CHAPTER SEVENTEEN | SIENNA
I felt like I had been hit by a steamroller.
Correction: I felt like a steamroller had hit me, pulverized me, ground me into the earth, and then put the engine reverse and rolled over me again.
I had a pounding headache. I was exhausted. Every inch of my body hurt, and my stomach had been twisting around in knots all morning long. It felt like a hangover mixed with a bad case of the flu.
I should have taken a sick day, but I made the idiotic assumption that driving to the office and sitting behind my desk with a giant cup of coffee would somehow make me feel better.
Dumb idea.
As my symptoms continued to worsen, it became more and more obvious that I was going to have to plan an early escape from the office. I reached for my cell phone and clicked open the calendar to see what the rest of my afternoon looked like. There were a few items listed in the afternoon; meetings and reports that needed to be submitted and conference calls.
Just the thought of dragging through the day’s to-do list made me groan. I glared at the phone calendar, zooming out to the monthly overview. My days were streaked with appointments and meetings.
Then something caught my eye.
A red “P” that marked each day of last week.
I immediately stopped breathing.
I knew what that represented. It was my period. At the urging of my gynecologist, I had downloaded this dumb app that was supposed to track my cycles. It automatically synced up with my calendar, importing a week of “P’s” when it anticipated Aunt Flo would pay me a visit.
I had been surprised by how accurate the app was. Since downloading it, it had predicted every one of my monthly periods without fail.
Besides this one.
According to the calendar, my period was supposed to make an appearance at the beginning of last week. But that had never happened; it was a no-show.
I gulped, clicking off my phone as if hiding the calendar would somehow undo the discovery that my period was over a week late.
It’s probably just a mistake, I told myself. It’s just a stupid app. It must have gotten the days wrong.
But even as I tried to convince myself, I couldn’t stop my head from racing back to that night in the hotel room with Ace.
We had used condoms; I remembered that. I remembered seeing the wrappers the next morning.
Wrappers. Plural.
We had had sex multiple times; drunken, impulsive, crazy sex. Was it possible that—one of those times—we had forgotten to slip on a condom?
I slumped forward in my office chair, wishing I had a pillow that I could bury my face into. Instead, my head hit the hard surface of my desk.
This can’t be happening, I groaned to myself, wincing as a pang of nausea bubbled in my stomach.
“Everything alright, O’Malley?” a sharp voice cut through my self-pity party. I bolted up in my chair and my eyes landed on Chief Mark Kaplan standing in the entryway of my cubicle.
“I’m fine,” I stammered.
Mark frowned disapprovingly.
“Well once you’ve had a chance to wake up, please come by my office. There’s something I’d like to discuss.”
My stomach immediately coiled up in knots, but this time I wasn’t sure if it was the nausea or Kaplan’s ominous invitation. I reached for the coffee mug on my desk and raised it take a sip, but it was empty; all that was left was a brown ring at the bottom of the mug, and the vague aroma of that morning’s brew.
“Fuck,” I muttered, contemplating the long hallway that separated me from the break room, where the coffee machine was located. In my weakened state, I wasn’t sure if I could handle the long trek. I pictured my legs giving out at the halfway point and my body crumbling uselessly onto the floor, like a mountain climber losing steam on the final stretch of the ascent up Everest.
I rolled my chair out from behind my desk and forced myself up onto my legs. My stomach twisted angrily in protest, and I leaned forward on the desk to hold myself up.
Do it for the coffee, I tried to coax myself. You need coffee. Coffee makes everything better.
That was pretty optimistic, considering the four cups I had already chugged earlier that morning had had little to no effect on my condition. Holding out hope that the fifth cup would be the charm, I shuffled my stiff legs towards the breakroom.
Luckily I didn’t end up stumbling over or collapsing between cubicles. I managed to fill my mug with coffee and a splash of creamer, then I leaned against the break room counter and blew at the steam that coiled over the mug as I braced myself for my next destination: Kaplan’s office.
I wasn’t sure what Chief wanted to talk to me about, but I had all but given up hope for a promotion. After our last meeting in his office, Kaplan hadn’t mentioned it again. It was starting to feel more and more like a pipe dream.
Maybe the Gaming Commission wasn’t the place for me after all.
I pushed that thought out of my head and shuffled forward, cradling my coffee mug in both hands as I made my way towards Mark’s office.
He waited for me behind his desk, and he instructed me to close the door behind me and take a seat. I did, then I gingerly took a sip of coffee and waited for him to break the silence.
“I wanted to talk to you about this report you submitted on the High Rollers,” he said, holding up a printed-out version of my case notes.
My heart pounded in my chest, but I forced myself to keep my composure.
“That case was closed a month ago,” I said, trying to sound cool.
“Yes,” Kaplan said. “You closed it. But I think that was a mistake.”
My pulse quickened and my body went numb.
Poker face, I told myself. Keep it together.
“Really?” I choked, my voice sounding a few octaves too high. I forced a sip of coffee into my mouth, then asked, “Why’s that?”
