Page 21 of Suspicion
“I’ll bet you do.” Johnson took a right and slowed the vehicle to a stop at a chain link gate. After a few seconds the door swung open and let them in. The rather modest sign in front of a four-story brick building read, “Chastain Pharmaceuticals.”
“We’re here,” she sing-songed, pulling into a parking spot marked “Visitor.” Not waiting for Bo and Lucky, she hopped out and started across the parking lot to the front door, calling, “Last one out locks the door,” over her shoulder.
Lucky and Bo got out and stood by the Jeep.
Bo placed a hand on Lucky’s arm, keeping him from following Johnson. “I know you’ve heard this too damned much in the last half hour, but are you okay? Is there something you need to talk about? You seem down.”
Lucky stared into the deep brown eyes he’d often lost himself in. “I wish I could. I’ve been asked not to.” Keeping things from Bo caused his insides to lurch, but he’d made a promise.
The tightness around Bo’s mouth and eyes softened. “Will you tell me as soon as you can, and before that if it’s something hurting you?”
“You’ll be the first to know.” If they weren’t standing in the middle of a public parking lot, he’d take a kiss. If only he could talk to Bo, he’d feel better. No matter what kind of bad news Lucky delivered over the years, Bo always found a bright spot, or at least a less gloomy one.
“Hey, you guys coming?” Johnson yelled from the other side of the lot.
“Nope, not coming,” Lucky muttered under his breath. “I’m just breathing hard.”
Bo snorted. “You’re not too bad off if you can still snark.”
Actually, numb and blindsided summed up Lucky’s current feelings. Showtime meant he’d shunt everything else aside and get through the next few hours.
Get shook, get took. Not happening.
He yanked at his tie and followed his team into the squat, butt-ass ugly building he’d seen too much of lately—one of many companies he’d audited over the course of his career. Why did he have to dress up? Especially this early on a freaking Monday. Mondays sucked big time without the help of uncomfortable clothes. He’d started sweating under his suit jacket the moment he’d set foot outside in the Georgia summer heat.
These folks knew how he made his living, and it sure the hell wasn’t by wearing a damned noose around his neck. If anyone found their necks shoved into a noose, he’d do the shoving. Lucky let out a put-upon sigh.
Johnson turned and glared, so much like she did before scolding her son. “Are we boring you, Harrison?”
“Meetings bore me.” However, if Lucky misbehaved, she’d go all Mom on him. Might even drag him by the ear out to the woodshed if she could find one in the middle of Atlanta. She probably had the same hands-on parenting approach as Lucky’s folks, as in:my hand whooping your ass if you don’t act like you got some sense.
Polished in a dark gray suit of her own, minus a tie, Johnson towered over Lucky, heels increasing the inches she stood over him. She clip-clopped up the granite steps and through the door.
The overwhelming essence of cherry cough syrup permeated the place. Or maybe he’d grown accustomed to the way pharmaceutical plants smelled and picked up on a barely-there scent.
They stood in a dome-shaped lobby, glass panels tinted against the sun. Twin couches sat face to face, separated by a polished oak coffee table nearly hidden by an enormous vase of fake roses.
The marble floor made walking quietly impossible. Every inch of the place spoke of money and success.
Johnson stepped up to the reception desk.
Lucky might be senior agent, but he’d let his trainee handle niceties.
Lucky didn’t do niceties.
Much. Diplomacy fit Lucky about as well as his suit did.
Memories came to mind of this same scenario, but with Walter instead of Bo and Johnson. He’d never truly appreciated the boss dealing with the corporate types, sparing Lucky unless absolutely necessary.
A wave of sadness hit him. In his mind he recalled Walter, dressed to the nines, alternately playing Favorite Uncle or Worst Nightmare, depending on the situation. His heart squeezed.
He checked out the lobby while waiting, rocking onto the balls of his feet. Gray walls, gray floors, ridiculous framed motivational posters hanging from the walls.
At least the air conditioning worked.
“We’re here to see Mr. Chastain.” Johnson nodded to the uniformed security guard and flashed her SNB badge.
“I’ll let him know.” The guard picked up the receiver and punched numbers into her desk phone. How the person on the other end of the line understood the near-whisper he’d never know. She hung up. “Someone will come and get you.”
