Bo had refused to let Lucky out of his SUV otherwise.
Lucky nodded. “Johnson says they all head in different directions.”
“You talked about a pregnant woman.”
“Yolanda.”
“I’m not going to ask how you know her name. At least, not right now.” The warning scowl said a long heart-to-heart lurked on the horizon. “Do you have any other names?”
“No.” Lucky probably should tell Bo about Cruz’s involvement. Maybe later. He should’ve at least asked Cruz to get more names, though if they were afraid, the victims would lie. “What do you have in mind?”
“There are three of us. Tonight, I’ll follow the van, you stick with Yolanda, and we can assign Loretta to track some of the others.”
Well, shit. Lucky’s case, taken over by Bo. But hadn’t he taken it from Johnson? “Works for me.”
“Okay. Touch base with Loretta. Tomorrow we’ll share our findings. And Lucky?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t do anything the department will have to explain later. We’re still under investigation for the whole Landry thing last year. Not to mention Rogers’ family trying to sue us for his death.”
“Suicide by special agent doesn’t make us liable.”
“Even so, keep your nose clean. You’ll probably have to testify and the last thing you need is a tarnished reputation.”
As if Lucky Lucklighter didn’t have a sullied enough reputation. Of course, so far, Simon Harrison had managed not to get caught doing anything the law might frown on. Much. “Will do.”
***
Lucky followed after the bus left the warehouse, noting all passenger stops. At approximately 11:30, the bus opened its door for the last three. Yolanda slowly made her way off the bus, assisted by another woman and a young man.
They waited until the bus pulled away to amble down the sidewalk. This part of town appeared deserted, mostly small businesses. Lucky left the car and kept to the shadows. The three stopped in front of a small Mom-and-Pop pharmacy. Though only dim lights shone from within, they opened the unlocked door and went inside.
A camera faced the front and back doors, but he’d bet good money someone inside monitored the feed, and likely cut certain parts out.
Like after-hours visitors.
He waited a count of two and slipped in after his prey.
Shelves stocked the darkened front room, full of over-the-counter medicines, some candy, and other odds and ends like chips and bandages. No sign of anyone. Voices came from the back.
He crept to the door, hugging the wall, gun held down in a double-handed grip.
Barrels, similar to the ones from the warehouse, waited inside. Brought in the van, perhaps?
Yolanda and the two others wore aprons, but no masks or gloves. The only other man in the room was Caucasian, about Bo’s height, with medium-brown hair, cut short. Average build. In fact, nothing stood out about him at all.
A two-sided bench, shelves running down the middle, sat dead center of the floor. Several big jars of tablets took up surface space. A quick search on his cell phone showed this to be a compounding pharmacy, where pharmacists specially blended medications for a specific prescription.
By law, pharmacists required a valid prescription to compound, so the quantities on hand should’ve been limited to that month’s estimated script volume. In the past, pharmacy techs filled smaller bottles from big amber ones, attached a prescription label, and passed the bottles along with a shipping label. All operations were overseen by a registered pharmacist.
The pharmacist checked the labels and contents, and then passed the shipping label and vial to a different tech who shoved everything into an envelope. Narcotics couldn’t be mailed, limiting the operation to anabolic steroids and benzodiazepines.
Narcotics required package services such as FedEx or UPS.
Yolanda disappeared into a back room and closed the door. Damn it!
The other two workers stuffed pills into bottles, but didn’t apply labels. Instead, they packed the bottles into the same kind of cartons found at the warehouse.
