Unallocated Space: A Thriller (Sam Flatt Book 1) Read Online Free
Author: Jerry Hatchett
days a week off instead of one.”
"Wonderful. Wonderful. I want Kohana to be well rested when I come. And this time, this is the time when you will finally to marry me, yes?"
"We'll see, Sasha."
He roared again and poured himself another drink. "Yes, we will. We will to see."
O nce they arrived at Renaissance , they went straight to the high stakes gaming area, where Maslov played blackjack for hours, all joviality, win or lose. He put away enough pepper vodka to float a boat but never seemed intoxicated. Loose, yes. Drunk, no. Christine stayed nearby to meet any requests; clients like Maslov didn't wait for cocktail waitresses to come around taking requests. Whatever he was drinking or smoking—with him it was always pepper vodka and a particular Cuban cigar—stayed fresh and at hand. She also kept up with how his gambling was going, not because she was required to, but because knowing made it far easier to know whether or not to mention it later.
This had been a good night. She guessed he finished about fifty thousand to the good. In the elevator to his suite, she said, "How'd you do?"
"Wonderful night, Kohana, just wonderful. Sasha won many American dollars this night."
L ater , in Maslov's suite, Christine watched as Sasha got up from the lavish bed and walked toward the suite's living area. She stood from the bed and pulled on a hotel robe, then followed. He stood at the glass wall that looked out over the north side of the SPACE campus and the city beyond. She wondered what someone like Sasha saw there. A playground to be raided? A criminal kingdom to rule? And what was she to him and his organization? Princess? Concubine? Or just a loose end?
Chapter 5
S PACE
T ime had faded away , as it often does once I dig into a case. I was combing and analyzing, studying the digital breadcrumbs that would tell me who Christine Gamboa was and hopefully what she had e-done. Computers that were nothing more than a novelty a generation ago are today’s life recorders and it was time for some playback on Christine. I walked the halls outside my workroom enough to be sure no one else was still working nearby, then set up my little-yet-kickbutt wireless speaker, connected my phone, and cranked up a long, shuffled playlist.
She had made good money at SPACE—about one-fifty a year during her time as an executive host, ten grand more when she moved in with the brainiacs—but she spent a lot, too. Drove a 7-series BMW, lived in a pricey apartment, dressed expensively, and had an affinity for purses that cost a stupid amount. Her lifestyle was enough to max out her budget and then some. I assumed she picked up some pretty nice tips as a host, but it was hard to imagine enough tips for her to have anything meaningful left over. So how was it that she had over four hundred thousand in her personal checking account?
I dug into her Quicken data but it was no help in figuring out where the money came from. She had only been using the program for seven months, and she had logged a balance forward in her checking account of $453,269.22 when she first set up Quicken. That number was now down to $405,200.86, so in seven months she had spent almost fifty grand of the mystery cash, plus every penny of her salary.
I spent some time going through her spending in more detail, taking notes as I went. Twelve grand on purses. Thousand-dollar bedsheets. Over two thousand a month payment on the BMW, and thirty-nine hundred rent on the apartment. An addiction to the latest and greatest of all things Apple, including an iPhone and iPad, curious since she already had both those items furnished by SPACE. And on and on it went. It was like an episode of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. Except she wasn't famous and didn't make enough money to be rich. It sure wasn't family money; according to the background report in her employment file, her parents eked out a living in a small grocery store they owned in rural Arizona.
A knock on the door
"Wonderful. Wonderful. I want Kohana to be well rested when I come. And this time, this is the time when you will finally to marry me, yes?"
"We'll see, Sasha."
He roared again and poured himself another drink. "Yes, we will. We will to see."
O nce they arrived at Renaissance , they went straight to the high stakes gaming area, where Maslov played blackjack for hours, all joviality, win or lose. He put away enough pepper vodka to float a boat but never seemed intoxicated. Loose, yes. Drunk, no. Christine stayed nearby to meet any requests; clients like Maslov didn't wait for cocktail waitresses to come around taking requests. Whatever he was drinking or smoking—with him it was always pepper vodka and a particular Cuban cigar—stayed fresh and at hand. She also kept up with how his gambling was going, not because she was required to, but because knowing made it far easier to know whether or not to mention it later.
This had been a good night. She guessed he finished about fifty thousand to the good. In the elevator to his suite, she said, "How'd you do?"
"Wonderful night, Kohana, just wonderful. Sasha won many American dollars this night."
L ater , in Maslov's suite, Christine watched as Sasha got up from the lavish bed and walked toward the suite's living area. She stood from the bed and pulled on a hotel robe, then followed. He stood at the glass wall that looked out over the north side of the SPACE campus and the city beyond. She wondered what someone like Sasha saw there. A playground to be raided? A criminal kingdom to rule? And what was she to him and his organization? Princess? Concubine? Or just a loose end?
Chapter 5
S PACE
T ime had faded away , as it often does once I dig into a case. I was combing and analyzing, studying the digital breadcrumbs that would tell me who Christine Gamboa was and hopefully what she had e-done. Computers that were nothing more than a novelty a generation ago are today’s life recorders and it was time for some playback on Christine. I walked the halls outside my workroom enough to be sure no one else was still working nearby, then set up my little-yet-kickbutt wireless speaker, connected my phone, and cranked up a long, shuffled playlist.
She had made good money at SPACE—about one-fifty a year during her time as an executive host, ten grand more when she moved in with the brainiacs—but she spent a lot, too. Drove a 7-series BMW, lived in a pricey apartment, dressed expensively, and had an affinity for purses that cost a stupid amount. Her lifestyle was enough to max out her budget and then some. I assumed she picked up some pretty nice tips as a host, but it was hard to imagine enough tips for her to have anything meaningful left over. So how was it that she had over four hundred thousand in her personal checking account?
I dug into her Quicken data but it was no help in figuring out where the money came from. She had only been using the program for seven months, and she had logged a balance forward in her checking account of $453,269.22 when she first set up Quicken. That number was now down to $405,200.86, so in seven months she had spent almost fifty grand of the mystery cash, plus every penny of her salary.
I spent some time going through her spending in more detail, taking notes as I went. Twelve grand on purses. Thousand-dollar bedsheets. Over two thousand a month payment on the BMW, and thirty-nine hundred rent on the apartment. An addiction to the latest and greatest of all things Apple, including an iPhone and iPad, curious since she already had both those items furnished by SPACE. And on and on it went. It was like an episode of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. Except she wasn't famous and didn't make enough money to be rich. It sure wasn't family money; according to the background report in her employment file, her parents eked out a living in a small grocery store they owned in rural Arizona.
A knock on the door
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