Would be the death of him someday. He pushed aside a half-full cup—coffee he didn’t remember buying—and retrieved a note pad with a ring dead center from being used as a coaster. He’d never typed fast enough to take notes on his computer. He dragged the tip of three pens over the paper before finding one with ink. “Details? What did you see, and when did you see it?”
A little of the tension left Chastain’s voice. “It’s not always the same car, but they come by my house several times a day. I’ve caught them on my security camera.”
“You sure it’s not just a neighbor?” Suspicion, like everything else, worked best in moderation.
“You’ve been to my house. I live in a cul-de-sac, remember?”
Oh, yeah. Right. “What kind of car?”
“Sometimes it’s a red Tercel. Others, a white van. That one I’ve seen in my rearview on my way to work.”
Lots of cars in the Atlanta morning commute. Someone on the same schedule likely got behind the man. “Get a look at the driver?”
“No.”
Landry was still out there, but so were a bunch of powerful businessmen facing serious charges, not to mention a few who remained in jail, but likely had a long reach. Enough to make anyone jumpy. “But you spotted him, right? That makes him an amateur. You’d never see a professional.”
Chastain’s sigh wafted through the phone. “That’s not helping.”
“It’s the truth.” Truth hurt sometimes.
“What should I do?” The man couldn’t fake this level of desperation. He’d passed the point of “healthy dose of fear” and pushed into the scared shitless zone.
Lucky glanced at the clock on his computer. Two more hours. Yeah, he had time. Go see Chastain, talk him down off the ceiling, convince him he’d only seen a neighbor. Or maybe he could look at the footage from Chastain’s security camera and possibly get a plate number on the suspicious car.
What the poor guy went through. No wonder he’d gotten obsessed with every little thing.
Lucky doodled a few more notes on the pad, next to a few baby names—most crossed out. “You’re at home now?”
“Yes.”
“Let me come over, take a look at the recording. Ask a few more questions.”
“Would you?” Chastain sounded less scared now, more hopeful. Lucky might never get used to people viewing him as a positive thing. “I hate to be a bother, but I didn’t know where else to go.”
Lucky’d been there, alone and with nowhere to turn. He’d never admit to going to calm someone’s nerves. Oh, right. This man shared a connection with Landry.
Landry, who still roamed the earth, free, while so many others saw life through bars and razor wire-topped fences.
Hell, Lucky should ask Johnson, sitting at the next desk and doing a pitiful job of pretending to work while listening in on Lucky’s conversation. She’d flirted with Chastain during one of their meetings. Maybe having someone else to drool over might make her forget—or at least distract her from— the no account dickhead who’d dumped her the moment the going got tough.
She deserved better, and from what he’d seen, Chastain might be better. Hell, just about anyone beat Rett’s ex.
Still, Chastain called him. “I’ll be there in twenty. Thirty if I hit traffic.”
Lucky ended the call and turned to his cubemate. “I got something to do.” He wouldn’t mention Chastain’s name. That case had led to her boyfriend’s arrest. She didn’t speak of Philip often, and Lucky wouldn’t risk bringing up bad memories. He’d make a note for future reference—and have his sister make the suggestion. He wasn’t about to play matchmaker. Charlotte lived for meddling in the name of love. “Keep an eye on Salters and Robinson, okay?”
“Yes, sir!” The six-foot-plus woman who’d shoved her way into Lucky’s life gave him a mock salute. “You coming back later, or will I see you tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow. Once this is done, I’m heading toward the house.”
“Give my regards to Charlotte. Tell her to call me if she’s up for a girl’s night on Friday.”
Charlotte and Rett out on the town? He’d better check his savings account for bail money. “Sure thing.”
He shrugged into his black leather jacket and strolled past the reception desk. “Lisa. Would you tell B… Mr. Schollenberger and Mr. Smith I had to go out?”
The perky blonde receptionist smiled. “Yes, Mr. Harrison.” Mr. Harrison. Sounded so weird even after a few years spent answering to the name. Lucklighter. He needed to go back to Lucklighter.
