Diversion 2 - Collusion (19 page)

Coffee.
Sniff.
Shampoo.
Sniff
. Bo’s cologne. A car door slammed outside. Lucky opened one bleary eye. Damn, he’d hoped to be up to at least say goodbye, but maybe this way worked better. Lately he’d been having dangerous thoughts, and last night’s wanting Bo to stay more nights, or more precisely, every night, quite frankly scared the hell out of him.

He grabbed the crutches propped by the bed and lurched out to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. While his foot and ankle still throbbed occasionally, duty called. A cup sat by the coffeemaker, white crystals in the bottom. Lucky poured a cup of brew, staring out the window at what promised to be a warm day.

It took him longer than normal to get dressed, and he’d never before worn shorts to the office, but he simply couldn’t get pants on over the cast. Oh well, “the team” would just have to freaking get over it. He wrestled on his laptop backpack. Why hadn’t he asked Bo to take the darned thing? Was it always this heavy? Oh, yeah. Asking Bo would’ve meant Bo knowing Lucky’s intentions. Which would have led to a fight.
Damn it, I’m beat up, not at death’s door.

It took several minutes to arrange his casted leg in the floorboard of his car. He experimented driving on his own street before daring heavier traffic. Somehow he managed to make it to work without incident.

No one witnessed his staggering journey from car to elevator, and he sagged against the walls on the ride up. Coming in this morning wasn’t one of his better ideas.

“Good morning, Mr. Harrison,” the perky receptionist greeted him. “Good to have you back.” She smiled. At him. People didn’t smile at Lucky, they frowned or glowered.

Good to have me back? Who’s she fucking kidding?
Too tired to growl properly, Lucky bobbed his head in the receptionist’s direction and set off down the hall toward his cube.

