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 they left now…
