Instant seriousness wiped away any traces of Bo’s humor. “There was a plant in his office.”
“It seems so.” Lucky fired up the laptop and surfed through spam e-mails to get to Chastain’s.
“Farrell Justice,” Lucky read. O’Donoghue had told them during classes to work undercover to choose a name close to their own so they’d react more naturally at its use.
Did the name mean anything? “Twenty-eight, blond hair, blue eyes.” Didn’t mean anything. His sister was living proof of how many shades of hair dye Clairol made, and colored contact lenses weren’t hard to come by.
He put the name into his favorite site for background checks, scrambling IP addresses first, thanks to a device he’d gotten from Keith a year ago and failed to return.
Nothing. Squeaky clean. Not even a traffic ticket.
Ever.
Much like Simon Harrison, the persona the SNB cooked up for Lucky to keep him safe, at least in theory, from anyone who might hold a grudge against him.
Wasn’t a soul in the universe now who didn’t know Richmond Eugene Lucklighter still lived, and one day soon, when Lucky wasn’t ass-deep in alligators, he’d see to changing his name back.
For now, he viewed personnel records, a resume, the background check, and the pre-employment drug test results from Justice’s hiring at Chastain Pharmaceuticals.
Nothing. He couldn’t find one damned thing on the man.
One more attachment to go, entitled “Company Picnic.”
An image appeared of roughly thirty smiling people crammed into a group picture. Lucky felt a twinge of remorse for the time Bo had wanted him to attend an SNB staff picnic and had ended up going on his own when Lucky refused.
Never again. If Bo asked, next time Lucky would say yes.
Or maybe he’d do the asking.
He scanned the faces, scrutiny coming to rest on a circle drawn on the photo—around a blond-haired man.
“Well, fuck me.” Farrell Justice was none other than Phillip Eustace.
Red tinged Bo’s face and he took several hard breaths. “Sonofabitch!”
Lucky took a deep breath and dropped a bomb. “I found out the DEA agent who yanked their registration. Owen Landry.”
Lucky was going to kill Landry, Phillip, and maybe a few others for good measure. How dare they?
“Calm down.” Bo placed a calming hand on Lucky’s arm. “We can’t go charging in. We have to build our case first.”
Lucky breathed heavily in and out, rage threatening to take over. “What else do we need?” He’d kick their asses if he had to quit the bureau to do it. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d put down his badge to seek his own form of justice.
“Think about it. Phillip’s with DEA, so it could well be him, acting undercover, who legitimately discovered the illegal shipment, working with Landry.” Trust Bo to be the voice of reason.
“If he was undercover, why didn’t we see him when we toured?”
“He might have been off that day, or busy somewhere else.”
“Walter would have known.” Judging from the boss’s reaction he sure as hell hadn’t.
When all else failed, Bo lapsed into textbook or policy manual-speak. “You know it’s against SNB policy to discuss an agent’s cases with another agent unless there’s good reason.”
“Them yanking a DEA registration from someone we vetted doesn’t count as good reason?”
Bo tilted his head to the side but didn’t immediately answer.
Lucky scowled. “Are you with me on this or not?”
