CHAPTER 18
Lucky hated Mondays. With a passion. He swilled lukewarm coffee and rubbed his bleary eyes. Some mornings there wasn’t enough coffee in the world to get him going.
He removed the breakfast Charlotte sent with him from his computer bag, and dropped the package onto the desk. Itclonked.A biscuit.Okay, time to buy some frozen biscuits on the way home. Still hopeful, he opened the tinfoil and lifted the top of the biscuit. Bologna, cheese, and grape jelly.
Oh joy. Maybe later. Much later.
The desk next to his held a combination of Bo’s and Johnson’s belongings, as the O’Donoghue power grab shuffled Bo back to the cube. When faced with the prospect of space on another floor or sharing with the rookies, Johnson went back to Newbieville.
Or rather, she now shared a cube with Salters. Lucky felt a twang. Jealousy? Fear of them teaming up against him? Or was he still brooding over Rett not mentioning Charlotte’s dating?
Most men he’d heard lately, especially at the gym, dated for the sex, and didn’t want more. They’d run like hell from a woman pregnant by her brother’s partner.
Yet Salters hadn’t run. Accepted Charlotte carrying a baby for Lucky and Bo.
Lucky better stop his bitching. His sister could do a whole lot worse. Besides, Walter liked the guy, and despite his reservations, Lucky’s gut feelings didn’t ping with alarm.
Much.
He hadn’t seen Bo or Johnson this morning. Bo reported to Walter’s office the moment he arrived. Johnson left the building to make phone calls and reconnect with her former coworkers at Southwestern, under the guise of comparing notes on an old case. Keith’s car sat in the parking lot, so he must be around someplace.
Salters watched Lucky’s house. He’d damned well better be doing his surveillance outside.
Lucky sat at his desk trying to dig up dirt on the world’s most boring man.
For a well-known figure in drug enforcement, there wasn’t a whole lot of personal information easily gleaned on Jameson O’Donoghue. Humble, New York City upbringing, dad a cop, brother a cop. Both killed in the line of duty.
So, O’Donoghue had to work at making something of himself. Never married. No kids. No known partner.
He lived alone in an apartment in Atlanta, not the best neighborhood, but far from the worst. Yet O’Donoghue liked nice things, had replaced Walter’s furniture the moment he’d taken over the boss’s job, if even temporarily. The man’s salary wasn’t secret. He could easily afford a much nicer place to live.
Instead, he rented the studio apartment of a man who didn’t intend to stay long. Or someone who planned to get a promotion and then move to one of Atlanta’s finer neighborhoods.
Following O’Donoghue led to a lot of boring days and nights. Did the guy have no friends whatsoever? Even the weekends didn’t liven up his routine. Not surprising to Lucky, but the others of his group found it noteworthy. No social life at all? Strange, investigating a man who could step into Lucky’s cube at any moment.
Was he wasting time, trying to find connections where none existed? His guts said no.
His personal cell chimed with a text message. Damn it, he’d meant to hit mute. A message read,“Call me in five.”
Cruz. Lucky strolled down the hall, rode the elevator to the parking garage, and climbed into the late model Chevy he’d gotten from a rental agency and would love to give back. A quick once-over with an RF and camera detector didn’t turn up anything of interest.
Keith better not have given him duds, like he had O’Donoghue.
He dialed the number.
Cruz’s grin appeared in Lucky’s mind from the moment he started the call. “I’m in. I’ve arranged a meeting with the director of the Southwestern Narcotics Bureau’s Department of Interstate Trafficking for Wednesday afternoon. I want you with me.”
Lucky wanted to. But… “I’ve never been to Southwestern, but someone might recognize me.”
“Hmm…You established yourself as Ricky Getsinger, working for Vincent Mangiardi. But someone might know that name too.”
“As much as I want to be there, it’s too risky.” Damn the luck. Walter hiring a known felon, and the felon supposedly dying, meant his face might be known. Plus, he’d worked with Southwestern on cases. He might not know the director, but the director likely knew of Lucky.
“Let me put you on hold.” Cruz came back a few moments later. “It won’t be a problem. I’m texting an address. I want you there at six A.M. Wednesday morning. Trust me. When we get through, even your own mama won’t know you.”
What the hell did they plan to do?
Eleven hours to get there by car, with breaks, so he’d have to leave early in the morning to get some sleep before his six A.M. appointment. Was Lucky going to have to take a day off to manage sex with Bo?
