Diversion 2 - Collusion (5 page)

Even leaving a half-hour early put him in the middle of bumper-to-bumper rush hour traffic. He beat his hand against the steering wheel, eyeing the high occupancy vehicle lane. Did he dare attempt to remain unnoticed with only one in his car? Surely the cops wouldn’t buy “Work emergency” again, and even if they did, would Walter cover for him, if asked? Lucky stayed in the right lane, with all the other single riders fighting their way into the city of Atlanta.

He detoured by Starbucks for another cup of Joe, his go-cup only lasting halfway through his commute. When he opened his mouth to order, out came, “I’ll have a decaf green tea and a decaf black coffee. Nah, no sweetener. I got my own at the office.” Why the hell had he ordered tea? Oh, well, no time to think about that now.

Bo’s Dodge Durango sat in the parking garage by the time Lucky arrived at the high rise where he spent his days when not on assignment. No doubt they’d both be in Walter’s office soon. What had boss man planned for them this time? Just his luck, Lucky would wind up in Alabama at some godforsaken drug manufacturer, while Bo pushed pills at a pharmacy in Virginia. Between a lengthy hospital stay and an extended vacation while the world believed Lucky dead, they hadn’t gotten to spend a whole lot of time together. As his sister Charlotte would say,
“The key to a good relationship is communication and quality time.”
Only, Bo and Lucky weren’t in a relationship, and Charlotte’s love life, if possible, sucked worse than Lucky’s—up until now.

No one roamed the department halls that early on a Friday. Many probably assumed “casual Friday” meant “get here whenever you please,” the slackers. Strange, though. The perky blonde receptionist wasn’t usually late, and where the hell was Bo? Lucky placed the tea on the opposite desk and rambled through drawers, hunting tiny green packs. Bingo! He tore two open and poured the contents into his cup, leaving Bo to fend for himself.

Now, now, that’s not nice,
he imagined his sis saying
.
He sweetened Bo’s cup as well, for whatever good it’d do if the man weren’t around to drink the stuff before it got cold.

An envelope lay face up on Bo’s desk, addressed to William Patrick Schollenberger III. William Patrick? Bo’s name was William Patrick? The third?

At a quiet “A -hem” he glanced up to find Bo leaning against the wall of their shared cubicle. A dimple appeared in one cheek when he smiled. God, how Lucky loved The Dimple. Bo’s gaze dropped to the Starbucks cup. “That for me?”

Damn. Busted. For some reason, being caught sweetening Bo’s tea made the act of buying it for him seem more intimate. He might get the idea that Lucky actually cared instead of simply intended to return a favor. “Umm…yeah. You made coffee for me this morning. I figured I’d do a little turnabout.”

“Thanks.” Bo took the cup from Lucky’s hand and sipped from the foul-smelling concoction.“Walter sent me to find you. We’re having a meeting in his office.”

“Oh, really?” Walter Smith took organization to new heights. Trouble must be brewing for him to call a meeting without announcing days in advance and scheduling on Lucky’s electronic calendar—not that Lucky’d checked his calendar recently. “I reckon I better get moving.” When Walter beckoned, Lucky followed—usually.

Bo stood his ground when Lucky approached to squeeze through the open doorway of their cube, forcing bodily contact. His smileescalated to a grin and he whispered, “
Dinner
last night was awesome, Lucky. Can we do it again tonight, and maybe include actual food this time?” He turned and drifted down the hall a few steps, tossing a coy glance over his shoulder. By the time he reached Walter’s office door he’d returned to business mode.

Lucky watched Bo walk away, reliving highlights from the previous night. After a discreet package rearrangement, he took a deep draft of his coffee and made his way to his boss’s office.

The moment he opened the door, all hell broke loose. “Surprise! Happy Birthday!” The blonde receptionist rushed forward, attempting to place a cardboard party hat on Lucky’s head. Thank God, Keith didn’t appear to be filming the fiasco.

Bo’s restraining hand on her ar m saved the woman from Lucky’s wrath. “Not a good idea,” he told her. The blonde’s smile wavered a moment before she began Act II of Lucky’s worst nightmare, leading roughly a dozen people in singing, “Happy Birthday, dear Simon!”

If a situation ever arose where Lucky needed to fake his death—again—he damned sure planned to choose his own alias. Billy or Bobby or something easily forgettable. He hated the fuck out of “Simon.” Someone probably woke up laughing every morning at having named him that. Fucker.

