“Yes.” The edges of her mouth curled up. She finally volunteered information. “Most have been with me for more than five years.”
Five years gave time to build trust. Hopefully, she hadn’t trusted the wrong people. “Who has keys to the building?”
“Lloyd, our pharmacist-in-charge, and myself, that’s all.”
Lucky glanced at the photos. The one labeled “Lloyd” was of an African American man in his mid to late fifties. Not the pharmacist Lucky saw last night. “Anyone have access to your keys?”
“No. Just me.”
“Are all your pharmacists here today?”
“No. Benjamin works on weekends.”
“Is his picture on the wall?” He didn’t see a Benjamin in the group.
“No. He’s new.”
Lucky’s hackles rose. He likely had a photo on his cell phone she could use. How this Benjamin got a key was another matter. Not hard to make a copy.
God, but Lucky should’ve slept a few more hours. Trailing Johnson and Salters, he ambled through an aisle crowded with cold and headache remedies. Damn but the place looked different in daylight.
A trio of lab-coated pharmacy techs now stood where the two had the night Lucky stopped by, stuffing pills into bottles. This time, they passed along the bottles with the expected labels. At eleven a.m., he hadn’t really expected to find the man who ran the illegal night shift.
He peered through the glass at the pharmacy’s sterile compounding room, scales and other utensils lined up in neat rows. Stainless-steel sinks took up the far wall.
Mystery solved in the thudding. The back room held two tablet presses. Shutting them behind closed doors didn’t muffle the sound much.
Nobody on call, because no emergency business. They didn’t keep much in the way of schedule II narcotics on hand, mostly bio-identical hormones in a gazillion strengths, estrogens, androgens, thyroid medications. Following along like an obedient lapdog, Salters recorded everything Lucky called out.
The employees danced well-practiced steps, veering around each other when necessary.
The moment he left the tablet room a tech darted inside and closed the door.
Thud.
A now-familiar sound.
***
Once more Lucky and Rett waited outside the apartment complex where the workers stayed, this time in a white panel van, with the department’s biggest asshole, Keith.
All morning they’d watched the comings and goings, one of Keith’s trainees aiming a camera at the front of the building.
Lucky and Johnson compared the images to a database of known felons.
“Right there.” Lucky enlarged an image of one of the gangster wannabes hanging out on the front steps. “He’s wanted in San Diego on drug charges.”
“Looks like this one is the brother of the one I broke.” Johnson pointed to another man in the photo, her tone implying she didn’t have a single fuck to give about the guy she’d brained with a fire extinguisher. “No outstanding warrants—yet.”
She laced her fingers, turned the palms out and stretched, popping her knuckles. The van couldn’t be very comfortable for someone of her height and build.
A blocked warrant, workers kept prisoner, an illegal pill operation. Lucky didn’t like it. Seemed whoever—or more likely whoevers—were behind this sure wanted to prevent authorities from interfering with their little business. A little business that dumped who knew what drugs into the local high school, several pharmacies, and a neighboring nursing home, so far.
If Ty wouldn’t give him answers on the school front, Lucky knew someone who might.
***
Lucky sat at a picnic table outside a burger joint, a freckled, red-headed kid on the other side of the table, drowning French fries in ketchup.
