Suspicion (Diversion Book 7)

by Eden Winters

  Walter murmured into his cell phone.

  Oh, shit! Mrs. Smith!

  “I’m going to find your wife,” Lucky hissed, passing his boss his .38, the same .38 Walter gave him when Lucky’d finally been able to carry a gun on the job.

  Walter nodded, but continued his call, whites of his eyes showing in the minimal light.

  Keeping low, safety off and gun at the ready, Lucky crouch-walked to the kitchen and stopped, straining his hearing. Nothing. Surely if she could she’d have come running to check on Walter the moment the power failed.

  Lucky turned and crept down the hall. He’d only been into the back of the house a couple of times. Was the Smith’s bedroom on the left or right? Maybe she’d fallen asleep, blissfully unaware of what was going on.

  A muffled “Umpph” drew his eyes to the den. A figure stood in the middle of the room, clutching a wriggling Mrs. Smith, one hand over her mouth.

  Damn it! They must have gotten past when Lucky went to the kitchen.

  He hunkered down, making himself as small as possible.

  “Where is Harrison?” a blatantly Southern voice drawled.

  “He’s not here,” Walter replied coolly. All the tells Lucky had been taught to look for in a liar weren’t there. Better to never play poker with the boss. He gave away nothing.

  “I know he was here.” The man gave Mrs. Smith a shake.

  As cool as her husband, she said or did nothing, though the captor had to crouch down to hold her, as small as she was. Good. He’d be off-balance.

  Outside a car passed by, lights hitting the window. For a moment Lucky caught a good look at the man, and the gun he’d pressed to Mrs. Smith’s temple.

  Oh, shit! So, ramming the man wasn’t going to work. He’d not put Mrs. Boss in danger. His pulse thundered in his ears.

  “Yes, he was here,” Walter said. “But he left. Now, unhand my wife.” He kept both hands on the arms of his chair, no gun to be seen. Oh, man. Surely the asshole who’d broken in wasn’t stupid enough to think Walter harmless.

  “Then call him back.” The man gestured with his gun to Walter’s cell phone.

  Lucky lunged, knocking the man’s legs out from under him. “Run!” he shouted at the Smiths. He whirled, coming to his feet, well-practiced boxing moves posing his body without conscious thought.

  The guy struggled to his feet and took a swing—too high.

  Lucky kept a chuckle inside. Sometimes being structurally impaired paid off. Trusting the Smiths to get the hell out, he charged, tackling the larger man to the floor.

  A thunk sounded on the tile, something heavy sliding across the floor and hitting the wall. Hopefully, the gun.

  Lucky fought as best he could while holding on to his own weapon.

  His weapon. He hit the safety, turned the gun, and pistol whipped the motherfucker.

  The would-be hitman slumped to the floor.

  “Freeze!” a voice shouted behind him. “Atlanta PD.”

  Lucky held up his hands, still holding his gun. “Agent Simon Harrison with Southeastern Narcotics Bureau. My badge is in my wallet.”

  “What name did Agent William Schollenberger use while undercover in Mexico?” The owner of the voice circled around to stand in front of Lucky.

  That voice. Slightly lilting, with a hint of a Mexican accent.

  Nigglings of anxiety or something squirmed through Lucky’s gut. “Cyrus Cooper.”

  Lucky felt rather than saw the man relax a moment before a snicker reached his ears. The lights came on and Lucky stared up at a familiar face.

  “Hola, mi amigo.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “Are you sure she’s okay?” Lucky asked for the thousandth time. He stared at the front door where two linebackers had dragged out the assailant. Millions of questions he wanted to ask, but the guy hadn’t come to by the time they’d taken him.

  Lucky hadn’t recognized the fuckwad stupid enough to invade Walter Smith’s house, and neither had Walter, so maybe some cheap amateur who imagined himself a hit man.

  He’d love to be a fly on the wall during questioning. Or get a chance to deliver a bitch slap for scaring Mrs. Smith.

  “She’s fine.” Walter stepped into the den and sank into his chair. “A little shaken. You see, I’ve never really discussed the more dangerous aspects of my job with her. Given her lifelong struggles with a weak heart, I thought it best.”