Acid rose in his throat. Coworkers who hardly ever spoke to him wished him well because he’d turned another year older. Keith hovered on the sidelines, chatting with Art, one of the few other agents Lucky tolerated—barely. When the receptionist finally heeded Bo’s warnings to find safety before Lucky exploded, he discovered the true reason for the gathering—cake. These folks were too easy, their goodwill bought with a bit of frosting or a box labeled “Krispy Kreme.” He cut his eyes toward Bo, wondering what Mr. My-body-is-a-temple-sugar-shall-not-enter would say about Lucky diving into the garishly decorated monstrosity face first.

Much better ways existed to expend excess calories, and none of them involved leaving the house.
Bo wandered away, flitting from group to group. A smile here, a well-timed laugh there, had the mindless sheep eating from the guy’s hand. As yet, the rumor mill hadn’t spewed anything about the two of them, and Lucky planned to keep it that way. What was he thinking, getting involved with a coworker?
Someone handed Lucky a paper plate that might have had a piece of cake on it. He didn’t check. Instead he watched Bo raising a fork to his mouth and sliding a tiny bite of the confection inside. His tongue snaked out to capture a stray bit of frosting
. Oh, baby, I got a place you can lick frosting off of.
In ones and twos the assembled began to leave. Lucky turned to join them until Walter reminded him, “I need to talk to you and Bo.”
Lucky fell back and allowed his coworkers to slowly migrate out of the office,
mmmm
-ing and
hmmm
-ing on a sugar high. After the last retreated, only Bo, Lucky, and Walter remained.
“Have a seat,” Walter instructed, helping himself to a huge slab of cake. He settled into his chair, as gingerly as a man of his size could. At six foot six, and approximately three hundred twenty pounds, he towered over Lucky, who often joked about Walter being square, in more ways than one. Six-six by sixsix. But he’d been one hell of a field agent in his day, and wasn’t too bad as a boss, though Lucky would die before admitting respect for the man out loud.
“Happy Birthday, Lucky…I mean, Simon,” Walter paused between bites long enough to say.
Lucky placed his untouched piece of cake on the edge of Walter’s desk and slumped down into one of two adjacent chairs on the other side of the desk. Bo sat beside him.
“You should try it.” Walter gestured to the neglected plate with a plastic fork. “Caramel mocha. Amazing!” He moaned and inhaled another forkful.
If left up to Lucky, “Simon” wouldn’t get a cake either. What the fuck was it with some people and birthdays? Who needed reminding about growing a year older? Or another snubbing by parents and brothers? Not that they could acknowledge the day now if they wanted to—they believed him dead. Only Charlotte deserved the truth, truth rewarded with a card and pictures.
“You wanted us,” Lucky prodded, eyeing the clock on Walter’s desk. He’d better things to do with his time than watch the boss eat.
“Ah, yes. I know you keep up with the latest news, and are likely fully aware of the current drug shortage situation.”
He’d seen the headlines at the FDA and Board of Pharmacy websites, more and more products joining the shorted list each week. And he’d heard enough out of Charlotte about the hospital where she worked begging, borrowing, and ready to resort to stealing to keep their pharmacy shelves stocked. A series of unlucky events crippled several large US drug manufacturers, cutting production by as much as seventy-five percent, while demand grew. The problem seemed to happen overnight. Digging out of the hole might take years. Opportunists like Goose, Ferret, and Christy added to the problem.
“Some headway’s being made, ain’t it?” Lucky asked.
“Yes, but a few critical cancer drugs are nearly unobtainable, which leads to your next assignment. Are you familiar with the Rosario Children’s Cancer Center in Anderson, South Carolina?”
Bo piped up, “They’ve got ads on TV. They’re pretty famous.”
Walter nodded. “Yes, they’re the leading pediatric cancer facility in the southeastern US, which is the primary reason they’re being targeted by unscrupulous wholesalers.”
Lucky sipped his coffee, now cold, before adding his voice. “The drugs’re in short supply and buzzards are circling, offering what they need at inflated prices. Am I right?”
“In a nutshell.” Walter polished off the last of his cake and ran a fingertip across the plate to gather remaining frosting. Lucky would happily have gone to his grave without a visual of Walter sucking on a fleshy digit.
“But gray markets aren’t illegal. Unethical, but not illegal.” At one time Bo quoting textbooks pissed Lucky off. Now that passionate conviction inspired urges to the grab the man and haul him off somewhere private. Bo leaned forward in his chair, looking ready to do battle with the bastards who’d dare make a profit from someone else’s suffering.
“At the moment, you’re correct.” Walter gave his finger a final lick. “Recent legislation hopes to challenge the practice. Until the bill passes into law,
reselling
