant it might actually happen. Denial could be a wonderful thing. “Anyone you’d feel comfortable taking over?”

  Walter’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “A few.”

  “Who?”

  “You’re a senior agent, and I’ve argued that, as such, you should be included in the selection process.” Furrows appeared across Walter’s forehead. “Jameson O’Donoghue seems to be the most likely candidate for my successor.”

  What the ever-loving fuck? “O’Donoghue?”

  The bastards. What could Lucky do? What could he say? Why couldn’t Bo be here, who’d know exactly how to handle such news?

  Walter clucked his tongue and shook his head, lights catching on the gray in his formerly black hair. “I know you don’t like him, but he has a stellar reputation and a solid background.”

  Would Lucky even have a future with that asshole running the show? Or anyone but Walter Smith?

  Lucky sucked in a deep breath. Had he ever really confessed the truth to this man? “Although I might be difficult at times”—an understatement of epic proportions— “you’re one of the main reasons I’m still with the bureau.” Walter, Bo, and now Loretta Johnson.

  “I know.” Walter’s normally booming voice scarcely rose above a whisper. “And you’re the main reason I haven’t retired already. Now, I wanted you to hear the news straight from me. I’d appreciate if you wouldn’t discuss this with anyone until I’m ready to make an official announcement.”

  “I can do that.” Keeping the secret might kill him, but he could.

  He staggered out the door in a daze. Walter leaving? The familiar hallways of the SNB offices no longer felt homey. The cubes he’d woven through for years suddenly became barriers, the corridors alien.

  A building. Take away Walter and the place became merely a building.

  He barely stopped in time to avoid a collision. A royal pain in Lucky’s backside stared down, all gym-buffed body with thick, blond hair, sky blue eyes and chiseled jawline. On anyone else the striking features might have made them hotter than hell. Not this jerkoff. Funny how Lucky and the boss just spoke of Jameson O’Donoghue, and who should appear but O’Donoghue’s chief brown-noser, Owen Fucking Landry.

  Phillip Eustace followed Landry like a bad smell. What a miserable excuse for a human being. How could Rett willingly see the guy naked?

  Landry leaned to the side, resting an elbow against the wall, blocking Lucky’s path. Phillip might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but he knew enough to keep his distance.

  Lucky glared. “Out of my way, asshole.”

  The idiot grinned. “Oh, I think you’ll be finding me in your way a lot in the near future. Changes, they are a coming.”

  A rookie rounded the corner and Landry straightened, narrowing his gaze and lowering his voice to a snake’s hiss. “Mark my words. Your days are numbered.”

  Walter leaving. The final eight years of Lucky’s debt to society paid in service to the SNB. Going out every day not knowing if he’d return home.

  “They already are, motherfucker,” he muttered to Landry and Eustace’s retreating backs.

  ***

  “Are you okay?” Johnson asked for maybe the thirtieth time, staring into the rearview mirror of her Jeep.

  “I’m fine,” Lucky huffed from the back seat, wedged in beside a booster seat and a box of toys. Why couldn’t she leave him alone? He would be fine, if he could transfer some stress to Landry’s face via fist.

  “He’s lying,” Bo said from the front passenger seat. “But he’s not going to tell us one damned thing until he’s good and ready.” He sipped from a cup of decaf green tea, the familiar scent, while not appetizing, still offered comfort.

  Johnson braked at a stop sign and turned to Bo. “We can always beat it out of him.”

  Her snide-assed comment didn’t deserve an answer.

  Bo swung his arm back, grabbed Lucky’s hand, and squeezed. “I have better ways of getting him to talk.”

  “I’ll bet you do.” Johnson took a right and slowed the vehicle to a stop at a chain link gate. After a few seconds the door swung open and let them in. The rather modest sign in front of a four-story brick building read, “Chastain Pharmaceuticals.”

  “We’re here,” she sing-songed, pulling into a parking spot marked “Visitor.” Not waiting for Bo and Lucky, she hopped out and started across the parking lot to the front door, calling, “Last one out locks the door,” over her shoulder.

  Lucky and Bo got out and stood by the Jeep.

  Bo placed a hand on Lucky’s arm, keeping him from following Johnson. “I know you’ve heard this too damned much in the last half hour, but are you okay? Is there something you need to talk about? You seem down.”

  Lucky stared into the deep brown eyes he’d often lost himself in. “I wish I could. I’ve been asked not to.” Keeping things from Bo caused his insides to lurch, but he’d made a promise.

  The tightness around Bo’s mouth and eyes softened. “Will you tell me as soon as you can, and before that if it’s something hurting you?”

  “You’ll be the first to know.” If they weren’t standing in the middle of a public parking lot, he’d take a kiss. If only he could talk to Bo, he’d feel better. No matter what kind of bad news Lucky delivered over the years, Bo always found a bright spot, or at least a less gloomy one.

  “Hey, you guys coming?” Johnson yelled from the other side of the lot.

  “Nope, not coming,” Lucky muttered under his breath. “I’m just breathing hard.”

