Diversion 2 - Collusion (13 page)

The next day Lucky made three trips to the pharmacy to lug up a single delivery. Maybe now Bo would no longer be mistaken for the walking dead. Neither would Ava and Martin.

He stepped off the elevator with his empty cart, Ava’s happy squeals still ringing in his ears, and he swore Martin hadn’t hugged him in gratitude but rather to grope his ass.

“Oh my God, I can’t believe it.” Sammy came running out of the clerk’s office. “They let Danvers go! Fired him! Canned him! I heard from a guy in security. They’re walking him out now.”

What? “Why?”
“He pissed off the wrong people. Apparently, he bought drugs from someone the big wheels told him not to, and now he’s going down.” Sammy rubbed his hands together, a grin creasing his pudgy cheeks. “’Bout time if you ask me, strutting ’round here like he owns the place ’cause he married money.”
“Oh shit!” With Danvers gone, Bo became the hospital’s buyer, a position that just might kill him.
“‘Oh shit’ is right,” the normally silent receiving clerk exclaimed. “Tomorrow’s going to be hell.”
“What do you mean?” Lucky asked.
“You’ll find out tomorrow.”

“You gonna be okay?” Lucky lay back in his bed, Bo’s head cradled to his chest. He idly ran his fingers up and down his lover’s back. The closed bedroom door helped muffle the chaos filtering through the living room from the next apartment, but not much. If it weren’t for the threat of blowing Bo’s cover, he’d say the hell with it and move to the nice part of town, pimpmobile and all.

“I reckon. The hospital administrator stopped by today to make sure I was up to the job.”
“Are you?”
“I suppose I should be pissed off at your lack of faith in me, but the truth is, I honestly don’t know. I’m in over my head. Sure I helped place orders at some of the pharmacies I worked for, but nowhere near the scale of Rosario’s purchase orders.”
“What’d the admin say?”
“We held a conference call with Walter who agreed I’d continue on as buyer while Rosario finds someone else. Danvers had only been there less than a year, and from what I heard, he’d started trying to bring in Primero a week after he started.”
A red flag waved. “That’s odd. Walter believed Primero to be a new kid on the block.”
Bo shrugged, shoulder bumping against Lucky’s. “Even though he makes good money, I don’t understand how Danvers affords the lifestyle he keeps bragging about. He’s got a five bedroom weekend house on Lake Hartwell, owns a condo on Edisto Island, has pictures of a yacht on his desk, and lives in a gated community. He spent a month in Europe last year with his family.”
“Sammy down in receiving said something about marrying money. His wife must be rich.”
“Maybe.” Bo yawned. “I may not be able to afford a condo, but summer’s coming. What say after we wrap up here we go away somewhere? We don’t have to go hiking if you don’t want to. Pick a place. I still owe you a getaway. Do you like the beach?”
“I love the beach. Only, don’t you have to check in with Walter when you go anywhere? I did.”
Bo wriggled, pulling a few of Lucky’s chest hairs in the process. Lucky, too satisfied to complain, merely shifted a bit. “I have to give two weeks’ notice whenever I plan to leave the state. And Walter doesn’t ask too many questions.”
The door stood open. Lucky walked through. “What’re the terms of your deal with Walter, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Bo rolled his head back to stare Lucky in the eyes. “Why would I mind? You have a right to know.”
“I do?”
“You’re my partner, aren’t you?”
Lucky started to mouth off an automatic protest before clueing in that Bo might mean simply a work type partner. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
The corner of Bo’s mouth lifted enough to form the fascinating dimple in his cheek. “I’m on two years’ probation, yet don’t really feel like it. I kept my pharmacist license, draw a paycheck, pay my own rent, and do pretty much what I want. On the down side, I get drug tested regularly and keep Walter up to date on my whereabouts. Pretty good trade if you askme. I can’t leave the country, though, in case you’d like to see Mexico.”
Sheesh. He got off easy.
Good thing he’d only gotten probation. Lucky’d been given a ten year sentence for his crimes and not even his own name on his lease. “Have you thought about what to do after your time is up?” Two years wasn’t very long, with nearly a year already gone.
“Yes, I have. Probation or no, I realize I have a drug problem. I’m still a part of the Pharmacist Recovery Network.”
They hadn’t talked much about Bo’s counseling sessions. Every so often Lucky ate supper alone, Bo coming over later if his session wasn’t too rough. Sometimes he liked to get away by himself afterward. Lucky simply waited until Bo came back. He’d always come back—so far. “Why? You’re not doing anything wrong, are you?” Yeah, and not too long ago, he’d been ready himself to accuse Bo of a relapse.
“No, and I want to keep it that way. I don’t have a bad job with Walter, and the two of you keeping an eye on me gives me added incentive to stay on the straight and narrow.”
“What are you saying?”
“That when my time is up, if Walter asks me, I might stay on. Will that be a problem?”
In light of Bo’s plans, the remaining year might prove to be a very long time after all. What if someone at work made an issue about them? While Lucky made no secret of his orientation, he didn’t wave a rainbow flag at work either. Most of the department already considered him an evil to be avoided. However, it seemed everyone liked Bo. Would they sneer at him behind his back if his being gay became common knowledge? Lucky would hate to aggravate Walter by ripping off the heads of bigoted assholes.
Lucky deserved to be shunned, he’d earned the right. Bo didn’t.
Crash!
came from next door. Bo jumped up, whipping his head toward the sound. “I have a lovely,
quiet
apartment across town. We could go there, let your neighbors party to their heart’s content.”
There was that. Only, Lucky wasn’t about to let some asshole with a loud stereo win. “I’m comfortable. Don’t wanna move.”
“That music’s blasting more than eighty-five decibels. We might wind up with hearing loss.”
Lucky wrapped an arm around Bo’s shoulders, dragging him back down. “The noise keeps the bugs out. They don’t like it either.” He turned off the bedside lamp, falling asleep quickly despite the ruckus.
Bo woke him up before sunrise for a ride back to his place, the only time of day Lucky could count on the neighbors settling down. Before leaving, he turned his stereo to full volume, setting his iPod to play Kenny Chesney’s “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy” on continuous loop. It being Saturday, Lucky hoped they’d planned to sleep in.
“Remind me never to piss you off,” Bo told him.

