Keith hollered, “Hey! Bring that phone back. It’s evidence.”
Lucky knocked on Walter’s door, but didn’t wait for an answer to storm into the boss’s office.
Bo froze mid-motion of looking over Walter’s shoulder, eyes wide. “What is it? I know something’s wrong.” He dropped his tablet computer into Walter’s hand and rounded the desk, stopping short of taking Lucky into his arms.
Lucky needed the hug. He handed over the phone. “Look what I found on Chastain’s phone.”
Bo stared at the screen, a wrinkle forming between his brows. He’d schooled his expression into something more neutral when he looked up and took the phone to Walter.
Walter held it close to his nose, adjusting his bifocals for a better look. “Based on the time stamp this appeared while you were handling the phone in IT?”
“Yes. I was only in the department about thirty minutes.” His skin crawled. Someone knew he was in there. Had their eye on him.
Bo rested a hand on Lucky’s shoulder, the closest to a hug he’d likely risk in the boss’s office. “Who else knew you were there?”
Who had he seen? “Keith. A couple of his techs. I think Robinson saw me go in there. I spoke to Lisa when I went by.” Robinson probably didn’t care, as long as Lucky didn’t tell her to be nice to someone. Lisa spoke to everyone.
Lucky trusted them both, to an extent. “Is O’Donoghue here today?”
“He’s out of the office, on assignment for DEA. Why do you ask?” Bo replied.
Why, indeed. “Have you ever considered he might still have ties to Landry?”
Walter handed the phone back, rubbing his chin and staring out the window without answering. Was that a yes?
Bo snatched up his tablet and the phone. He tapped a bit, tapped some more, and sighed. “I can’t trace the number.”
“So, whoever it is has surveillance on us?”Please say no, it’s all in my head. Keep saying it until I believe.
“It could be a coincidence,” Walter offered. “The message might not be meant for you. Chastain could have been the target.”
“Chastain has been reported as dead. If someone wanted him, they probably wouldn’t miss the article about his death when they searched his name.” Lucky paced to the bookcase and back. Hell, walking halfway through Atlanta wouldn’t be enough to calm his nerves.
“They broke into his house and left no evidence. Now they’re sending messages on the victim’s phone.” Bo turned from Lucky to Walter. “They disabled Chastain’s security cameras, might know Lucky’s whereabouts. I agree that this might be someone who knows about surveillance. Has knowledge of the Chastain case.”
“Like Owen Landry.” Lucky should’ve killed the asshole when he’d had the chance. Then again, O’Donoghue possessed the same skills.
Walter’s desk phone rang. “Walter Smith.”
Lucky strained his ears but couldn’t make out the words on the other end of the phone call, only Walter’s, “Are you sure?” and “Oh, I see.” After several moments of conversation that didn’t give Lucky any details, he hung up.
“That was a courtesy call from Atlanta PD. They found the murder weapon in a hotel room on the outskirts of Atlanta.”
How convenient.
For a man who’d been poised to earn a sweet living as a pharma executive, if Landry was the murderer, he’d fallen hard. Even Lucky wouldn’t have rented a room in this run-down motel in the middle of a high crime neighborhood.
Searching the parking lot didn’t turn up what he looked for. “Let me guess. No cameras.”
Bo shook his head. His suit and tie stood out in this world of jeans, T-shirts, and barely adequate jackets. “No, and no one had a complete description of the man who’d rented the room. A man, somewhere between thirty and sixty, with blond hair or maybe gray, and eyes either blue or brown.” He shook his head slowly, staring at the ground.
Lucky finished scoping out the parking lot and, side by side with Bo, approached the room. A uniformed officer stepped aside at the flash of Lucky and Bo’s badges.
A maid pushed a cart on the sidewalk a few doors down. Lucky approached, plastering on his best harmless good ole boy smile. “Pardon me, ma’am, but have you cleaned this room yet?”
“No, sir. The guest kept a do not disturb sign on the door. I haven’t cleaned in”—she lifted a clipboard from her cart and studied the first page—“five days.”
Bo peered over her shoulder. “That matches the rental records.”
