Corruption (10 page)

Shuffling in the hallway startled Lucky, and he glanced upward. A sweaty vision from his fondest wet dream stood in the doorway of his cubicle, dressed in
a T-shirt and nylon shorts that clung damply to strategic areas, with a towel wrapped round his neck. “Lucky? What are you doing here?”
Bo’s welcoming smile warmed Lucky’s heart, and he rose to meet his lover halfway for a kiss until Bo’s smile fell.
“Sorry, I’ve been to the gym and remembered that I hadn’t watered the plant lately. I forgot to ask anyone to do it while
I’ve been busy with classes.” He crossed the cube in three longs strides and stuck a finger in the dirt of the Christmas cactus
they’d used in lieu of a Christmas tree a year ago. “Huh. Looks like someone’s taken care of it. You didn’t water
it, did you?”

“No,” Lucky admitted. As much as he’d like to take credit for doing something right, he couldn’t. Just his luck a
coworker would pop out of the woodwork, pointing a condemning finger and screaming, “Liar!”

“Oh,” Bo replied. Not
of course you didn’t
, but the accusation rang in Lucky’s head anyway.

“How have you been?”
Have you been lying awake nights, wishing you were with me?

“Okay, I guess. Staying busy. You?” Bo toyed with the shoots of the cactus, keeping his back to Lucky.

“I’ve been better.”

“Lucky, I don’t suppose I ever told you about my grandpa, William Patrick Schollenberger the first, did I?” He regarded Lucky
over his shoulder.

“Not that I recollect.” Of course, when they found time to talk lately, it usually revolved around kink and cases, not family matters.

“He worked as a weaver in the cotton mill for most of his life.”

Lucky nodded. His own grandpa took a turn or two in the cotton mills during bad farming years, and he suffered brown lung to prove it. “Yeah, so
did mine.”

“He used to tell me a story from when he first started, about a sweeper named Andy who’d been with the company for years and knew the
factory inside and out.”

A sweeper occupied the absolute lowest rung on the mill ladder. Most folks worked their way up to better paying jobs. To stay a sweeper implied either a
lack of education or ambition. Probably both.

“Now this man only finished the sixth grade and, in hindsight, probably had a learning disability.”

In other words, back in Grandpa’s time, he’d have been labeled “slow,” or worse.

“One day, Grandpa said this man sat outside the manager’s office most of the morning, insisting he speak to the boss. When the boss
finally showed up, he pushed old Andy out of the way, thinking there was nothing a
retard
could teach him.” A shudder proved the
word’s impact on Bo’s political correctness. “Anyway, Andy wouldn’t take no for an answer, and every day he waited
for the boss. Every day the boss turned him away.”

“I have a feeling this story ends badly,” Lucky said.

Bo answered with a grimace. “Yup. One day the accountant came in, yelling about an audit, and the boss sent a secretary down into the basement
for a box of records.” Bo shuddered again. “They had one of those open elevators, like a cage. Grandpa said she started screaming
before the elevator touched down.” He closed his eyes as if reliving whatever horror befell the secretary.

“And?” Lucky urged.

“And by the time they got her out of there, she’d been bitten four times by copperheads.”

Copperheads. Brrr... Wasn’t a country kid in the South who hadn’t learned from a young age to give the critters wide berth.

“Anyway, the boss called Andy into the office and you could hear the man screaming clear out into the weaving room. Guess what Andy
said.”

“What?”

“‘I been trying to ask you for six weeks what you wanted me to do ‘bout the snakes in the basement.’”

“As amusing as this is, why are you telling me?” Lucky forced a chuckle. “Are you saying I got snakes in my non-existent
basement?”
Is that another way of saying, “You’ve got your head up your ass”?

Bo turned and every trace of emotion fled his face. How’d he do that? He’d never been able to form a poker face before.

“No, the moral of the story is that no matter how dumb or inconsequential you think a person is, he might be trying to tell you something
important. Jameson O’Donoghue gave me a wake-up call. I’ve learned from you, and you’re good, but you can’t teach
me everything. I want what’s in the man’s head, because at the end of the day, I don’t want to be bitten by any
copperheads—the two-legged or the no-legged kind. I have plans for my life that don’t involve dying young on the job because I went
into an assignment unprepared.”