After dropping Bo off at his apartment, Lucky pulled into the parking lot at the center, to be greeted by an angry woman carrying a handlettered sign. “We want our hero back!”

Lucky pushed his way through a crowd of picketers. At least two news vans sat parked on the hospital lawn. “What the hell’s going on?” he asked one of the more rational-looking bannerwavers.

“Danvers did what he had to do to get drugs for these sick kids. The hospital fired him. It isn’t right.”
Lucky wanted to ask, “And it’s right for your insurance company to pay six hundred bucks for something that should cost seven?” but, under Bo’s influence, he’d learned to pick his battles.
“That new guy, he won’t do one damned thing,” sign-woman whined. “I’ll bet he’s the one got Danvers fired, wanting his job.”
“There he is!” Banner-waver cried. So much for being rational.
Bo, probably unaware of the impending ambush, stepped out of his SUV into a swirling shit storm. Several protesters spotted him and surged in his direction. Lucky shouted, “Hey! There’s Danvers!” and pointed toward the front of the building. Grabbing Bo, he hauled ass toward the receiving door, dragging his lover along with him.
“What the fuck’s going on, Lucky?”
Lucky pulled Bo into a store room. “They’re out for your blood. They believe you had something to do with Danvers getting sacked. Whatever happened in the boardroom yesterday promoted him to martyr. The situation is out of our control, I’m calling in the big guns.
“Get me those samples and disappear into your office. Stay there until I come for you.” Lucky pulled the door closed and sweptBo into his arms. “I know I don’t make it easy at times, but you gotta trust me on this.”
Bo nodded, straightening to his full height. For a moment Lucky pictured him in a Marine uniform. Damned impressive vision. PTSD might have cost the man some confidence, but with jaw clenched and gaze hard as steel, Lucky saw it lurking beneath the surface. He escorted Bo as far as the elevator, not encountering a soul. A two-person crew ran receiving on weekends. Chances were they didn’t want to cross the picket lines.
It took a good stiff arm, a few threats, and bit of growling, but Lucky made it back to the Malibu. He called Walter en route to his apartment. “Walter, it’s gone to shit. I’m taking drastic measures.”
“We’re on our way.”
Lucky stormed past Shirtless Guy, taking the steps two at a time up to his apartment.
Ba-boom, ba-boom
thumped through the walls, drowning out his country music revenge. He ripped off his T-shirt and reached into the back of the closet for his equivalent of a superhero’s costume—a navy blue golf shirt emblazoned with “SNB.” He adjusted the matching cap in front of the bathroom mirror. A pissed-off man he barely recognized stared back at him, one mean-looking mother-fucker. During his years with the bureau he’d seldom worn his uniform, pushing the limits of the office dress code and letting others believe he hated the trappings of his job. His love for a few sewn scraps of cotton was a secret he’d take with him to his grave. To the rest of the department, the issued clothing merely marked them as the good guys when on assignment. Lucky’s navy blues were a badge of honor he’d earned the hard way. And when he put them on, he fucking meant business.
A holster and .38 completed the outfit, the gun’s weight against his side a comforting presence. Lucky lived to buck the system on most matters, but when it came to firearms, he’d take tradition over newer, faster, shinier. Restricted from firearms during his sentence, the gun, more so than the badge, marked him as a full-fledged member of Walter Smith’s team.
He ran his fingers over the symbol of his status with the SNB. Even if he hadn’t favored a Smith and Wesson, he’d carry the gun anyway.
The felon Lucky Lucklighter died, birthing agent Simon “Lucky” Harrison. An oddly wrapped package greeted Simon his first day on the job. He’d torn off the garish paper to discover the .38. No card declared “From Walter Smith.” Lucky didn’t need one.