is legal. However deeply the moral issue may affect us as people, as agents, we’re restricted to finding who sources these entities and ensuring the necessary drugs remain within the legitimate supply chain. Failing our primary goal, we determine if the products are safe for human consumption.”
Lucky’s resume included working for an outfit nestled deep in the heart of the gray market, and he’d diverted his share of meds from the “legitimate supply chain.” He’d also served time for that, mostly under Walter’s supervision. Now he kept others from succeeding where he’d fucked up. A dirty job, but one Lucky took to like a duck to water. If you wanted to catch a thief, you had to think like one. Lucky
was
one.
“Bo, on Monday, you’ll begin your training as an assistant pharmacy buyer at Rosario.”
“But I don’t have experience as a buyer. I only dispense meds,” Bo replied.
“Right now you’re in training, putting you close enough to the senior buyer to be contacted by dodgy wholesalers. I want the names of any cold-call contacts—addresses, phone numbers, licenses.” Walter reared back in his chair, folding his hands over his generous flashing bits expected one of the buttons to pop off at any second. “We’re working in cooperation with the hospital administrator. However, the senior buyer isn’t aware of who you are.”
“Is he under suspicion?”
“At this point, anyone with any access to the supply chain of the center is under suspicion.”
“But if the drugs are in short supply, shouldn’t we do whatever it takes, at whatever cost, to get them?” Bo’s voice rose a bit higher, well on the way to righteous indignation. The rookie still had a lot to learn.
At a nod from Walter, Lucky explained, “In the gray market, there’s no telling where the drugs have been. Some states have enacted pedigree laws to track a drug from manufacturer to end user. Ryerson’s was nowhere near as bad as it gets.” Bo and Lucky had first teamed up to take down an unscrupulous supplier who’d changed lot numbers and expiration dates and resold outdated, lowpotency drugs as the real thing. “Certain life-saving drugs turn to poison in the wrong environment, too hot or too cold, and people like Ryerson only care about the bottom line, not quality.”
Walter picked up where Lucky left off. “With high demand generics, you normally have several manufacturers to choose from. If one facility shuts down, or suffers manufacturing problems, the others pick up the production. Cancer drugs aren’t produced in the same quantities as, say, over-thecounter cough syrup, and they’re belly. His crisply pressed dress shirt stretched, of T-shirt where the front gaped open. Lucky difficult to manufacture. Only a handful of companies in this country produce them, and many of those are branded, singlesource items. Due to a variety of different causes, several manufacturers suddenly found themselves unable to keep up with orders.”
Walter glanced from Bo to Lucky and back again before continuing. “Not only are we at risk of gray market sellers, doctors have become desperate, illegally importing products, some legal in other countries, but not approved for use here. And some are counterfeits. At Rosario, you’ll be in a key position to find out who contacts them.”
“What about me?” Lucky asked. He and Bo had shared a house during their last joint assignment. Sleeping in the same bed every night without navigating the awkward “want me to stay?” dance worked for Lucky. “You called me in here, so I guess I’m involved in this, too.”
“As before, you’ll be the go between, since Bo will be high profile. You’ll be his contact, though not openly, working in shipping and receiving. Keep a record of any suspicious deliveries.” Walter slid two manila envelopes across the desk, one toward Lucky, one toward Bo. “As usual, Keith provides surveillance. Whatever you need, he’ll handle it.”
Should Lucky mention the wire lying on his bathroom counter back home? Nah. Let the bastard sweat it out a bit longer. Lucky peekedinto his envelope and pulled out a Rosario Children’s Center ID, a South Carolina driver’s license, and a credit card in the name of Reginald Picklesimer. What the fuck? “You’re kidding me, right? Picklesimer? What’d I do to piss off whoever’s in charge of IDs?”
Walter’s lips turned up into a devious smile, more shark than saint. “You? Piss someone off? Never!” He laughed far too long and hard. “I have it on good authority that identities are carefully chosen by location, based on local family names.”
“If I’m trying to keep my head down, don’t you reckon ‘Reginald Picklesimer’ might raise suspicion?
The mirth left Walter’s face. “I’d never let personal feelings endanger one of my agents,” he snipped. His scowl sent prickles racing down Lucky’s spine. Yep. The friendly-looking hound dog still had his bite. “While John Smith would certainly be easily lost among a sea of John Smiths, a local family name brings instant acceptance. And who’d suspect Picklesimer of being a pseudonym?”
Walter did have a point, however— “And what happens when they ask me ‘how’s yo momma an’ dem?’”
Walter graced Lucky with a smile only piranhas might find charming. “Lucky, are you backing away from a challenge?”
Lucky
hurrumphed.
“Okay, if I’m Reginald Picklesimer, who’s Bo?”
Bo dumped his new identity out onto his lap. “Eric Scott,” he read from a badge.
If looks could kill, Walter’s last meal would have been cake.