  Bo snorted. “You’re not too bad off if you can still snark.”

  Actually, numb and blindsided summed up Lucky’s current feelings. Showtime meant he’d shunt everything else aside and get through the next few hours.

  Get shook, get took. Not happening.

  He yanked at his tie and followed his team into the squat, butt-ass ugly building he’d seen too much of lately—one of many companies he’d audited over the course of his career. Why did he have to dress up? Especially this early on a freaking Monday. Mondays sucked big time without the help of uncomfortable clothes. He’d started sweating under his suit jacket the moment he’d set foot outside in the Georgia summer heat.

  These folks knew how he made his living, and it sure the hell wasn’t by wearing a damned noose around his neck. If anyone found their necks shoved into a noose, he’d do the shoving. Lucky let out a put-upon sigh.

  Johnson turned and glared, so much like she did before scolding her son. “Are we boring you, Harrison?”

  “Meetings bore me.” However, if Lucky misbehaved, she’d go all Mom on him. Might even drag him by the ear out to the woodshed if she could find one in the middle of Atlanta. She probably had the same hands-on parenting ap
proach as Lucky’s folks, as in: my hand whooping your ass if you don’t act like you got some sense.

  Polished in a dark gray suit of her own, minus a tie, Johnson towered over Lucky, heels increasing the inches she stood over him. She clip-clopped up the granite steps and through the door.

  The overwhelming essence of cherry cough syrup permeated the place. Or maybe he’d grown accustomed to the way pharmaceutical plants smelled and picked up on a barely-there scent.

  They stood in a dome-shaped lobby, glass panels tinted against the sun. Twin couches sat face to face, separated by a polished oak coffee table nearly hidden by an enormous vase of fake roses.

  The marble floor made walking quietly impossible. Every inch of the place spoke of money and success.

  Johnson stepped up to the reception desk.

  Lucky might be senior agent, but he’d let his trainee handle niceties.

  Lucky didn’t do niceties.

  Much. Diplomacy fit Lucky about as well as his suit did.

  Memories came to mind of this same scenario, but with Walter instead of Bo and Johnson. He’d never truly appreciated the boss dealing with the corporate types, sparing Lucky unless absolutely necessary.

  A wave of sadness hit him. In his mind he recalled Walter, dressed to the nines, alternately playing Favorite Uncle or Worst Nightmare, depending on the situation. His heart squeezed.

  He checked out the lobby while waiting, rocking onto the balls of his feet. Gray walls, gray floors, ridiculous framed motivational posters hanging from the walls.

  At least the air conditioning worked.

  “We’re here to see Mr. Chastain.” Johnson nodded to the uniformed security guard and flashed her SNB badge.

  “I’ll let him know.” The guard picked up the receiver and punched numbers into her desk phone. How the person on the other end of the line understood the near-whisper he’d never know. She hung up. “Someone will come and get you.”

  Another point in the plus column of this company: The whole time Lucky had been coming here, he’d always been greeted by the guard and escorted by plant personnel. Couldn’t be too careful these days, even with his SNB badge. Not good to let strangers roam around unsupervised in a plant where most of the products brought a high price on the streets, and death in the wrong hands.

  Today’s closeout meeting meant not coming back here for the foreseeable future.

  A young man squeaked down the hallway in high-topped black tennis shoes, appearing younger than Todd, wearing red skinny jeans and a white button-down shirt. Sheesh. Some people went too far with business casual.

  “Could you come with me, please?” The guy swung a curtain of brown hair from his eyes with a flip of his head.

  Were companies recruiting from high schools now? At least the kid was a whole lot politer than Ty, though he appeared nearly the same age.

  Lucky trailed behind Bo and Johnson, following their guide down a windowless hallway and into an elevator. They exited on the fourth floor and trailed Mr. Red Jeans into a conference room.

  Lucky and Johnson wasted no time getting to the coffee pot, her giving him a playful shoulder shove to get there first. They’d even brewed a pot of decaf for Lucky. Bo snagged a bottle of water from the coffee counter.

  Another company. Another suit and tie meeting. He’d lost track of how many. Chastain Pharmaceuticals. One of the few family-owned pharma companies that hadn’t been swallowed up by huge, multinational corporations.

  Though, judging by what Lucky found through researching, the place remaining independent wasn’t due to lack of the bigger companies trying.

  Give ‘em hell, folks. Give ‘em hell. Score one for the little guys.

  The polished, granite-topped table must’ve weighed a ton, and the light blue chair nearly ate him as he sank into plushness. Floor to ceiling windows gave a stunning view of Atlanta and, in the distance, Stone Mountain. The SNB offices offered similar views, and higher off the ground.

  Artwork hung from the walls opposite the windows, in a style Bo called Modern Art. Damned ugly dark splotches on canvas if you asked Lucky. He’d seen more fascinating ketchup smears on napkins.

  Johnson cleared her throat, pulling Lucky’s attention back to his job. He’d dressed up for this, so they could wait until he was good and ready to get this show on the road.