  Lucky sat on the couch and sipped a cup of decaf, watching out of the corner of his eye as blast-from-the-past Cruz made a face and shot Lucky a disdainful look from his place leaning against a wall.

  “Hey, don’t blame me.” Lucky saluted with his cup. “Boss can’t have caffeine either.” And about a million other things, judging by the dietary guidelines posted on the refrigerator door when he’d gone to the kitchen to make coffee.

  “I take it you know each other?” Walter glanced from Lucky to Cruz and back again.

  “In Mexico. He’s related to Victor.” Lucky faced the man he still didn’t fully trust. “You still work for him and Nestor, right?”

  Cruz flashed a smile. “Yes, which is how I wound up being sent here as your babysitter.”

  Lucky recoiled. “Babysitter? Now see—”

  “Ah, nice to meet you, Cruz. I’ve heard good things about you, Mr…” Walter held out his hand and quirked a brow.

  Cruz clasped his fingers and shook. “Cruz is fine. I’ve heard good things about you as well. My employer doesn’t respect many people, so it says much that he respects you.”

  If Walter heard good things about Cruz, they sure hadn’t been from Lucky’s mouth. Oh, wait. He’d made mention in his report of Cruz’s quick thinking and driving skills saving Bo’s life.

  Of course, he’d barely restrained himself from adding, “The little shit” to the words.

  Cruz chugged the rest of his coffee. “It’s late. Go, rest. Comfort your wife.” He gave Walter a nod. “C’mon, Lucky. I’ve orders to take you to a safe house.”

  “Now see here…”

  Cruz turned so Walter couldn’t see his face and winked.

  What the fuck?

  Gun in hand, Lucky followed Cruz out the door. Two cars sat parked on the street, one on either side of Walter’s house.

  “Don’t worry. The house is under surveillance. I’m sorry we arrived nearly too late, but they’ll come to no harm. I’ve got my best men on this.”

  For a moment adrenaline had rushed through Lucky’s blood, reminding him of some of his more exciting cases. Damn, he’d missed the action while confined to a desk. “So, who was our gunman?”

  “I don’t know. Yet.” Cruz gave off the vibe that he wouldn’t mind removing the man’s fingertips in a quest for prints to match. “And you’re deliberately changing the subject. Now put that damned gun away. This is no longer your case. You’re the witness, and in need of protection. We’ve got you covered.”

  “I don’t need a safe house,” Lucky groused. Whoever thought to coop him up while Bo and the others put themselves in danger? He didn’t need protecting. Sumbitches after Walter needed protection from him.

  Cruz continued to the next street, hopped into an inconspicuous Chevy, and turned on a grin the moment Lucky opened the door. “I had a feeling you’d say that.”

  Despite the alarm bells going off in his head, Lucky got into the passenger seat and buckled in.

  Cruz started the car and pulled out into the street. “My boss has nothing but the highest respect for Walter, but he’s in no shape to be in the middle of this bullshit.”

  Someone alert the media. Lucky fully agreed with Cruz. “What you got in mind?”

  Stopping at a stop sign, Cruz flashed a grin. “Doing what we’re good at, my friend. Kicking ass and taking names.”

  “Can I ask how you wound up on this case?”

  Cruz kept his eyes on the road. “We were on a very boring case involving patents for raw materials from India, and all of sudden your name shows up on our reports, and wha
m! Can’t you do calm? For once? Just for some variety? Why does everyone in the world want to kill you?”

  “Must be my charming personality.” Lucky scowled. He’d had enough of Cruz down in Mexico.

  Cruz chatted nonstop on the way across town, catching Lucky up on people he’d met while in Mexico. He finally shut up when a very familiar building came into view.

  Bo and Keith met them in the nearly empty parking garage, along with two men Lucky didn’t know, but who dipped curt nods at Cruz.

  “We’re breaking into the fucking SNB?” Lucky glanced around at the group who’d so docilely left Walter’s.

  Bo, sitting astride the Harley, dressed all in black leather, dropped an arm around Lucky’s shoulders. “Go big or go home, right? I was on my way to the bar when I got a call. Couldn’t let you have all the fun.”

  ***

  The blood sang in Lucky’s veins, rather from doing the right thing or plunging back into lawlessness, he couldn’t say, but sometimes one must skate the line between right and wrong.