“You’re not supposed to be here.” Bo glared across the distance separating their two desks.
“I have work to do.” Lucky supposed he’d sound more assertive if he weren’t struggling to stay upright.
Bo’s unrelenting gaze dared Lucky to argue. “I could have brought anything you needed to your house.”
Lucky shrugged as best he could, weighted down with a computer bag and awkwardly braced on his crutches. “I’m here now.”
“Yes, you are.” Bo glanced from Lucky’s desk to Lucky and back again. He dragged his fingers through his hair and let out a resigned huff that couldn’t quite drown out the “Stubborn asshole,” he muttered under his breath. After a moment of obvious indecision, he rounded his desk, grabbed the crutches, and propped them against the wall. Lucky welcomed Bo’s steadying hand on his arm.
“Let me catch you up,” Bo continued, snaking an arm around Lucky’s waist and directing him across the floor. “We searched Dr. Grayson’s house and found more of the imported drugs. He’s in hiding right now, but not our problem anymore. The federal boys are after him.”
“Well damn.” Lucky’d love to hunt the bastard down himself. A few questions needed answering.
“The funny thing is, we’ve gone over his financial records. He doesn’t appear to have profited from the sale of those drugs.”
What?
“Then why do it? Why risk getting busted if he didn’t stand to gain anything?” Lucky leaned against his desk, allowing Bo to remove the backpack.
“Remember what I told you in the conference room? Doctors take an oath for their patients, Lucky. He’s not the only doctor to take desperate measures.” Lucky watched Bo set up the laptop, exactly where he normally placed it. “The rest are luckier and get off with a fine and a slap on the wrist ’cause nobody died. Everyone I talked to at Rosario was shocked. They said the man was a saint who’d do anything for his patients. He even volunteered his off time. I honestly don’t believe he’s the kind to make a profit off someone else’s suffering. And yet Danvers exploited every opportunity. I don’t get it.”
A lot of things didn’t make sense when it came to illicit drugs. Bo would learn in time, as Lucky had. “Reckon we’d find a connection between Grayson and Danvers, if we look hard enough?”
“No telling. I wish we’d gotten to him sooner. The four kids who died were all Grayson’s patients.”
Lucky swallowed hard, wondering about Steph, but not wanting to ask Bo for fear of what the answer might be. He’d rather not make Bo the bearer of bad news. “Any leads yet on his connections?”
“Not yet. No telling where the day might lead, though it’s not officially our case anymore.”
With Bo’s help, Lucky hobbled around his desk, scowling down at an unfamiliar chair. “Where’s the Hell Bitch?”
“Keith’s out of the office. I switched with him. I figured you’d be stubborn enough to come in this morning, and the last thing you need is to fall over with a broken leg. Your balance might be off because of the cast.”
Lucky grumbled, more because he believed Bo expected it than anything else. In truth, he liked having Bo on his side. And if Keith returned unexpectedly and found himself sprawled on the floor, far be it from Lucky not to laugh. The asshole had some humbling coming, in Lucky’s opinion. Still, he didn’t like the idea of resting his hiney in Keith’s ass-print. Hmm… Maybe he’d order tacos for lunch. With a side of beans. “Thanks,” he said, easing down into the chair.
Bo nodded in reply. He upended an empty trashcan to prop Lucky’s cast on before returning to his own desk. Lucky had no idea what he’d done to deserve the man. Back turned, Bo couldn’t see Lucky mouth, “Thanks.”
The first thing Lucky did after booting up his laptop was email Walter for a list of the patients who’d died.
He started his morning as he usually did, checking FDA, DEA, and Board of Pharmacy websites for current news, unsurprised to find a blurb about the meds they’d uncovered at the mill. A headline for a local paper read, “US Doctors Buying Unapproved Drugs.” He expected to read about his and Bo’s case, but instead found what Walter had alluded to—that nearly eighty medical practices had been caught importing cancer drugs from Turkey, China, and other countries. Had they lost their minds? What made a doctor take such risks?
“Patients are dying. We can’t get medicines through normal channels. Of course we’re desperate enough to try anything,”
the article quoted an unnamed physician.Bo’d said pretty much the same thing.
Lucky read the article twice and searched online for similar posts, appalled at the sheer extent of the problem.
“I’m giving my patients a chance,”
another anonymous source provided. Is that how Grayson saw the situation? Him giving his patients a chance? What kind of world did Lucky live in where doctors risked jail terms to save the folks under their care? What kind of world made such extremes measures necessary?
Lucky compiled a list of clinics and established routes of the mentioned drugs into the US. While some imports proved effective, if unapproved for US use through the FDA, others amounted to colored water, or worse, did more harm than good.
“I’ve been thinking about Danvers,” Bo said, spinning his chair to face Lucky. “I trusted him. I defended him when other people accused him of wrongdoing. I considered him a hero for getting those kids the medicines they needed, even if he broke hospital rules to do it. And all this time he’d been serving his own interests. I’m such a fool.”
“You’re not a fool, you’re just too trusting.”
“Same difference.” Bo snorted. “I wish I could be more like you and not trust anybody.”
Not trust anybody? Lucky reeled. Is that how Bo saw him? Completely untrusting? And Bo wanted to be like him? The man simply wouldn’t be the same without his trusting nature. Yes, it got him into trouble sometimes, but Lucky wouldn’t wish his suspicious nature on anybody. “Don’t say that. It’s part of who you are. After a while on this job, you’ll learn who you can trust and who you can’t.”
Bo gave a little halfsmile and humorless laugh. “Until then I have you to keep me straight. Remind me to listen to you next time you tell me not to trust someone.” He darted a gaze toward the entrance of their cube and wheeled his chair across the floor to close the gap between them. “You may be stubborn and hard to get along with, but you have a good heart.”
“I do not!” Lucky snapped. “Don’t even start that rumor.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.” Bo winked. “Although I’m sure Walter’s figured it out by now. I’m convinced Walter knows everything.”
The words gave Lucky pause. Exactly how much did Walter know, and what did he plan to do with that knowledge?
“Anyway,” Bo retreated back to his own desk, “what’s going to happen to Danvers now?”
“Not a damned thing.”
“What?” Bo nearly toppled over onto the floor, even without the Hell Bitch’s help.