One minute Bo stood by the filing cabinet, the next he kneeled at Lucky’s feet, taking Lucky’s face between his hands.
“I’m at the point in my life where I’d like to settle down, have the house and the dog and maybe even kids.”

Lucky flinched.

Bo lowered his eyes and took a deep breath. Did he even know how tightly he now squeezed Lucky’s face? He murmured, “Yes, Lucky,
I’d like kids. Not today, but someday.”

He didn’t have to sound apologetic, like wanting a life somehow betrayed Lucky. It didn’t, did it?

Bo continued after a moment. “Judging from your reaction, you don’t plan on being the one I walk that road with.”

Huh? “Wait a minute! I never said…”

Bo’s mahogany eyes rose. Lucky noticed tiny flecks of gold concealed in the brown of his irises, but the sadness on his face wasn’t
hidden at all. “You didn’t have to. At least not with words. Every time I try to get closer, take us to the next level, you run.
You’re obviously not ready for whatever comes next, and you may never be. I love you. Nothing’s going to change that. But sometimes
loving someone isn’t enough.” Dark eyes bored into Lucky’s, sorrow peeking out of their depths. “I’m
willing to wait for a while, but not forever. I have dreams. I’d like them to include you, but if we don’t share the same vision of the
future, I won’t try to convince you that you don’t know what’s right for you.”

He placed a far too chaste kiss on Lucky’s brow.

Easier to latch onto the
I love you
by discarding the
but.
“I might not have the right, but can I ask you something?”
Lucky asked.

“Sure, though I can’t promise to answer if you ask me something smart-assed.”

Shit. Once Lucky’d been proud of his asshole reputation. Now a sudden burn of shame heated his cheeks. “The guy you’ve been
hanging out with from class…”

“Owen Landry?”

“Is that his name?”

“Yes, Lucky, that’s his name. Though I’m sure you refer to him as Rookie Boy or something equally unflattering.
Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you refuse to learn people’s names if you don’t consider them important. My
counselor calls that a defense mechanism to keep folks from getting too close.”

“You’ve asked your counselor about me?”

A flash of a half-smile made an appearance. “I might have mentioned you a time or two.”

Interesting. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“What question?”

“About you and what’s-his-name.”

Bo’s scowl told him that wasn’t good enough. Crap. There’d be no moving the man once Bo dug in his heels on a matter.

“Landry, okay? Are you and Landry seeing each other outside of class?”

Bo never batted an eyelash while replying, “Yes.”

Lucky’s heartbeat scudded to a halt. It began again in double time when Bo added, “Do you think so little of me? That I’d ask
for… well…what I asked for one minute, then hop into bed with someone else the next because I didn’t get what I wanted?
Huh? Do you honestly believe I take myself and my commitments lightly?”

“You mean…” God, but the passion flaring in his eyes only made the man more beautiful.

“Lucky, someone once told me they were the best. Well, I want to be the best, too, and sometimes to be the best you have to shove everything else
to the side and keep your eyes on the prize. Right now my goal is to learn everything I can from Jameson O’Donoghue. After that, who knows?
Now…” Bo tried to pull away. Lucky captured his wrists lightly, one in each hand. Bo stiffened and Lucky let go. “Lucky, I
need go back to my apartment and try to get a good night’s sleep. We have a full day of class tomorrow.”

“What now?”
Is it over?

“Now, we pretend good isn’t good enough, and we kick ass and take names. Who knows if one day our lives will depend on it? Look at
you.” Bo nodded toward Lucky’s recently shot shoulder. “With the skills and reflexes I have now, would I have survived in
your place? With more training, could you have kept the situation from escalating to violence?”

Another far too innocent kiss landed on Lucky’s brow. Blowjobs, wild monkey sex in public bathrooms, countless hours spent in every manageable
position. Lucky held his breath. One more kiss and another
I love you
. Just one more. Bo left without another word.

Lucky huddled in his chair. After a while, he gave up waiting for Bo’s return and called up another training video, this one of Bo. After the
first ended, he selected a second and a third. Holy shit. O’Donoghue was on to something. Familiarity blinded Lucky to what a video revealed. Something
special lived in Bo, something that inspired a shudder in Lucky’s inner felon. Like a sharpshooter in an old western, in each training video Bo
carried himself like someone to be reckoned with—if Lucky wasn’t there. Did he really stand in Bo’s way?