  “Bo shouldn’t be here,” Keith hissed near Lucky’s ear. “If this goes tits up…”

  For the second time that night Lucky agreed with someone he usually didn’t. Bo shouldn’t be there but, like Lucky, no one or nothing was gonna stop him.

  “All right.” Cruz beckoned with his hand for the assembled to gather around. “This is your home turf, you know it, and where we’ll likely find what we need.” He nodded to his two silent companions. “We’re just backup.”

  Lucky shot him a disbelieving glare.

  Cruz held his hands up, palms out. “Boss’s orders.”

  While he hated going around Walter this way, Walter needed to stay out of this, especially after the break-in tonight. Lucky led the way to the elevator. “What about cameras?” he asked Keith.

  “Leave that to me.”

  “Guards?”

  One of Cruz’s men peeled away from the group and took up a position in the shadows near the elevator door.

  Lucky pushed a button and the door opened. Lucky, Bo, Keith, Cruz, and Nameless stepped inside. “We’re looking for anything connected with Forsyth or Chastain. No matter how small.” He hoped to hell they’d find it. The elevator rose.

  The door chimed and opened. They stepped off into the semi-darkness of the Department of Diversion Prevention and Control. “Wait here.” Lucky pointed to the reception area. “Housekeeping knows me and has no reason to suspect anything wrong with me being here.” He’d worked odd hours often enough.

  He strode with purpose toward his cube, then back and forth down the hallways. All trashcans were empty and the break room coffee pots cleaned. Good. They’d come and gone. Lucky backtracked to the reception desk, after a brief stop at the supply closet.

  He handed out gloves. His, Bo’s, and Keith’s fingerprints could be explained, but he planned on going places he wasn’t supposed to tonight. “Keith, I need you to fix the cameras, cut us from the videos, but I also need you to go through the switchboard, see if any phone calls came in from anyone associated with Chastain or Forsyth. Also, between O’Donoghue and his brown nosers.”

  “I can get the switchboard,” Nameless said. He sat down at Lisa’s station and adjusted the chair to accommodate someone a foot and a half taller.

  Keith tromped off down the hall. Lucky winced. Good thing Keith did his surveillance with high tech toys instead of stakeouts, because he moved with all the grace of a water buffalo.

  “Bo, you know where Landry and Eustace sit, right?”

  Bo nodded and took off in the general direction of the rookie section.

  “I’m with you,” Cruz said.

  Eeriness crept down Lucky’s spine as he stalked to O’Donoghue’s, no, Walter’s door. Locked. He nearly laughed. Who’d he plan to keep out, in a department full of folks familiar with lockpicking? Lucky could use pretty much anything but, feeling lazy, strode back to his desk and retrieved his lockpicking set.

  Less than thirty seconds and he opened the door. A thin glow came through the windows, reflections of the city outside. Now, where would O’Donoghue hide things he wanted no one to find?

  Cruz wandered to the bookcase while Lucky settled behind the desk, opening drawers at random and unlocking any he found locked. Other than a disciplinary report on himself, nothing of interest.

  Carefully putting things to rights, Lucky admitted defeat and retreated into the hallway.

  Bo stood outside the door.

  Holding a folder.

  But not the one Lucky sought.

  ***

  Lucky hadn’t spent much time in surveillance, normally avoiding Keith and Rookie Rogers at all cost. Tonight, he sat on a stool perusing copies of the documents Bo had found. The DEA report, including the name of the agent who’d investigated Chastain: Owen Landry. Damn. Lucky already knew that. This was what someone silenced Walter for?

  Nameless came in. “Nothing in the switchboard of interest.”

  Lucky thought as much. Lisa would have told him of anything out of the ordinary, surely.

  Cruz disconnected a call and shoved his cell phone into his pocket. “My guys questioned the man who broke into Smith’s home tonight. He’s an amateur, a local. Was hired by someone he didn’t actually meet face to face.” He arched a brow at Lucky. “It could’ve been the guy following you in the stolen BMW.”

  “Where was the would- be assassin supposed to meet his contact, get paid?” Lucky hadn’t had enough time to find out on his own.

  “At a bar outside of town.”

