Suspicion (Diversion Book 7) Read online

  Reaching under his desk, he fumbled around for his gym bag. Ah, there. He unzipped the compartment and took a whiff. Clean. Must be ‘cause of Bo. Lucky didn’t remember washing his workout gear lately.

  Striding past the reception desk, bag slung over one shoulder, he told Lisa, “If anybody asks where I am…” He corrected, “If Walter, Bo or Johnson want to know where I am, tell ‘em I’m at the gym down the street. If anyone else asks, tell ‘em it’s none of their business.” He didn’t say, “Tell ‘em to fuck off.” Bo would be so proud.

  ***

  The usual guy sat on a stool in the gym lobby, playing with his cell phone. He jumped up and backed away when Lucky flung open the door and marched inside. “You!”

  “What about me?” Lucky fixed the guy with a glare sure to send newbies running. Yeah, yeah. Teach a few guys a lesson and nobody forgot. The smart ones, at least.

  The guy’s Adam’s apple bobbed and he stared wide-eyed. “Um, how can I help you?”

  Yeah, ‘bout time this asshat learned some respect. “I need a ring.”

  “N… number seven’s open.”

  “I’ll take it.” Lucky marched toward the locker rooms, glancing back over his shoulder. “Oh, and one more thing.”

  “Yeah?” The attendant blanched. “I mean, yessir?”

  “Find me a cocky asshole who needs taking down a few notches.” After further consideration, he amended, “Better make that several.”

  An hour later Lucky limped out of the gym clutching his side, hella sore, dog tired, but he’d left the other guys worse off.

  His doctor might scream at him for over exerting, Bo might fuss at him for not following doctor’s orders, but at the end of the day, he still had it.

  But what was he going to do with it?

  ***

  Too late now to go back to work, might as well go on home. He picked up his cell phone to text Bo about his plans, only to find a message from Bo: “Taking boys to store for more school supplies and to pick up pizza. Be home soon.”

  The boys. No way could he go home and scream and yell like he wanted to, and he couldn’t exactly ask Bo to fuck him hard and fast on the living room floor, his normal coping mechanism.

  It should be him taking Ty to buy notebooks and whatnot, not Bo. Only, Ty wouldn’t talk to Lucky and Bo was uncle too, right?

  One day. He’d have to work on the whole family thing.

  The Chastain Pharmaceutical fuck-up had to be addressed. Bo and Johnson didn’t need this shit. They’d left nothing to chance. What the hell had DEA found that they hadn’t?

  Bo’s SUV sat in the yard when he arrived, and Lucky paused at the front door, breathing deep to release tension.

  He eased the front door open with a wince, expecting Moose to flatten him and drool on his face. Nothing.

  No need for the dog to greet him with three other people to get pats from.

  Cat Lucky eyed Lucky from the back of the couch, blinked once, then closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

  “Good to see you too,” Lucky grumbled.

  He managed to put on a relatively happy face over dinner, trying not to piss Ty off too much, and to think of other things to say to Todd than, “So, are you looking forward to college?” and otherwise silently telling Bo things weren’t okay. Bo raised a brow but said nothing until the boys were settled on the couch, watching a sit-com.

  “Hey, Lucky. Could you help me move something in the garage?”

  “Um… yeah, sure.” What the hell could Bo want to move? Nothing much out there but the Harley.

  The moment he stepped into the garage, Bo closed the door, folded his arms across his chest, and glared at Lucky with narrowed eyes. “You left work to go to the gym, which means you found someone to kick the shit out of, and you didn’t come back. We’ll talk later about how badly you might have hurt yourself. I mean, the doctors cut you open…” Bo closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Sorry. Like I said, we’ll address that later.” He stepped forward and enveloped Lucky in a hug. “Sorry, sorry. Now’s not the time.”

  Lucky relaxed into the embrace, bringing his arms up to encircle Bo’s waist and breathing in the man’s scent, right now mingled with pizza smell, though Bo only served the pizza and ate salad himself.

  “Tell me what’s wrong,” Bo whispered against Lucky’s neck.

  Bo knew him well—both a blessing and a curse. Lucky pulled back enough to see Bo’s eyes and emptied his lungs in a harsh exhale. “I don’t know where to start. Today’s been a shitty day.”

