CHAPTER 15
Someone knew Lucky’s movements. Who to come after to hurt him most. Landry knew some about Lucky, but he’d been out of the bureau before Charlotte moved in, hadn’t he? Long before she got pregnant.
Still, agents, even piss-poor ones like Landry, learned from pros how to gather intel.
While he had reason to hate Lucky, he’d remained hidden for months. Why risk months of freedom to return to Atlanta? What did he have to gain?
Then again, the whole diabetes drug thing remained a mess, but Owen Landry didn’t seem capable of plotting to that level. Nor of gaining the undying loyalty of two fuckwads: one in prison, the other now dead.
Atlanta PD hadn’t gotten any prints from the motel room or murder weapon. Of course, a former agent would’ve known better than to leave physical evidence. The gun wasn’t registered and had been bought from a pawnshop in New Orleans.
Where Cruz said Landry had been reported.
Yet, someone planted the gun in the motel room.
Lucky’d missed something somewhere. One man died because of it, and no telling what might have happened to Charlotte without a weapon handy. Hell, the Chastain case tossed a bunch of pharma execs into prison too, who also had a stake in making Lucky pay.
Lord, let nothing happen to Lucky’s family. Or the Smiths. Or even Mrs. Griggs.
Lucky called up his past cases and reviewed, not just the official reports, but his own private notes. Any number of folks he’d sent to prison might want him dead, and they could certainly hire a hit man while behind bars. Ones who hadn’t yet gone to trial and were free on bond might be the place to start looking.
But… what if it wasn’t one of his own cases he should look at?
He called up other cases, starting slightly before Owen Landry arrived at the SNB and began cozying up to Bo. Overall, the SNB had a pretty high closure rate.
Up until Landry arrived. Bo and Lucky’s absence during the Corruption case corresponded with a dip in closed cases for the whole Diversion Prevention and Control department. A dip that didn’t improve much once they returned. However, Bo’s case count started after he’d become a full agent. Then Johnson graduated to agent-hood.
Keith mostly stayed in IT, but he also worked a few surveillance cases. While his percentage was nowhere near as high as Lucky’s, 75% wasn’t too bad, when stacked against the others.
Since Walter went to the hospital, and Bo began training to take his place as boss, all the other agents’ closure rates dropped.
Overall, the combined rating showed nothing wrong, but mostly because Bo, Lucky, Johnson, and Keith—to an extent—carried the load. Before Art’s retirement, he’d rarely left a case unclosed, though often, like Lucky, another agency took over after the assignment went federal.
Lucky didn’t often work with agents from other departments. He saw them in the building, but not being a social animal, he avoided them, they avoided him. Happiness all around. Besides, he usually had his hands full with the rookies.
How long before someone else, not inside the bureau, saw the drop?
Was someone inside the bureau behind the drop? Lucky’d bet good money on a yes.
Could Landry, a newbie himself at the time, have affected closure rates? Maybe not alone, but add in Philip Eustace, O’Donoghue’s assistant, who had access to critical information, and IT Rookie Rogers, and maybe…
Why? Most were small busts, not worth kickbacks. The cases appeared unrelated. Random.
Missing evidence. Changed testimony. In several cases the witnesses fled Atlanta. Case after case, either not closed, or dismissed in court for lack of evidence, missing evidence. Mishandled reports.
Unplugging his laptop from the docking station, he trudged to the bosses’ office and lightly tapped on the door.
“Come in,” came Walter’s booming response.
Lucky opened the door and crept in. No Bo, just Walter. Books lined the shelves, and off to the corner Bo had set up an old desk as his own. Woulda been nice to see Bo there.
When Walter retired, he’d take the scent of Old Spice with him.
Walter beamed, the skin around his eyes crinkling more than usual. The cup on his desk appeared to hold black coffee, a big change from all the frou-frou drinks he used to inhale, more whipped cream than coffee. “Why, Lucky. So nice to see you. Come in, sit down.”
Not that Lucky needed an invitation to park inhischair. He sprawled, wriggling in to get comfortable. Sparring with Jimmy hadn’t been his best idea. Bo wouldn’t even feel sorry for him, though he had run Lucky a warm bath with Epsom salts the night before. “I want to talk to you about something.”
“You know you can talk to me about anything.” Walter folded his hands on his desk—a desk bearing less papers and file folders than normal. Bo’s influence struck again. “How is Charlotte? Is she still upset over her near abduction?”