“We just got another anonymous tip,” Kaplan sat back in his chair and folded his hands together. I didn’t like the way he was looking at me; like he didn’t trust me.
“Maybe we should be taking a closer look at the person sending all those tips,” I said.
Kaplan cocked his head.
“What do you mean by that?”
I shrugged, wishing that I hadn’t said anything at all. This wasn’t the plan Ace and I had agreed to. Then again… I hadn’t expected to find myself being confronted by Kaplan, either. I had to think fast; I had to get him off the High Rollers’ trail. The question was, how much could I afford to reveal?
If I didn’t throw his scent off the High Rollers, our plan could implode before it even started. But if I fed Mark too much intel, I could compromise the entire sting.
“The High Rollers have a lot of enemies,” I said. “Rival clubs, other outlaws… maybe somebody is sending those tips in an attempt to sabotage them?”
“Who would do something like that?” Kaplan frowned incredulously. “And why would they report the High Rollers to the Gaming Commission? That’s a bit… specific, don’t you think? Especially if, as you stated in your report, the High Rollers aren’t actually involved in any sort of illegal gambling operations.”
Shit. He had a point, and I had to think fast.
“They aren’t,” I said quickly. “But whoever is reporting them might be. Think about it; if someone is trying to fly under the radar, the High Rollers would make the perfect decoy. If our attention and resources are spent trying to infiltrate the High Rollers, that means that the actual suspects can fly right under our radar.”
“Interesting theory,” Kaplan grumbled, still not looking convinced. “But you still haven’t answered the most important question here. Who would be doing all of this?”
“It could be anyone,” I took another sip of coffee, feeling slightly more confident. “A rival motorcycle club, or somebody that they’ve wronged in the past. Or maybe even a casino owner.”
Kaplan narrowed his eyes.
“Did any specific names come up while you were conducting your investigation?”
I hesitated, plotting my next move. Dropping Mr. Money’s name now was a risky move… but it might be the only way to get the heat off of the High Rollers.
“Actually, there was one person of interest,” I said hesitantly. My hands trembled, and I squeezed the mug tighter between my palms.
“Who?”
“I think his name was Mr. Money?” I said vaguely, feigning cluelessness.
Mark’s face immediately tightened, and he sat upright in his chair.
“Why the hell would you think Mr. Money is involved with this?”
I instantly regretted mentioning the name. My stomach bucked and my tongue went dry as the taste of bile seeped up from the back of my throat.
“His name came up when I was interviewing members of the club,” I fibbed, trying to sound nonchalant. My voice sounded weak, and it was getting harder and harder to breathe. The walls were closing in, and my stomach rolled over and over like I was riding a never-ending rollercoaster.
I need to get out of this office.
“Well you’re very sorely mistaken,” Kaplan snapped. “Mr. Money is an upstanding businessman, and he has maintained a spotless track record with this commission for years. He is a gold-standard example of what casino management should look like. Your insinuation that he would muddy his hands by getting involved with the High Rollers is preposterous.”
“I understand,” I gulped, feeling more bile creep up my throat.
I’m going to be sick…
I set my coffee mug on the edge of Kaplan’s desk and bit my lips together. I rocked slowly back and forth, trying to will my stomach to settle.
“I’m reopening the High Rollers case,” Kaplan snapped. “And this time, I’m going to assign a more qualified agent to get to the bottom of what is going on in that shop.”
“B-but Chief—”
“I’m disappointed in you, O’Malley,” he snapped. “I guess you weren’t ready for that promotion, after all.”
I couldn’t hold back the nausea anymore. I felt the rush of vomit surging up my throat, and I keeled forward and reached for the closest thing I could find: the wastebasket next to Kaplan’s desk. I got the bin under my chin just as a stream of vomit poured out of my mouth.
“Jesus Christ, O’Malley.”
“I’m fine—” I tried to insist, but the words were interrupted by a second wave of vomit. Once I had spat out the last of it, I pulled myself up and glanced at Kaplan. He wore a disgusting grimace.
“Go home,” he snapped. “Take a sick day. Get yourself cleaned up.”
That was the last thing I wanted to do, but I wasn’t about to protest. I had already done enough damage. Instead, I nodded and forced myself up from the chair.
“And take that trash can with you,” he added. “I don’t want it to stink up my office.”
Panic had given me a dose of adrenaline, and I stalked briskly back to my cubicle to retrieve my things before I left the office. I made a final stop at the dumpster behind the building to dispose of the waste basket, then I sprinted towards my Jeep in the employee parking lot.
I waited until I was in the driver’s seat with the door shut and locked behind me. Then I pulled out my cell phone and, with shaking hands, I dialed Ace’s number.
It wasn’t until I was looking down at the number pad that I realized I didn’t know Ace’s number. We had exchanged wedding vows and bodily fluids, but somehow we hadn’t exchanged phone numbers.
“Fuck!” I slammed my fist against the steering wheel.
I had to talk to him; I had to let him know that the case was reopened!
That meant I only had one choice: I would have to drive up to High Rollers’ territory and tell him in person.