One day. Though he’d happily accept Schollenberger if Bo ever wanted to make things legal.
Traffic remained fairly light, and in a little over twenty minutes, Lucky pulled into Chastain’s driveway. The same car he’d tracked while looking for the man over a year ago sat in the driveway of the upscale-but-still-modest white stucco house. Red shutters. Red door.
Right. He needed to stop by the hardware store for paint on his way home. The shutters on his and Bo’s own house needed work.
He and the clerks at Lowe’s were on a first-name basis.
Quiet reigned in the cul-de-sac. Too quiet. No kids playing, no cars, no dogs barking, no noises from a neighbor’s house. No wonder a passing car caught Chastain’s attention.
Prickles rose on the back of Lucky’s neck. Something wasn’t right.
He rang the doorbell and paused, checking out the angle of the twin cameras mounted above the porch. One aimed at the front door, the other at the street. His breath fogged before his face. Northerners called Georgia downright balmy, but tried and true Southerners considered February cold.
Chastain didn’t answer the door. He’d known Lucky was coming. Lucky rang the bell again and stuck his hands in his jacket pockets to keep them warm. Maybe he’d caught the guy on the throne. Best to give him a minute or two. The seconds ticked by.
Oh, hell.
Slipping the .38 Walter had given him from his hip holster, he avoided the windows while making his way to the back door, and tapped lightly on the panel.
Nothing.
He tried again.
A whole lot of nothing.
He rang the bell.
Nothing.
His internal alarm kicked up another notch or two. He tried the doorknob. Unlocked. Someone terrified of being followed wouldn’t leave the door unlocked, even expecting a visitor.
He turned the knob and opened the door onto a small room with a stacked washer and dryer on one side, and an opening on the other. Lucky peered in. The kitchen would’ve made two of his and Bo’s, with not a single speck of dirt. Bo would be proud.
The scent of bacon lingered, and coffee. His stomach reminded him breakfast happened a long time ago, and lunchtime crept right on by without slowing down.
The hall ahead had to lead to the formal living room. He’d been here before, but never through the back. He stopped when he reached a door. “Chastain?”
Silence.
He should call someone. Not Bo. Could he call Johnson without causing bad memories for her?
She’d kick the crap out of him if he didn’t call just to spare her feelings. He called.
“Hey, Lucky. What’s up?” Her lazy tone made it easy to picture her smiling, lying back in her office chair, gripping her phone, nails painted some bright color that he hadn’t noticed earlier. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I’m about to check on a witness from a past case, and I’m thinking there’s trouble.”
Her humor fled. “Where?”
Lucky gave her the address.
“Want me to come out?”
“Only if you don’t hear from me in five minutes.”
“Will do.”
He pocketed his phone and pushed the door with his .38. The door swept open on silent hinges. Good. His nerves couldn’t stand a scary-movie-worthy screech. Yeah, living room, with stiff looking couch and loveseat and a definite lack of lived-in feel.