  Worried creases furrowed Bo’s brow. “Then start at the beginning.” He kept a hand on Lucky’s shoulder, warm and comforting. “Has this got to do with what we read on Chastain this morning?”

  With a quick nod, Lucky steeled his nerves to tell Bo the whole story. “I asked Walter what the DEA found that we didn’t.”

  “And?”

  “He didn’t know, but he’s trying to find out. Bo, you and Rett did an outstanding job. There was nothing for anyone to find.”

  Bo hung his head. “I wondered about that, going through things in my mind over and over. We went by the damned book!”

  Of course he did. Lucky was the one known for bending rules until they broke. “I just don’t get it. But it wouldn’t be the first time someone from DEA decided to discredit me.” Several examples came to mind, most from his early days with the bureau.

  “You think this is personal? About you?”

  Lucky shrugged. “Unless they got something against Chastain.”

  “Well, maybe they’d hidden something really well.”

  They couldn’t have hidden anything to the point Lucky wouldn’t find it. “Somehow, I’m not believing that.” He needed a reason, not just for his sake, but to save Bo and Johnson’s reputations. If someone had it in for him, he’d find a way to settle the score, and no one, absofuckinglutely no one, messed with one of Lucky’s without paying dearly.

  Bo closed the distance and wrapped Lucky in a firm hug. “Why is this bothering you so badly? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  As much as he hated to lose the comfort of Bo’s arms, he pulled back enough to make eye contact. “Just a sec.” Lucky pulled out his cell phone and sent Walter a text. “Can I tell Bo about retirement thing?”

  Walter wrote back, “I didn’t mean you couldn’t discuss matters with your partner.”

  Okay. Getting the boss’s permission didn’t make the words come any easier. “Assholes higher up are pushing Walter to retire.”

  Bo’s mouth and eyes flew wide. “What? Why?”

  “I dunno. They say he no longer meets the requirements.”

  Bo threw his arms in the air and whirled around. “Walter doesn’t need to retire until he’s damned good and ready. Is there someone we can make our case to?”

  Lucky clenched and unclenched his jaw, initial rage returning, fueled by Bo’s righteous anger. “If there is, I’d like to introduce the sumbitch to my fist.”

  “There must be something we can do if Walter’s being forced out against his will. What does Walter say? Does he want to go, or does he want to fight?”

  “I think he’s given up.” Defeat wasn’t a good look on Walter, either. “Legally, I’m not sure what they can do but make it clear he isn’t wanted.”

  Lucky’s phone chimed again. “I received DEA report. Stop by my office in the morning.”

  And didn’t that pretty much guarantee a sleepless night.

  Chapter Six

  In the boss’s office. Again. Lucky claimed his usual chair.

  Walter pulled a few printed pages from a manila folder—a manila folder with a coffee cup ring on the front. Most in the department would have read off their laptop, or in Bo’s case, one of those fancy tablet thingies. Not Boss. Old school all the way.

  Solid. Dependable. You knew what to expect with Walter.

  Damn the Southeastern Narcotics Bureau for not appreciating him.

  “I have the DEA’s report.�
�� Walter’s stony expression gave away nothing.

  “And?”

  “In following up on an anonymous tip, they discovered a shipment of controlled substance raw materials from a company with a revoked DEA registration.” Walter’s eyes darted back and forth while he read. “They’ve cited negligence in due diligence and insuring Chastain only purchased from reputable sources.”

  “Da fu…” Lucky cut off mid-“fuck”.

  Walter passed the report to Lucky. Lucky filed away information. He’d seen Chastain’s methods, and met the people responsible for keeping the company compliant with state and federal regulations. While he normally scoffed at pharma companies, this one worked hard to do everything right.

  Kinda like a company owned by Bo, run by Bo, and staffed with nothing but a bunch of Bo clones.

  Lucky glanced up from reading. “Hey! This isn’t exactly a shipment.” Twenty-five grams. Merely a sample for use in setting lab testing standards. “Getting their registration yanked had me thinking kilos.”

  “It doesn’t matter how small the quantity if the supplier isn’t properly licensed.”

  “We found no evidence of this supplier in any of their records, nor did we find any shipments not properly accounted for.” Never lifting his eyes from the report, Lucky asked, “Walter, do you have a purchase order, DEA 222 forms, packing lists?”

  When Walter didn’t answer, Lucky glanced up from the damning paperwork. “Boss?”

