Unallocated Space: A Thriller (Sam Flatt Book 1) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Jerry Hatchett
made me jump. It cracked and Nichols stuck his head in. “Need anything?” He looked awake but looking that way was his job and I understood the real question.
I checked the time on my computer and saw that it was 2:26 a.m. “Am I wearing you out, Jimbo?”
It took a moment for the “Jimbo” to register, then he said, “Oh, no. No. I just thought you might need something.”
The head disappeared and the door closed. I did the math and realized it was 4:26 a.m. back home in Houston, decided to call it a night myself. I engaged the lock screen on my examination computer and stepped through the door. “How late can I get breakfast around here?” I said.
“Up to you,” Nichols said.
“Excellent. See you here tomorrow about ten?”
“Sure, sounds great.”
I thought maybe Nichols would get the hint that I didn’t need him to walk me to my room. Didn’t work. After a couple miles of walking in SPACE, I stood at my room door and said, “Good-night, Jimbo.”
“Good-night.”
W hen I shut the water off in the shower, I heard my phone ringing. I walked naked and dripping to the workdesk in the suite's living room and glanced at the screen as the phone rang and vibrated against the hard surface. The caller ID said PRIVATE CALLER. Who in hell would call me at three o’clock in the morning? I picked it up and touched to answer. "Hello?"
"Is this Mr. Flatt?"
"It is."
"Mr. Flatt, my name is Courtney Meyer. I'm a special agent with the FBI, calling from New York."
"Okay," I said. The feebs are never just agents. Always special. "What can I do for you?"
"First, I need to tell you that this call is being recorded. Second, I need your assurance of confidentiality before proceeding with the conversation. Do I have that assurance?"
"It's what, almost six a.m. in New York?"
"I wanted to call when I thought it most likely you'd be alone. Is that the case?"
What the hell? "Yes, Agent, I'm alone. What's this about?" I had worked on a few cases over the years that had FBI involvement, always on the other side. Nothing recent, though, and certainly nothing active.
"I need your agreement to keep this confidential," Meyer said.
"You have it. It's late, so please get to the point."
"We need your assistance on a case."
This was getting stranger by the moment. One thing the Bureau boys and girls never ask for, no matter how badly they might need it, is outside forensic assistance. They'd let a serial killer go before admitting they couldn't get evidence off his computer. "Sorry, I'm tied up on a major case right now."
"We know. You're working for the SPACE casino in Nevada. That's what we need your help with."
I thought about that for a moment, and when it still didn't make the first lick of sense, I touched the phone into speaker mode, laid it on the desk, and said, "Hold on a sec." I continued to mull as I walked to the bathroom and grabbed a towel from the rack. I toweled my hair, face, and neck as I walked back to the living room. When I got there, I said, "Not sure how or why you'd know what case I'm working, but I can't imagine how I can help you."
"I'll remind you that this is extremely confidential, and—"
I cut her off: "You said that already, and I agreed already. Get to the point, please."
"I—we—need you to keep us apprised of progress on the forensic investigation you're conducting."
Like hell. I drew a breath to respond, then did a slow count to ten, willing calm into my soul in the face of this idiocy.
"Mr. Flatt?" she said.
"Agent," I said, "that—"
"It's Special Agent Meyer. M-E-Y-E-R."
"Whatever. Look, you harp to me about the need for confidentiality, then ask me to break confidentiality with my client, with whom I've signed a very strong and very clear confidentiality agreement? Gotta tell you, not gonna happen, not without my client authorizing it. In fact, I don't want to hear any more, don't want to be in a position where you tell me information my client has a contractual
I checked the time on my computer and saw that it was 2:26 a.m. “Am I wearing you out, Jimbo?”
It took a moment for the “Jimbo” to register, then he said, “Oh, no. No. I just thought you might need something.”
The head disappeared and the door closed. I did the math and realized it was 4:26 a.m. back home in Houston, decided to call it a night myself. I engaged the lock screen on my examination computer and stepped through the door. “How late can I get breakfast around here?” I said.
“Up to you,” Nichols said.
“Excellent. See you here tomorrow about ten?”
“Sure, sounds great.”
I thought maybe Nichols would get the hint that I didn’t need him to walk me to my room. Didn’t work. After a couple miles of walking in SPACE, I stood at my room door and said, “Good-night, Jimbo.”
“Good-night.”
W hen I shut the water off in the shower, I heard my phone ringing. I walked naked and dripping to the workdesk in the suite's living room and glanced at the screen as the phone rang and vibrated against the hard surface. The caller ID said PRIVATE CALLER. Who in hell would call me at three o’clock in the morning? I picked it up and touched to answer. "Hello?"
"Is this Mr. Flatt?"
"It is."
"Mr. Flatt, my name is Courtney Meyer. I'm a special agent with the FBI, calling from New York."
"Okay," I said. The feebs are never just agents. Always special. "What can I do for you?"
"First, I need to tell you that this call is being recorded. Second, I need your assurance of confidentiality before proceeding with the conversation. Do I have that assurance?"
"It's what, almost six a.m. in New York?"
"I wanted to call when I thought it most likely you'd be alone. Is that the case?"
What the hell? "Yes, Agent, I'm alone. What's this about?" I had worked on a few cases over the years that had FBI involvement, always on the other side. Nothing recent, though, and certainly nothing active.
"I need your agreement to keep this confidential," Meyer said.
"You have it. It's late, so please get to the point."
"We need your assistance on a case."
This was getting stranger by the moment. One thing the Bureau boys and girls never ask for, no matter how badly they might need it, is outside forensic assistance. They'd let a serial killer go before admitting they couldn't get evidence off his computer. "Sorry, I'm tied up on a major case right now."
"We know. You're working for the SPACE casino in Nevada. That's what we need your help with."
I thought about that for a moment, and when it still didn't make the first lick of sense, I touched the phone into speaker mode, laid it on the desk, and said, "Hold on a sec." I continued to mull as I walked to the bathroom and grabbed a towel from the rack. I toweled my hair, face, and neck as I walked back to the living room. When I got there, I said, "Not sure how or why you'd know what case I'm working, but I can't imagine how I can help you."
"I'll remind you that this is extremely confidential, and—"
I cut her off: "You said that already, and I agreed already. Get to the point, please."
"I—we—need you to keep us apprised of progress on the forensic investigation you're conducting."
Like hell. I drew a breath to respond, then did a slow count to ten, willing calm into my soul in the face of this idiocy.
"Mr. Flatt?" she said.
"Agent," I said, "that—"
"It's Special Agent Meyer. M-E-Y-E-R."
"Whatever. Look, you harp to me about the need for confidentiality, then ask me to break confidentiality with my client, with whom I've signed a very strong and very clear confidentiality agreement? Gotta tell you, not gonna happen, not without my client authorizing it. In fact, I don't want to hear any more, don't want to be in a position where you tell me information my client has a contractual
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