Before heading downstairs, he paused to beat on his neighbor’s door.
The same guy as before answered. “I done told you, asshole—” He stopped, eyes trained on Lucky’s scowl and rolling upward to the emblem on Lucky’s hat, then down to the gun.
“And I’m telling you. If I ever catch your music up loud again, I’m coming back with a search warrant and some friends.”
“Go right ahead. You won’t find nothing.”
Lucky studied the nervous tick above the guy’s eye, how he drummed his fingers against the doorframe. Oh yeah, somewhere in apartment 7B lay a drug dog’s “Attaboy” waiting to happen. “Who you trying to convince? Me or you?” He winked and sauntered away. He added “anonymous tip to Anderson PD” to his “to do” list.
While the SNB may not be as familiar to some folks as the FBI or DEA, an emblem, kickass attitude, and a badge opened a lot of doors, or rather, parted a lot of demonstrators. No one stopped Lucky on his way across the center’s parking lot, through the supply department, and up to the top floor. Of course, the Smith and Wesson strapped to his side probably helped.
He found the assistant buyer’s office with no trouble.
“Lucky, thank God!” Bo exclaimed from his desk. His hair stood at odd angles, his fingers no doubt having run through the messy strands the entire morning. Bo eyed Lucky up and down. His mouth dropped open. “I’ve forgotten how bad-assed you look decked out.” At the office in Atlanta, Lucky normally dressed casually, and Bo dressed up. Bo added with a bit of a leer, “I think I like it.”
Lucky acknowledged the compliment with a slight nod, and too much warmth creeping though his insides. “I felt the need to take things up a notch. Do you have access to Danvers’s office?”
“Yes.”
“Good, take me there.” He followed Bo down two doors, to an office far more opulent than Bo’s. Lucky practically smelled money oozing from the room. A laptop computer sat on the desk. He’d leave any electronics for Keith and his techie buddies back in Atlanta.
He told Bo, “Get back to work, do what you do. I’m gonna have myself a little looksee until the cavalry arrives.”
Bo hesitated. “Lucky?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry I called you cold.”
Oh. That. “You only told the truth.”
“But I didn’t have to say it out loud. That’s rude.” Bo let a hint of a smile leak through his worry, and slipped out of the door before Lucky managed a comeback.
“All alone in a roomful of secrets,” Lucky muttered. Now to root them out. He started with the file cabinets, containing the hospital’s licenses, and those for vendor licenses. All up to date, no restrictions. Oops. They’d better get Danvers’s name removed as manager-in-charge.
He checked the desk, extracting an envelope from Primero Care. His pulse quickened as he pulled out a glossy green brochure. The first ten pages listed available drugs, “prices available upon request.”
Uhhuh. Sure they’re legit
. He skimmed the offerings and whistled. Most of the items from the current FDA shorted list resided in Primero’s warehouse, or so they claimed. Page after page of hard to find drugs, all available for immediate shipment—at the right price. The last page contained a letter, signed by Olivia Cunningham, CEO.
He located a phone listing on Danvers’s desk and dialed Bo’s extension.
“Find something?” Bo asked.
“Who are you dealing with at Primero Care?”
“A salesman named Rick, why?”
“Have you ever heard of a woman named Olivia Cunningham?”
“Sure. That’s Danvers’s wife.”

The cabinet doors stood open, a pair of rookies Lucky barely recognized loading down boxes to take to Atlanta. If so much as a Postit note contained the name “Primero Care” it counted as evidence.

Keith sat at the desk, pecking a way at Danvers’s laptop. Why the fuck bring the asshole to Lucky and Bo’s party? Walter could easily have taken the computer back to Atlanta.