  Walter missed three times before successfully placing his coffee cup on the edge of his desk. He clutched his shoulder, teeth bared in a grimace. “Lucky, I…” His face went slack. The chair tipped.

  Oh, shit! Lucky dashed around the desk before Walter hit the floor. They both crashed to the carpet, Lucky breaking Walter’s fall. Fuck! Walter easily made two or three Luckys.

  “Bo! Bo!” Lucky screamed. Their cube wasn’t far away. Please let the man hear!

  “Call nine-one-one,” Bo shouted to someone behind him, suddenly materializing in Lucky’s view.

  Lucky struggled, trying to breathe. His recently healed side throbbed. Never having surgery again. Nope, nope, nope. He pushed his hands against Walter. With Bo’s help he squirmed out from under his boss.

  Bo shook Walter’s shoulder. “Walter?” No response.

  “Boss?” Lucky tried, resting a hand on Walter’s fleshy face. Cold. Clammy. Sweaty. No! He’d been fine a moment ago. Any minute now he should open his eyes and say, “Got’cha!” Only, Walter didn’t play practical jokes. Lucky’s heart pounded.

  Blue tinged Walter’s lips. Bo raised an eyelid to reveal tiny pupils. Not good.

  “Paramedics on their way,” Johnson said, dropping down beside them.

  Walter’s pulse beat slow against Lucky’s fingers on his neck. Not breathing, as if the blue tinge of his skin didn’t shout the fact loud and clear.

  Lucky laced his fingers, hovered over Walter, and began chanting, teeth clenched, matching his chest compressions to the beat he set. “One, one thousand, two, one thousand, you, one thousand, ain’t, one thousand, gonna, one thousand, fucking, one thousand, die, one thousand, on, one thousand, me, one thousand, old, one thousand, man, one thousand.”

  What was keeping the paramedics? Hell, they were only on the ground floor. If they didn’t get here soon, Lucky’d steal an ambulance and take Walter to the hospital himself.

  The muscles in Lucky’s arms screamed. Should’ve only kicked two butts yesterday. Who knew he’d need the strength today?

  “Here. Let me.” Bo picked up massaging Walter’s heart without missing a beat, singing and keeping time to Stayin’ Alive by the Bee Gees. His chest didn’t rise and fall on its own when Bo finished a set and sat back a moment.

  “Breathe, damn it, breathe!” Lucky knelt by Walter’s head and swooped to give rescue breaths.

  “No. That’s not current guidelines,” Bo said.

  No, no, no, no, no! Walter couldn’t die. No fucking way.

  “Fuck the guidelines.” Lucky gave Walter another breath.

  “Chest compressions!” Bo ordered.

  Lucky rushed to take Bo’s place. His arms could fall off for all he cared, as long as the effort helped Walter.

  Johnson elbowed Lucky aside and picked up without missing a beat, panting out the words to I Will Survive by Gloria Gaynor, to the perfect rhythm for CPR.

  Apt songs.

  God. Walter lay so still, skin a sickly shade of pale. Johnson pumping his heart might be the only thing keeping him alive.

  “Please don’t let him die, please don’t let him die…” What happened to all the air in the room? Why did his heart stutter? Lucky braced a hand against Walter’s desk to keep from falling. Liquid heat slipped down his cheeks.

  Who cared if Rett and Bo saw? A good man, a much better man than him, lay on the floor, fighting for life.

  If he could take Walter’s place, he would.

  Only…

  Bo.

  A gurney clattered into the room, pushed by two uniformed paramedics.

  About time!

  “What’s his condition?” one asked, sinking to his knees and taking over for Johnson.

  The other paramedic took Walter’s vital signs and questioned Bo, fluent enough in medical-speak to provide the particulars, only asking Lucky about what happened before Bo came into the room.

  Walter, grabbing his chest. Walter, falling to the floor, sweaty and pale. An endless stream of images looped through Lucky’s mind.

  Numb. He’d gone completely numb.

  The paramedics settled Walter on the gurney and Lucky took one last look when they dashed from the room, wheels clattering.

  Walter shouldn’t be alone with strangers. “I’m going with them.” Lucky bounded from the room. Wait! What about Mrs. Smith? He hollered at Bo, “Go get his wife. Bring her to the hospital. She doesn’t drive anymore.”

