Lucky could say the same about Keith, but didn’t.
For now.
Lucky waited a few minutes after Keith left and strode down the sidewalk, slowing when he spotted the paper on his windshield, held in place by a wiper blade. Probably a church flier, or some kind of business ad.
A quick perusal of the street showed no other cars so adorned.
Gingerly he plucked the paper, held it up to his nose, and read, “You were warned.”
Oh hell.
***
Lucky sat back in his car, pulled his laptop into his lap, and tapped into a nearby coffee shop’s Wi-Fi.
What would Walter do in his situation? O’Donoghue was the obvious culprit, with the knowledge, the connections, the flunkies, the motivation.
But…
O’Donoghue was the obvious choice, right?
Obvious.
Lucky punched his keyboard, calling up the damning video. Keith had fed him this piece of evidence. Why? To lead Lucky toward O’Donoghue? Possibly. But in doing so, he’d exposed himself as having placed the camera. He’d also invaded Lisa’s house and involved her in his schemes.
That wasn’t the act of a con man, but a desperate man. Keith stood to lose his entire career. Years of his life. His status as senior agent.
Also add in that O’Donoghue wasn’t sloppy enough to leave a blatant trail. Nor juvenile enough to leave notes on cars. Though Lucky would likely not be able to raise any prints from the paper.
Back when he’d worked for Victor he’d been the dumb Southern redneck, the boy toy, someone no one paid a lick of attention. He’d stolen millions of dollars in drugs for his boss, hung out at Victor’s parties with people whose lips grew looser the more they drank.
They didn’t watch what they said, and likely marveled later when Victor knew their secrets.
Because Lucky had never been obvious.
What a fool he’d been. Someone had tossed him O’Donoghue. Pretty much set the guy up, using Lucky’s own opinions against him.
He wouldn’t rule out O’Donoghue completely, but he needed to widen his net. Who, then?
Phillip didn’t strike Lucky as the type to be the brains of so much as a circle jerk, yet he’d hung a microphone around Rett Johnson’s neck.
Rogers didn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. Still, he’d tailed Lucky more than once.
Lucky entered them both into the database, Rogers first. Security clearance background checks might leave off number of hangnails suffered per year, but not much else.
Technically, Lucky shouldn’t have access to such, but hey, if they didn’t want him digging they should put someone other than Keith in charge of IT.
Mediocre grades, barely passed his marksmanship test, and only got into the SNB because of his coding ability and an uncle in law enforcement.
Phillip Eustace? Another matter entirely. Lucky let out a low whistle. The guy’s father had defended some pretty notorious crime bosses and gotten them out of federal charges with a slap on the wrist. Either he was worth the money paid to him by his clients, had connections, or was one conniving lawyer.
Brrr… Lucky caught a chill from the picture of Phillip’s mother, who looked down her nose at one of the finest agents Lucky’d ever met.
Phillip had applied at one hell of a lot of schools, names Lucky had heard his wannabe-wealthy brother yammer on about with no hope in hell of attending, not even on Victor’s dime. He’d flunked out of the one Ivy League school that let him in, and changed his major from pre-law to criminal and social justice, getting his four-year degree in five years from the University of St. Francis.
He’d barely eked by.
Not the sharpest tool in the shed. Nothing new to Lucky.