But damned how well the man played his roles. He made one hell of an actor; now if he could only learn to lie.

Chapter 7

Lucky entered the conference room where he’d spent the past few weeks and took his normal spot as far away from everyone else as possible. Bo
nodded and offered a fleeting glimpse of smile, a crumb tossed to a starving dog, but nothing compared to the full meal a night spent in Lucky’s
arms would be. Rookie boy… Something-or-Other Landry, took a seat next to Bo. A TV stood in front of the room, but Phillip hadn’t yet
arrived.

O’Donoghue strode in, heading straight for the front. “Good morning, people,” he said in the accent he donned when in
I blend in
mode. He clutched a Starbucks cup in a tight grip. Lucky took a sip from his own cup. The man had good taste in coffee, if nothing else.

“Today’s class is Lying 101.” O’Donoghue turned to face the group, now whittled down to Lucky, Bo,
Whateverhisnamewas, Johnston, and three others who’d matured one hell of a lot in a few short weeks. “The average person lies
about ten times per day. Those may be great big, ‘No, officer I didn’t do it,’ blood on the hands kind of lies, to ones of
the ‘Sure, Honey, I love when your mother visits’ variety. They might be an innocent, ‘I don’t mind’ when
you actually do, to lies meant to save your life. As much as we lie though, without mechanical assistance we can statistically only detect lies about half
the time.” He approached the white board in the corner and scrawled “sweating and fidgeting” on the surface. “Who
can name more giveaways?”

“Incomplete details,” Johnston offered. Her suggestion joined the others on the board.

“Yes,” O’Donoghue replied, “but also bear in mind, giving too many details means a rehearsed story. Anyone
else?”

“Open hostility,” someone called.

“While I agree,” O’Donoghue answered, “when dealing with suspects, defensiveness is par for the course. Anyone
else?”

Lucky ventured, “Failure to make eye contact.”

“Points for Mr. Harrison! Any more?”

Bo added, “Dilated pupils and fluctuations in vocal pitch.” Trust him to recite from a textbook.

“Yes, though those might not be apparent without equipment. C’mon, I know you can think up a few more examples.”

Rook— Landry spoke up. “The suspect keeps stopping to make the next part of his story up.”

O’Donoghue added to the growing list, the felt-tipped marker screeching against the board.

Inconsistencies, words like “basically” or “honestly”, elevated heart rate and blood pressure, and nervous twitches
joined the others.

O’Donoghue put down his marker. “Now,” he said, “the average person can control maybe five of these.” He
pointed toward the board. “A good interrogator can detect many, but not all. Review your notes. Use aliases and other information
you’ve already come up with. Your classmates will ask questions and Phillip will film your responses. We’ll play back the recordings,
looking for red flags.”

Phillip staggered in under the weight of two heavy bags slung over his shoulder and began setting up camera equipment.

“Johnson. Would you mind going first?”

“Not at all.” She blew a kiss to Phillip and took the designated chair, which had wheels to reveal self-conscious fidgeting. Phillip
busied himself with setup, a deeper shade of pink in his cheeks.

O’Donoghue threw back the last of his coffee and tossed the cup in the trash. “Now, don’t give out any information you
don’t want disclosed to your teammates. Each of us will ask one question. Remember, while agents need to learn how to detect lies, we also need
to tell them effectively. For my question, what is your full legal name?”

“Annie Mae Johnson,” Johnson replied.

Lucky darted a glance from Johnson’s stoic profile to Phillip, who gave a little lip-twitch. Ah, she lied did she? Better file the info away for
later use.

“What’s your favorite food?” Peckerhead asked. Oops. Better make that
Landry
.

Some questions bordered on ridiculous, others tried to be witty, some serious. Lucky asked, “What kind of car do you drive?” when his
turn came. He damn sure didn’t want to pry into the woman’s personal life.

Johnson returned to her seat, and O’Donoghue replayed the video.

“Lie!” chorused the class when Johnson slid the chair back two inches while answering the question about her favorite food. Lucky kept
quiet, checking off his suspicions on his list of clues picked up from Johnson and others who apparently knew her outside of class.

Twice more the accusation of “lie!” rang out. He never said a word, but Lucky pegged the correct response each time.