“Not a damned thing, Bo. He didn’t do anything illegal, just immoral, and he’s already paid for being greedy with his job.” Damn, how the asshole’s double-dealing boiled Lucky’s blood. He wanted the bastard to lose everything. No telling how many innocent people suffered while he’d shuffled goods back and forth, lining his family’s pockets. Lucky would do his damnedest to make sure Primero Care lost their license, but until the anti-gray market bill passed, there wasn’t much anyone could do. Sometimes laws protected the innocent, sometimes the guilty. He could dog their heels, however, and arrange extremely regular inspections.
Bo’s gaze fell to Lucky’s desk. “You don’t have any coffee,” he stated flatly. “Let me go get you some.”
It suddenly occurred to Lucky that Bo’s willingness to do for others actually served as a way to escape scrutiny, have a little private time to collect his thoughts. How many times had he done the same before and Lucky hadn’t recognized the evasiveness for a distancing technique?
He recalled a park bench in Florida, the first time they kissed, followed by Bo’s abrupt departure. And not long ago, Bo’s frantic phone call when he’d learned of the first deaths. He’d delivered his news and taken off, leaving Lucky baffled. More examples came to mind of Bo’s sudden disappearances.
The pieces fell into place. Whenever upset, confused, or in need of comfort, Bo ran away instead. Why? Was he afraid of what Lucky might say?
In Lucky’s younger days, he’d turned to his family in times of trouble. Having grown up in an abusive household with a father too ready to find fault, Bo probably learned to hide. Damn. Bo admitted to being wrong. Had his father beaten him for being wrong? More than likely. Lucky’s own family merely laughed off mistakes or doled out extra chores, but they’d rallied around each other in times of sickness or pain. That is, until most of them turned their backs.
Lucky climbed unsteadily to his feet, determined to find Bo. Crap! Why did Bo put his crutches so far away? He hopped over to the far wall, checking to ensure no witnesses before tottering down the hall.
He ducked into the kitchen/break area. No Bo, but a fresh pot of coffee brewed, showing he’d probably been there.
Next, he checked the men’s room—still no Bo. About to return to his cube or go ask Walter for Bo’s whereabouts, he noticed a conference room door slightly ajar. Through the crack he spotted his quarry, staring out over the Atlanta skyline. In the distance stood Stone Mountain. Lucky’d visited there as a kid, awed by the carving of Robert E. Lee, Stonewall Jackson, and Jefferson Davis, heroes of the confederacy.
Bo hunched his shoulders at the
tap, tap
of Lucky’s crutches, not that sneaking up was even possible. Lucky closed the door and crossed the floor at an unsteady gait. He’d never take the simple act of walking for granted again. Balancing on one foot, he set the crutches aside and wrapped his arms around Bo.
Bo relaxed into the embrace, letting out a shuddering breath. “I suck at this kind of work,” he said. “I always manage to get taken in by the bad guys. Back in the military, while I may not actually have liked or fully agreed with my commanding officers, they were on the up and up. I accepted their orders without question. In the civilian world, rank doesn’t necessarily mean integrity. I need to learn to question everything, like you do.”
“You give everyone an equal chance. Me? To me they’re guilty, even if they prove otherwise.”
Bo sighed. “Aren’t we a pair? The man who trusts everyone and the man who trusts no one.”
“I trust you,” Lucky said without thinking.
Bo patted Lucky’s hand. “Thanks.”
I trust him?
Bo, who charged to the rescue when Lucky was lost, who knew all Lucky’s big ugly secrets, put up with all forms of bullshit and kept coming back.
Yes, I trust him
. When had that happened? He nuzzled Bo’s neck, breathing in his lover’s scent.
Of course you trust him. You love him,don’t you?
Lucky stiffened. Love. Squirmy, uncomfortable feelings moved into his gut.
Yes, I love him, and I trust him.
And he trusts everybody. Even me.
Lucky knew his track record for trustworthiness sucked. Now, though, he couldn’t love someone and let them down, but—he hadn’t let Bo down yet, had he? Not even when that jerkoff tried to run Bo over with a big ass SUV during the Ryerson Pain Clinic bust last winter. Not letting Bo down had nearly gotten Lucky killed, but he hadn’t even thought about dying, he’d simply used himself and a highly unfortunate Mazda as a battering ram. And if he’d bought the big one doing it, it would’ve been okay. Because it was for Bo.
And Bo was here now, bleeding at the heart for innocent kids and tracking Lucky when he’d gone missing. Because—
Damn it, don’t go reading too much into what Bo did, he trusted people, he was good to people, he
— But he had to care back, didn’t he?
How the hell am I supposed to figure this one out?
Maybe all this crap would sort itself if Lucky could just accept for more than seventeen heart-wrenching seconds that he could love Bo. A guy shouldn’t have to stare a rampaging Tahoe in the grill to admit caring, damn it.
If he cared, then he’d want Bo to care, too. Nobody cared about Lucky, not even his family. Except for Charlotte. She loved Lucky still, the poor misguided girl. And maybe, for all the ways Bo seemed to have his head screwed on wrong at times, his neck was cricked just right to see what others missed. ’Cause Lucky sure as hell didn’t deserve a happy ever after.
But Bo did deserve one.
I love this man. And it scares the everliving hell out of me.
Instead of saying any one of the many things he should have, Lucky remained quiet, head tucked between Bo’s shoulder blades. Bo’s heart beat against Lucky’s ear, the steady rhythm of his breathing playing a lulling melody. For one moment in time nothing could intrude. Victor and years spent in prison didn’t exist, the SNB didn’t exist. Nothing mattered but Bo, staring out a window at a sunny day.
The tension bled out of Bo, and he nestled more snugly in Lucky’s arms. “I’m okay now. Let’s go get your coffee and do what they pay us to.” He turned and gave Lucky a quick kiss. “Thanks.”
“For what? I didn’t do anything.”
“Sometimes, being there is enough.” Bo slipped from the conference room before Lucky could ask any more questions. He stopped by the kitchen for coffee, leaving Lucky to navigate the halls on his own.
With a weary sigh Lucky dropped down in front of his computer, noticing he’d gotten an answer from Walter. Holding his breath and uttering a silent prayer, he clicked open the email. His heart stopped when he found the name, “Stephanie Owens,” topping the list of victims. Oh dear God, no!
He blinked hard, hoping he’d misread. But no. The name didn’t change.
A quick Google search produced a newspaper obituary column. Smiling at him from a full color photo was the little girl he remembered, face framed by auburn curls. In her arms she held a black-and-white cat.