Read Online Indispensable Party (Sasha McCandless Legal Thriller No. 4) by Melissa F Miller - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Melissa F Miller
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he was rewrapping the pallet, he noticed that a box lid was open. So, he
went to close it and, sure enough, two vials were missing.”
“Missing?” Sasha asked, her
stomach dropping with dread.
“Yup. That box was two vials
short. So, Jason called me. I came down here and went through the rest of the
boxes myself. Each pallet holds 144 boxes. Every box on this pallet is missing
two vials. That’s 288 missing doses that we know of.” Ben flung his arm wide,
gesturing toward the stacks of pallets. “Who knows how many more there are? I’m
going to have to have these guys work mandatory overtime and recount six
pallets.”
“Why just six?” Leo asked. “Why
not all of them.”
Ben removed his glasses with one
hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Because Celia Gerig checked in a
total of ten pallets, according to our records. One is right there, with the
missing doses. Six more are somewhere in the stacks.”
“And the other three?” Sasha
asked, afraid she knew the answer.
“The other three were picked up
on Friday and taken to Fort Meade,” Ben said.
CHAPTER 7
Colton pushed the
brown, wilted lettuce around on his plate with the side of his fork. He
realized it was the dead of winter, but for the amount of money he was paying
for a salad he expected fresh greens.
He snapped his head up and
scanned the room. When he caught the waiter’s eye, he gestured with a finger.
The young man gulped visibly and trotted over to the table, walking as quickly
as he could without breaking into a run.
“Is everything okay, Mr. Maxwell,
sir?” he said, the crisp white napkin draped over his arm, still fluttering
from his rushed approach.
“No, everything is not okay,
Manuel,” Colton said, reading the waiter’s name from the small gold bar pinned
to his starched shirt. “I ordered the fresh grilled salmon salad, did I not?”
Manuel’s eyes darted to the salad
plate to confirm that he’d brought the right dish. Then, they clouded with
confusion, and he answered slowly, “Yes, sir.”
Colton speared one soggy leaf of arugula
with the tines of the fork and held it up for Manuel to inspect. “Does that
look fresh to you?”
“No, sir,” he said immediately.
“That’s right. It does not. Take
it back and bring me a new one,” Colton said. He released the fork, and it
clattered to the plate. He congratulated himself on resisting his initial urge,
which had been to fling the lettuce at Manuel’s face.
Relief flooded the waiter’s face,
and he ducked his head and scooped up the plate. Colton realized Manuel had
been expecting to be pelted with greens. It appeared the story of how he’d
returned cold chowder at his last visit had made the rounds of the Club’s wait staff.
He didn’t need to draw attention
to his temper. He indulged in a small measure of regret for his decision to
dump the crab chowder over Marta’s head.
“Thank you,” he called to Manuel’s
retreating form in a belated effort at damage control. Then he turned to his
lunch companion and smiled. “How’s your sandwich?”
“Fine,” he said, mumbling the
words around bites of his Reuben. Then he returned the sandwich to his plate
and dabbed his mouth with his napkin.
Colton’s guest took a long drink
of water and then said, “So, I have what you want.”
Colton flicked his eyes to the
nearest occupied table. Two trophy wives were babbling about their tennis
lesson and paying no attention to anyone else.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
The man—who’d told Colton to call
him Andre, even though they both knew he wouldn’t be using his real
name—shrugged. “I think so. You’re the expert, not me.”
Andre reached into his jacket
pocket and pulled out a small glass vial. He handed it across the table, “The
rest of it’s in my trunk. You can inspect it there. Either way, payment’s due
in full.”
Colton stared at the ampule in
his hand. The man was insane to just pull it out in the middle of the
went to close it and, sure enough, two vials were missing.”
“Missing?” Sasha asked, her
stomach dropping with dread.
“Yup. That box was two vials
short. So, Jason called me. I came down here and went through the rest of the
boxes myself. Each pallet holds 144 boxes. Every box on this pallet is missing
two vials. That’s 288 missing doses that we know of.” Ben flung his arm wide,
gesturing toward the stacks of pallets. “Who knows how many more there are? I’m
going to have to have these guys work mandatory overtime and recount six
pallets.”
“Why just six?” Leo asked. “Why
not all of them.”
Ben removed his glasses with one
hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Because Celia Gerig checked in a
total of ten pallets, according to our records. One is right there, with the
missing doses. Six more are somewhere in the stacks.”
“And the other three?” Sasha
asked, afraid she knew the answer.
“The other three were picked up
on Friday and taken to Fort Meade,” Ben said.
CHAPTER 7
Colton pushed the
brown, wilted lettuce around on his plate with the side of his fork. He
realized it was the dead of winter, but for the amount of money he was paying
for a salad he expected fresh greens.
He snapped his head up and
scanned the room. When he caught the waiter’s eye, he gestured with a finger.
The young man gulped visibly and trotted over to the table, walking as quickly
as he could without breaking into a run.
“Is everything okay, Mr. Maxwell,
sir?” he said, the crisp white napkin draped over his arm, still fluttering
from his rushed approach.
“No, everything is not okay,
Manuel,” Colton said, reading the waiter’s name from the small gold bar pinned
to his starched shirt. “I ordered the fresh grilled salmon salad, did I not?”
Manuel’s eyes darted to the salad
plate to confirm that he’d brought the right dish. Then, they clouded with
confusion, and he answered slowly, “Yes, sir.”
Colton speared one soggy leaf of arugula
with the tines of the fork and held it up for Manuel to inspect. “Does that
look fresh to you?”
“No, sir,” he said immediately.
“That’s right. It does not. Take
it back and bring me a new one,” Colton said. He released the fork, and it
clattered to the plate. He congratulated himself on resisting his initial urge,
which had been to fling the lettuce at Manuel’s face.
Relief flooded the waiter’s face,
and he ducked his head and scooped up the plate. Colton realized Manuel had
been expecting to be pelted with greens. It appeared the story of how he’d
returned cold chowder at his last visit had made the rounds of the Club’s wait staff.
He didn’t need to draw attention
to his temper. He indulged in a small measure of regret for his decision to
dump the crab chowder over Marta’s head.
“Thank you,” he called to Manuel’s
retreating form in a belated effort at damage control. Then he turned to his
lunch companion and smiled. “How’s your sandwich?”
“Fine,” he said, mumbling the
words around bites of his Reuben. Then he returned the sandwich to his plate
and dabbed his mouth with his napkin.
Colton’s guest took a long drink
of water and then said, “So, I have what you want.”
Colton flicked his eyes to the
nearest occupied table. Two trophy wives were babbling about their tennis
lesson and paying no attention to anyone else.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
The man—who’d told Colton to call
him Andre, even though they both knew he wouldn’t be using his real
name—shrugged. “I think so. You’re the expert, not me.”
Andre reached into his jacket
pocket and pulled out a small glass vial. He handed it across the table, “The
rest of it’s in my trunk. You can inspect it there. Either way, payment’s due
in full.”
Colton stared at the ampule in
his hand. The man was insane to just pull it out in the middle of the
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