  They barreled past Lisa at the reception desk. Her tears left a trail of black down her cheeks. “Will he be okay?”

  “He better be!” was more of a demand to the universe than an answer, but the best Lucky had to give.

  The gurney and paramedics took up all the elevator space. Lucky pounded down the stairs, arriving in the parking garage totally winded a few seconds before the elevator doors opened. He clutched his screaming side.

  Without waiting for an invitation, he climbed into the ambulance and clasped Walter’s hand. His eyes blurred. He blinked several times, then gave up the fight. Wetness trickled down his cheeks.

  The woman fussing over Walter asked, “Are you family?”

  Lucky wiped a hand over his face. If he said no, he might get kicked out. Walter needed someone with him. “Yes. I’m his son.” At least, that’s what Walter had said once.

  The next half-hour went by in the blur: arriving at the hospital, answering questions, a clipboard full of forms to fill out.

  Lucky found himself in the cardiac unit waiting room, alone. Walter’s Old Spice clung to him.

  ***

  A hand on Lucky’s shoulder made him jump. “What the—”

  “Shh… It’s just me. Heard anything yet?”

  Bo. Here. Tight bands eased around Lucky’s chest. He rubbed burning eyes and glanced around.

  Bo held up a fast food bag. “After I brought Mrs. Smith I went up to the cafeteria and got you something to eat. Figured you’d be hungry by now. Sorry, but they didn’t have much in the way of comfort food.”

  Wasn’t that just like Bo to keep a level head and take care of things? “Thanks. She’s with him now?”

  “Yes.”

  Lucky opened the bag and bypassed the carrot sticks on the way to the wrapped sandwich, turkey from the looks of it. Every bite turned to sand in Lucky’s mouth, but not eating wouldn’t help anyone.

  “Those are mine.” Bo pulled out the carrot sticks and crunched one.

  Also trust Bo to feed Lucky when dealing with bad news. “What’s going on at work?” Walter’s attack must’ve caused a panic i
n the department.

  “Everyone’s shook up about Walter. Or rather, most people are.” Bo’s eyes went hard and his lips thinned.

  “Should I guess, or should we play ‘name that asshole’?” Lucky paused his eating long enough to growl. Plenty of heartless bastards wandered the SNB’s halls.

  Bo raised an eyebrow. “Actually, if it’s Keith you’re referring to, he’s been out of the office. He might not even know yet. I’m sure he’ll be worried.”

  Lucky snorted. Keith? Worried about anyone but himself? Ha!

  “Lisa’s shook up.”

  Yeah, she would be, with her heart soft enough to even make room for Lucky. Of course, he’d swept in like a white knight and saved her from the department asshole a time or two. “How’s everybody else?”

  “Landry didn’t seem to give a rat’s ass.”

  “He’s a rat and an ass.”

  “The rest are okay, I guess.” Bo scrubbed a hand over his face. Dark shadows lurked under his red-rimmed eyes and he gave a soft sniffle. “Jameson O’Donoghue stepped up and told everybody to get back to work.”

  Sounded like O’Donoghue, running around barking orders like he ran the place. Why he hadn’t left the bureau and returned to the DEA remained a mystery. Maybe they no longer wanted him. Lucky wouldn’t.

  “How are you feeling?” Bo asked, dropping his gaze to Lucky’s waist and back to his face.

  “Stop worrying about me. I’m fine.” If only Lucky could say the same about Walter. “Thanks for…” Lucky nodded at the food bag.

  Bo gave a half-smile. “You’re here for the Smiths and I’m here for you. And them.”

  Of course he was. “What do we do now?”

  “We wait.”

  “What time is it?” Lucky lacked the energy to check his cell phone.

  “Just after one, but I figured you’d want to stay until we find out something solid. That might take a while.” Bo wrapped an arm around Lucky and pulled him close.

  They’d gotten here around eleven. Two hours of not knowing whether Walter lived or died. “What about Todd and Ty? School lets out at three-thirty.”

  “Ty rides the bus home, and they’re more than capable of fending for themselves for a few hours. We can stay as long as you like. Besides, Mrs. Smith will need a ride home.” Bo shook his head and bristled. “Would you believe someone at work suggested I call Uber for her? Uber! I’m not letting her get into the car with a stranger. Not as long as I’m around.”