THE jitters weren’t bad enough to slosh the hospital coffee out of Lucky’s cup. The eight-on-the-Richter-scale tremors would come later. He took a sip of bitter brew and stared down at his partner, sacked out on a hospital bed. The openness on Bo’s face had gradually faded since he was a rookie, even while sleeping. Or maybe Lucky’d only imagined it in the first place. So many layers to the man. Just when Lucky thought he’d figured all the pieces out, Bo showed some new facet of himself, sometimes good, sometimes scary, but all part and parcel of the same unique man.
Lucky was no prize himself. Hell, he’d killed a man. Taken a life. Which meant a mandatory psych evaluation and another death on his conscience. But he’d saved a life too. Several. Bo’s. His own. Cruz’s. But not Alejandro.
There’d been no word yet on Stephan, though Nestor would likely follow through on his threat now to handle things the old-fashioned way. Unless Cruz got there first. Cruz. The guy reeked of DEA, but not the desk types Lucky normally dealt with. No, Cruz was a “roll up the sleeves and let’s get dirty” kind of guy. Hermano. Yeah. Hermano.
The door opened, and Walter Smith blocked out the light from the hallway with his bulk. The moment of truth for a long overdue conversation. When morning came, Lucky would be out of a job one way or another. Maybe they could still get the house on Bo’s salary, if Bo didn’t lose his job too. If Lucky bargained right, that wouldn’t happen.
“How is he?” Most people would call Walter’s whisper demanding. They should hear him when he meant to talk loud.
“Sleeping. His hell starts tomorrow.” As would Lucky’s if things didn’t go as he hoped. Even if it wasn’t his fault, Bo had become drug dependent, the one thing he’d sworn never to be again. Withdrawals and rehab lurked in his future. No telling what the long-term effects of Stephan’s poison might be.
And the deathbed confession in the cave now would meet the light of day, to be dealt with by Bo all over again.
“Can we go somewhere and talk?” Walter held himself stiffly, keeping a distance between them. Either Lucky had an ass chewing coming, or Walter read body language better than even Lucky gave him credit for. He had some explaining to do, and he’d better start talking.
After another quick peek at Bo and a pat on the hand, Lucky dropped his empty coffee cup in the trash can and followed Walter out the door. The man sitting alone in the waiting room jumped when Walter approached. Landry. The last person Lucky wanted to see. Lucky’s sometime trainee nodded. “Mr. Harrison, Mr. Smith. I’ll wait in the car.” Damn. Somehow the waste of skin had picked up some manners. Two big Starbucks cups sat on the side table.
How do you make a jerkoff more tolerable? Have him guard coffee. Lucky grabbed a cup and lifted the lid. Plain black liquid—the drink of the gods, not the frou-frou, whipped cream, caramel, and everything but the kitchen sink crap Walter drank. Lucky took a sip. Damn, but Starbucks made good coffee. Still, a cup of coffee wasn’t a big enough bribe to make him believe Walter’s sweet talk.
“Spill,” Lucky said, barely containing a snarl. “And this better be good.” He flopped down into an uncomfortable chair, likely designed to make patients’ loved ones keep a vigil at home instead of here.
Walter eased down into another chair and lifted his cup to his lips. Asshole. Quit stalling. After what seemed like hours, Walter put the cup down and sighed. And sighed. And sighed. The big man held an ungodly amount of air. “Where do you want me to start?”
“How about coming clean about why I found a picture of you and Victor having lunch and laughing like two old friends.”
Both of Walter’s bushy eyebrows shot up toward his hairline. “What picture?”
“Didn’t you search my house after I left?”
“Yes, and we found both your phones. But I didn’t find a picture of me.” He shook off his shock. “I’d have been most flattered.”
Jerk. “I found an envelope in my mailbox, with a note that said careful who I trusted, and a picture of you and Victor munching pizza.” And the more Lucky considered it, the more convinced he was that the picture hadn’t come from Stephan.
Walter never hesitated before answering. “I assure you, I didn’t know of any pictures, but I did have lunch with the man on several occasions.”
A confession? Really? “Care to explain?”
“In my early days with the SNB, I spent a few years as an inspector, quite similar to what we do now in helping pharmaceutical companies spot their weaknesses and protect their supply chain.” His brown-eyed scrutiny sent a shiver up Lucky’s spine, like the man knew all of his numerous secrets. “Victor Mangiardi started out as a legitimate businessman, Lucky, working for his grandfather. When I came for inspections, he took me out for lunch.”