  “Did your man have an accent, anything like that?” Bo stopped reading over Lucky’s shoulder long enough to ask.

  “A bit of Southern drawl, nothing more.”

  “That’s most folks around here.” Either by birth or design. Lord knew Lucky had one. Bo too. “When’s the meeting?”

  “He was supposed to text when the job was done. We have his cell phone.” Cruz sat down on a stool near something electronic in the process of spewing its guts or being repaired.

  Keith wore a headset, brows scrunched. “I’m getting a feed on Loretta Johnson.” He shook his head. “How damned much did she give the guy to drink? I can barely make out what he’s saying.” He paused, then flushed bright red. “That might be a good thing.”

  All eyes stayed on him. Finally, he removed the headset. “According to a rather drunk Phillip Eustace, O’Donoghue never gave orders directly. All instructions came through Owen Landry.”

  Figured.

  Cruz snatched up the headset and held the earpiece to one ear. “He must’ve passed out, ‘cause she’s saying things to him not worth repeating.” He slapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh and dropped the headset. “Enough of that. Besides, we’ve got recordings.”

  Lucky paced as much as the cramped space allowed. “We haven’t found anything incriminating enough to kill someone over.” At least not him. Someone might want Chastain dead. “What happens to the diabetes drug if Chastain dies?”

  Bo answered, “It’s a family-owned run company, with Chastain holding the majority share, so rights will probably get tied up in his estate.”

  “Which might take months to unravel.” If not longer.

  “Yes. And they want the drug now. Like, yesterday.” Bo stroked his chin, sporting a fair bit of scruff. Past midnight.

  Lucky tapped out a message on his cell phone, the fifteenth one that day to the same person. He waited, but no answer, not that he’d really expected one. “Boss thinks I’m in a safehouse somewhere, and I hate to call him at this hour, but I need to know if anyone found Chastain.”

  “I’m on it.” Bo trudged out of the room.

  “Stay close,” Keith called out. “That way I don’t have to monitor too many cameras.”

  Bo came back in the room too quickly for the news to be good. “No sign of him, but his car was found about a half mile from the facility.”

  “Did they check it out?” Lucky performed mental calculations. If th
ey left now…

  “As much as they could without a warrant.”

  “Shit.” Warrants were for people who weren’t so damned desperate. Lucky’s gut feelings said they’d find something there. Even Walter listened to Lucky’s guts. O’Donoghue’s group couldn’t kill the man outright, but they might threaten him until he signed away rights to his company, then kill him.

  He could see it now, Chastain being portrayed as depressed over losing his company and putting a gun to his own head.

  “Send Johnson home to her kid. I think we have enough folks to do a search.” Lucky spoke to Keith. “We might need you at Chastain’s.”

  Keith nodded. “I’ll finish up and meet you after I ensure there’s no evidence of us having been here.”

  To the others Lucky said, “Let’s go see if we can save a man’s life.”

  ***

  No cars sat in the parking lot at Chastain Pharmaceuticals, though the lights were on. “Just like Mexico,” Cruz said, though he could have meant any number of things by his comment.

  They parked down the street, fanning out to sweep the perimeter. Time ticked away, each second possibly putting Chastain in greater danger, but despite his desire to barge in, guns blazing, Lucky had learned a thing or two in his time with Walter.

  Keith showed up as they finished their assessment. Good. As much as Lucky hated to admit it, they needed the IT geek’s technical skills.

  Cruz held his gun close to his chest. Keeping to the shadows, he worked his way to the front of the building.

  Keith went next, a lumpy shape in the dark with the loaded backpack he’d stuffed with equipment.

  They watched in silence, Cruz’s two men vanishing around the side of the building.

  Lucky’s phone pinged with a text from an unknown number. “C’mon in.” He hoped it was from Keith, whose number he’d never bothered to store in his phone.

  First Cruz, then Bo, darted to the front door, Lucky keeping his eyes peeled while bringing up the rear. A few dim lights shone from windows, not bright enough to be from someone working. Besides, the place had been pretty much deserted lately.

  Creepy. Dark.

  No guard greeted them from the front desk, and he’d no idea how Keith managed to let them in without someone manning the buzzer. Even closed down, a pharma company should have security. Lucky’s hackles rose.