Page 92 of Omega's Fever
They flash a photo of Cobb on screen—an old one from some charity event, him in a tux with that shark smile. It’s strange to see him there, named and exposed, when for so long his name was something whispered in corners.
“Among the evidence,” the reporter continues, “are detailed financial records showing money laundered through multiple shell companies, including legitimate businesses used as fronts. The investigation has already led to dozens of arrests, with more expected as authorities work through the mountain of documentation.”
“They’re using everything,” I say, amazed. “All the evidence you found.”
“Every bit of it.” Milo’s smile is fierce with satisfaction. “Turns out when the main suspect is dead, people are much more willing to pin crimes on him. Especially when there’s irrefutable proof.”
The news cuts to another talking head, this one identified as a legal expert. “What we’re seeing here is the dismantling of one of the city’s longest-running criminal enterprises. The evidence is so comprehensive, so detailed, that prosecutors are calling it a ‘gift-wrapped case.’ The real question now is how many others will be implicated as the investigation continues.”
“This evidence,” the anchor asks, “where did it come from?”
“That’s the interesting part,” the expert says, leaning forward. “Sources indicate it was provided by the defense team of Kellen Hayes, who was originally charged with running the operation. It appears Mr. Hayes was set up to take the fall for Sewell’s crimes. The attempted murder of Mr. Hayes and the witnesses who were prepared to testify seems to have been a last desperateattempt by Sewell to protect himself.”
“Speaking of that,” the anchor transitions smoothly, “we have breaking news on the Hayes case.”
The feed switches to Victoria Sutter standing outside the courthouse, looking over the moon. “In light of the evidence provided and the events of three days ago, the District Attorney’s office is dropping all charges against Kellen Hayes. It’s clear from the documentation that Mr. Hayes was not involved in the criminal enterprise and was, in fact, intended to be what we call a ‘fall guy’ for Cobb Sewell’s operation.”
I stare at the screen, trying to process the words. “Dropped? All of them?”
“All of them.” Milo’s grin could power the city. “You’re free, Kellen.”
The news continues, but I’m not listening anymore. Free. The word doesn’t feel real. After months of knowing I was going to prison, of accepting it, planning for it—I’m free.
“Wait,” I say as something occurs to me. “Cobb’s dead? Really dead?”
“Really dead.” Milo’s expression darkens. “You don’t remember?”
I try to think back, but everything after the gunshot is fuzzy. “I remember him pointing the gun at you. Remember getting between you. After that...”
“You killed him.” Milo says it matter-of-factly, but I can see the tremor in his hands. “After you were shot, you just... I’ve never seen anything like it. You got up and you went for him. Broke his neck with your bare hands. Then you collapsed.”
The memory surfaces slowly, like something rising from deep water. The pain of the bullet. The rage at seeing him threaten Milo. The satisfying crack of vertebrae separating.
“Good,” I say, and mean it.
Milo studies my face, then nods. “Good,” he agrees.
On screen, they’re interviewing one of Cobb’s former associates, his face blurred for protection. “Everyone knew Sewell was the real boss,” the man is saying. “But nobody would say it. Too dangerous. He had people everywhere—cops, judges, prosecutors. If you crossed him, you didn’t live long enough to testify.”
“But now they’re all talking,” I observe. “Now that he’s dead, suddenly everyone’s brave.”
“Funny how that works.” Milo changes the channel, finds another news station covering the same story. This one is focusing on the financial crimes, showing charts and graphs of money movement. “My uncle made the news too.”
The anchor is explaining Kenneth Haymore’s role as Cobb’s accountant, how he legitimized the dirty money through various businesses. There’s a photo of him being led away in handcuffs, looking smaller than I remember. Older. Defeated.
“They arrested him yesterday,” Milo says. “Conspiracy, money laundering, tax evasion. He’s looking at twenty years minimum. He had no idea I’d copied everything. Thought he was being so clever, manipulating both of us.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, because I know it must hurt. Whatever else Kenneth was, he raised Milo. “Are you okay?”
“I’m processing,” Milo admits. “It’s... complicated. He was never a good guardian, but he was all I had. Finding out he was part of this, that he was willing to let you rot in prison to protect himself...” He shakes his head. “I trusted him. Not with everything, but with enough. And he would have let you die. He would have let me die.”
Before I can respond, his phone buzzes. He glances at it and grimaces. “Anne. Again. That’s the sixth call this morning.”
“What does she want?”
“What do you think?” He shows me the screen full of missed calls and texts. “Now that I’m connected to the biggest criminalcase in years, suddenly I’m valuable again. She’s been texting about what a great opportunity this is for the firm, how we can leverage the publicity.”
“Are you going to answer?”