Page 20 of Omega's Fever

“The surprise was anyone survived eating it.”

I lie on my bunk until the call for dinner comes, and then I make the decision to stay anyway, not hungry for mystery meat or the social dynamics of the dining hall. The torn card burns in my pocket. Cobb owns this place as surely as he owned The Pit.

“You should eat.” Thackeray marks his place in his book. “Need to keep your strength up.”

I ignore him. I wonder if I’ll see Milo again or if I’ll be facing jury selection with whatever burnt-out public defender they scramble up as replacement. Smart money says his expensive legal firm will do everything they can to pull him, despite what Melkham wants.

“I’m good.”

“Suit yourself.” Thackeray heads for the door, then pauses. “That thing with your lawyer. It’s got people talking.”

“Let them talk.”

“Some of the talk involves Cobb.”

I sit up, meet his eyes. Thackeray never mentions Cobb. It’s part of our unspoken agreement. He doesn’t see things, I don’t put him in positions where he might have to.

“What kind of talk?”

“The kind that wonders if a lawyer who’s... invested... might dig deeper than the others.” He adjusts his glasses, clearly nervous. “The kind that remembers what happened to the last person who complicated Cobb’s business.”

That had been only last week. A small-time dealer who tried to skim from Cobb’s operation.was found him in his cell with asharpened toothbrush between his ribs. Suicide, the report said. Amazing how many suicides happen in prison. Amazing how often they involve people who crossed Cobb Sewell.

“Message received.”

Thackeray nods and disappears into the corridor noise. I lie back down, adding this new wrinkle to my growing collection of problems.

Milo. He’s all I can think about. I’ve been with omegas before, of course. They’re always lovely, sweet-smelling and soft. This is something else. They were drops of water compared to the tsunami that was Milo Warren. I have absolutely no idea what to do about it.

Instead I just lie on my bunk and daydream because all I want to do is scent that heavenly vanilla fragrance again.

8

Milo

The next morning, my stomach rolls as I highlight another line in the witness statement. I’ve been in the office since five am with nothing but black coffee to keep me going.

The suppressants are already making me queasy. I reach for my water bottle and take a careful sip. I don’t know how many times I have read Kellen’s file now but I think I have a good idea of what happened. I have until 5pm to put through any new pre-trial motions or additions to the witness list.

According to the documentation, The Pit was the hottest underground venue in the city: illegal fighting rings in the basement under the guise of boxing tournaments. Women trafficked for sex work upstairs. Money laundering through the bar. Very organized and very profitable.

According to Kellen’s witness statement, he was just a fighter. Showed up, fought, collected his winnings, left.

The evidence tying him to the club was a lot more interesting. The money appeared to have ended up being channeled through a company in the Channel Islands called Mercer Enterprises. Two days before he was arrested, Kellen received a payout of $20,000 into his bank account from a payer called Mercer ME.

Any other money was long lost. Mercer Enterprises was reportedly bankrupt. The millions of dollars that had been funneled through it was missing.

Millions. 17.3 million to be precise. That was a lot of money for a dingy nightclub on the wrong side of town.

A note on one of the financial statements said only: “Drugrunning?”

That appeared to be the only tangible evidence. That is, other than the witness statements. The police had rounded up thirteen different witnesses willing to state that Kellen was the man running the show. Two witnesses had disappeared and not turned up to the first trial. One was dead, shot in the street six weeks ago. All of them were workers at the club in one form or another.

As far as the public prosecutor was concerned, the case was cut and dried. They had financial evidence tying him to the club. They had witnesses.

But the whole investigation was shoddy. That was too much money for a single club. Clearly, whoever had written the note about drug running had thought there was something more, but there was no evidence that anyone had investigated further.

There were financial statements for anything connected to Mercer and everything connected to Hayes, but no one else. They didn’t even have the books for the club.