Walter sat slump-shouldered, bringing him down more to Lucky’s level. He appeared harmless with his hands clasped together around his coffee cup, but the rumpled suit he’d probably thrown on at a moment’s notice didn’t hide the predator the man could be when he wanted to. He wasn’t Lucky’s boss for nothing; he’d earned his place at the top of the food chain.
Nothing about his stance said he lied. No niggling little doubts warned Lucky of danger. Maybe he spoke the truth. This time. “You said you hadn’t made any deals with him. I have it on good authority that you were in negotiations.” Or rather, someone was. Nestor had never said who. “I also saw a picture of you following him down the courthouse steps after his arraignment.” There. See him squirm out to this.
Walter stared at his hands. “I was afraid you’d find out one day. Only, I didn’t lie. I didn’t make a deal with him, not for his own sake anyway.” Lucky barely heard his boss’s normally booming voice.
“Then who did you make a deal for?”
Walter rolled contrite eyes upward to meet Lucky’s hot stare. “You. He wanted a deal for you.”
“What the fuck? And I testified against the man.” What he wouldn’t give for a beer, or some of what Stephan had supplied these last few weeks. Let him sleep. Let him forget. Even while Lucky kicked his former lover in the teeth, Victor had still looked out for him. Sainthood didn’t suit men like Victor.
“Don’t you understand? Your testimony didn’t matter. The evidence was clear. And Victor Mangiardi had no intention of staying in prison. You better than anyone should understand. Men of his means, with his cunning, didn’t stay confined for long. His lawyers were working on his appeal the moment the guilty verdict came in.” Walter scrubbed a hand through his black and white speckled hair. “It’s you he was concerned for. For all your bluster, he worried what prison might do to you. He offered names, schedules, you name it, to clear you.”
Fuck, even with the man gone, Lucky kept racking up the debt. “So you hired me because a drug lord made a deal.”
Walter shook his head. “No, I didn’t. What I presumed was his suicide cancelled any deals. I’d gone to bat for him, and he left me high and dry. By that time, I’d already spoken to the top brass about recruiting former traffickers, and I went through hundreds of names. No matter my criteria, you always were the best man for the job.” Again with that piercing gaze. “I didn’t hire you for Victor’s sake, but in spite of him.”
“You told me he was dead. Was that a lie?”
“I didn’t lie about that either. I saw the coroner’s report. Cause of death: asphyxiation due to hanging. Yet, after your disappearance, I requested copies, to find the originals have been misplaced.”
Chilling fingers traced up Lucky’s spine.
“It also seems the guard on duty the night Victor supposedly hanged himself was found dead in his apartment a week later. An autopsy showed heroin in his system. He’d just passed a drug test the week before, and yet he died of an overdose.
“I’ve launched an inquiry into the missing records. We’ll see what happens.” Walter’s dejected tone said, Don’t hold your breath.
Bo overdosed and laid up in the hospital, Stephan on the loose in Mexico, and more and more evidence piling up for something screwy about Victor’s presumed death. “Killing me off and renaming me Simon didn’t help for a hill of beans, did it? Everyone I’m hiding from knows exactly where I am, even if they don’t know I work for SNB.” At least, Stephan didn’t seem to. Nestor probably knew what Lucky’d had for breakfast.
“I’m sorry, Lucky. I truly am.”
Should he stay or go? His cover with the SNB offered some protection, or at least the illusion of safety. But to protect Bo, Lucky couldn’t stay. Bo’s probation would be up soon, if it wasn’t already, and he’d spoken several times about wanting to continue on with Walter, make a career out of taking down drug dealers.
Then again, not too long ago he’d been ready to take over Stephan’s outfit. Please, God, let it just have been the drugs talking.
Now for Lucky to find out where he truly stood with Walter and the SNB. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Stephan killed his father, Vincent Mangiardi, and I believe he planned to frame a convenient scapegoat.”
“Do you have proof?”
“I found a wallet in the victim’s back pocket. And it sure as hell was Stephan who carted the man away. Besides, Stephan had one of those evil mastermind moments when he confessed. I thought that shit only happened on TV.” He pulled Bo’s phone out of his pocket and handed it over. “Pictures, recordings. It’s all here.”