  Two men and three women crowded around one side of the table, big fish in a small pond, warily eying the three barracudas in business suits. Oh, how he’d once gotten off on making people sweat. All he’d have to do was peek at Bo’s iPad, scowl, rake a glare over the company personnel, and they’d likely hyperventilate.

  Bo sat beside Lucky. Now there was a guy who looked good in a suit, and not the least bit uncomfortable. He made a damned good sight out of the suit too.

  Lucky scratched his leg under the table. Stiff-assed pants. The polished loafers squeezed his feet. Those suckers were due to sail out the car window on his way home.

  Hmmm… Wait a minute. The first time Lucky met Bo they’d been on their way to a consultation with a pharmaceutical company. Only, Walter led the meeting that time. More and more Boss shoved Lucky into the limelight.

  Walter had to go and mention the one word capable of striking fear into Lucky’s heart: retirement. How was Lucky ever going to manage not to piss off the top brass without Walter around to act as a buffer?

  This time, unlike with Regency Pharma all those years ago, Lucky got to deliver good news, not set wheels into motion that wound up throwing folks in prison. Try as he might—and he tried like hell—he’d not found anything noteworthy in his investigation. An employee forgot to sign an invoice, but the misplaced file hadn’t remained missing long.

  These folks knew how to run a business, as witnessed by the few individuals in the conference room—the rest were out running the factory, like they should have been.

  He used to judge the success of a company by how well the cars parked near the factory entrance matched those near the offices. Here, the workers weren’t driving home in beaters.

  Lucky approved. Not that he’d say so.

  While they waited for a last-minute straggler, he watched his partner.

  Partner. His partner. Bo. Tapping away on an iPad, professional as hell. Maybe they should add to their role playing. If and when their house cleared out enough for a rousing game of Businessman and Delivery Guy.

  Johnson stood off to the side, chatting with the CEO, cup of coffee in hand. The man grinned and let out a laugh. Oh, damn. Johnson being flirted with? He’d better intervene before she punched the man’s teeth down his throat.

  But wait! Johnson laughed too, throwing back her head. She’d donned a form-fitting suit for this meeting, so different from her SNB uniform or the clubwear she wore undercover. She fit right in with these executives.

  So did Bo. Funny, when he’d first met Bo, he’d imagined a spoilt brat who’d grown up with wealthy parents. Nothing could’ve been farther from the truth. As during the long-ago meeting, not a single wrinkle dared muss Bo’s clothes. The fingernails he used to have professionally manicured were by no means jagged, but they’d not been buffed in a salon in a while. Bo also no longer glued his hair in place, letting the soft waves fall naturally. Dark brown hair, without the highlights he used to wear.

  He looked so much better like this.

  Approachable.

  Fuckable.

  Loveable.

  The fingers clutching a bottle of spring water still bore no wedding ring, damn it, but Bo sure groomed well.

  Lucky could still rock his world.

  Back then Bo had been “Newbie”, a pain in the ass necessary to getting Lucky out of the SNB’s clutches once and for all.

  Yet here Lucky was.

  There Bo was.

  Tonight, they’d be lying together in wrinkled sheets, the bubble butt Lucky used to only dream about making a pleasant handful against his palms as they…

  “Lucky? Lucky!”

  How the hell had Joh
nson snuck up on him?

  He’d store the image of a naked Bo for later. “What?”

  “It’s time to get started.” She smoothed a hand down her jacket and sat next to Lucky. Bo on one side, Johnson on the other. Why? Tag teaming to keep the resident asshole in check?

  Oh. Perfect position to ogle the CEO—who also wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

  What the fuck? “Don’t you have a boyfriend?” Lucky hissed from the side of his mouth. He’d never pass up an opportunity to yank her chain.

  Johnson flashed an unapologetic grin and murmured low enough to be heard only by Lucky, “I’m seeing someone at the moment, but I’m not dead by a long shot, and I so enjoy fine art. That man over there? He is fiiiiiine.”

  Thank God she wasn’t wearing a wire.

  Yeah, the man did have some looks on him, but didn’t hold a candle to Bo.

  Bo rose from his chair and addressed the CEO. “Mr. Chastain, could you please show us a few of your standard operating procedures? We’re especially interested in any processes dealing with mixing-room housekeeping and security for controlled substance shipments.”

  Chastain nodded at the newcomer in the room, a young lady who reached into a folder lying before her.

  She handed a stack of papers to Chastain, who passed them to Bo. She also shared the wealth with Lucky and Johnson. “I believe you’ll find everything in order.”

  Lucky dug some papers from the stack. Let Johnson deal with housekeeping, his area of expertise leaning toward security and diversion prevention of shipments.

  He poured over his stack of procedures. Whoever’d written them knew what the hell they were doing. Except for a weird spacing problem on one of the pages, he couldn’t find one damned thing wrong.

  “Shipments security checks out,” Lucky said, though he’d already consulted DEA and local police reports to confirm no missing product in the past five years.

  Bo tapped away at his iPad.

  “I have a question.” Johnson glanced up from her reading. “It says here that only approved chemicals are to be used for cleaning. Is there an approved list?”