Lucky paused to down a mouthful of coffee and stall for time. Right now exhaustion fuzzed his brain, and he didn’t know what to believe. But he owed the man sitting next to him one hell of a lot. And now was time to part ways. He needed to get the words out before he changed his mind. “Boss, I think this is the end of the line for me and the SNB. I thank you for the chance you gave me, no matter how it happened. But it’s time for me to leave.”
Walter narrowed his eyes. “You’re not thinking of going vigilante on me, are you? Or searching for Stephan? Don’t make me regret my decision.”
“No, it’s nothing like that. It’s a matter a little closer to home.” Fuck, he gave himself away by peering down the hallway toward Bo’s room with more than worry for a coworker in his eyes.
“Oh, I see. How long have you been involved with each other?”
No matter how badly his instincts told him to lie, Lucky had to get everything out in the open. “Since our first case staking out the Ryerson Clinic in Florida.”
“Is it serious?”
Lucky nodded, not trusting words.
“How serious?”
Damn the man for not leaving well enough alone. “Moving in together serious. Me quitting my job to see him through the next few weeks serious.” Would cut my heart out and give it to him serious.
“You know the department’s rules against fraternization?”
“Yes.” Shit, meet fan.
“And you also know that Virginia falls within The Southeastern Narcotics Bureau’s jurisdiction.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Virginia, nice state. But Lucky’d seen enough tobacco fields for one lifetime. If he looked hard enough, he might still see the blisters and stains on his hands from hours spent in his parents’ fields.
“A woman in a domestic partnership works for our Virginia office. Taking a nod from the Supreme Court’s decisions, the SNB granted her the same rights as in her home state, and that was before our president took steps to insure non-discrimination.”
“I still don’t see what that has to do with me.”
“Even a few years ago, if you and Bo lived in a domestic partnership state, and you needed time off to take care of your partner, I’d have to grant you leave.”
“We live in Georgia.”
“Yes, but I couldn’t treat any member of my team differently than the other states we cover. And besides, the SNB falls under government guidelines.”
Lucky’s hope tried to rise, but like him, it was too damned tired. “We’re not living together yet.”
“I take it you slept in separate beds in Orlando? How about that cozy cabin by the river near Athens?” Walter raised one brow.
Oh, no! No way would Lucky consider what Walter might be picturing right now. “Fraternization on the job, remember?”
“The rules were written to prevent married team members from having affairs with coworkers, and conflicts of interest from developing. The way I see it, Simon Harrison and Bo Schollenberger had a preexisting relationship when I hired you, like Jack in Accounting and his wife Laura in Human Resources.”
Jack? Laura? Who were these people? Lucky heard “Told you so” in Bo’s voice, loud and clear.
“You’re not going to fire him? And I don’t have to quit?”
“No, I’m not, and you don’t. You may catch flak at work, but you’re more than capable of taking care of yourself.” Walter relaxed back into the world’s most uncomfortable looking chair.
“You knew all along, didn’t you, you smug bastard?” A weight lifted off Lucky’s chest.
“I suspected, but I’ve been wrong before. I think it was in 1972.” Walter’s weak attempt at one of Lucky’s patented smirks appeared worn-out but sincere. “But promise me you won’t go after Stephan on your own.”
“I doubt he’ll be a problem anymore.” If Nestor had his way, even now Victor’s asshole nephew could be dead or pleading for his life. Damn it, Lucky wanted to watch him pay for what he’d done to Bo and so many others. Hell, the bastard had to pay for Alejandro, who’d proven himself a good man with his life. Or maybe Cruz would get to Stephan first and finish whatever he’d started with Nestor.
Not Lucky’s problem now. His problem was a house in serious need of work, if a For Sale sign still hung in the yard, and getting his partner through rehab while weeding out Cyrus Cooper from Bo’s personality.
Walter’s expression hardened, and a crease between his eyes deepened. “You do know that Bo might not want to come back after his ordeal. He’s been undercover for nearly a year. That’s a long time. What then?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there. Now, excuse me, but I need to go see about my partner.” Lucky stood. Time to check in on Bo.
“Of course.”
“And Walter?”
“Yes?”
“If you ever withhold information from me again, I’ll shoot you myself.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”