Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Right. Let’s see. If the gambling rumors are true, he could be strapped for cash. I could call his bank and try to gain access to his accounts, but that’s illegal and highly suspect. I wouldn’t know the answer to any of his security questions, anyway.
Think, Clark.
What do I have access to?
Inspiration strikes like a bolt of lightning. I grab my desk phone and hurriedly dial the extension for the accounting department before I’ve even fully formulated my plan.
Someone answers on the second ring. “This is Connie speaking.”
Connie. I was hoping she’d pick up. Connie Phillips is a pipsqueak of a thing, no taller than five feet, with coke-bottle glasses and a wobbly voice. She’s been with the company for ten years and she’s a great accountant, but because she’s so quiet, she’s been largely overlooked for promotions. A few months ago, I tried to remedy that by awarding her with a substantial raise in line with the amount of years she’s remained loyal to the company. Though the raise was long overdue, I still remember the tears welling up in her eyes when I shared the good news with her. I’d had no idea what to do and settled on a stilted There, there pat on her shoulder. Hopefully I’m still in her good graces, because I have a big ask.
“Connie, hey. This is Cole Clark. How are you? Good? Good. Could you do me a favor?” I don’t pause to wait for a reply. I can’t let her refuse me. This is all I’ve got. “I’m running numbers on my end, just going through some budgetary items, and I need you to provide me with last year’s expense reports.”
She stutters with her reply. “A-all of them? Sir, that’s—”
“All of them. From every department.” My tone implies there’s no room for negotiating.
There’s a pregnant pause where she’s likely resigning herself to her fate.
“It’ll take me a few days to get you copies . . . ,” she says, already sounding weary about the task ahead of her.
“That’s fine. Could you get it to me by Friday?”
“I . . . I’ll try.”
“Great.” I’m about to hang up before I remember to add, “And Connie?”
“Yes?”
“I really appreciate it.”
Chapter Four
PAIGE
I’m fully aware that the literal translation of our hotel name (Sleep Beach) does little to arouse fantasies of an exciting tropical vacation, but that doesn’t seem to deter the gobs of pasty tourists from passing through our lobby day after day.
New characters erupt daily from the bowels of docked cruise ships. Batches of lanyarded convention goers arrive en masse. Each week brings a fresh horde of corporate tech bros or niche hobbyists. Last week there was the bridal and wedding expo where I watched grown women go to blows over the possibility of winning a free bridal gown from two seasons ago. Bathrooms were overflowing with crying bridesmaids that had been excommunicated and cut from weddings for such offenses as disagreeing with the bride or asking if they could maybe, just possibly, take a break for a late lunch since they’d been going nonstop since 8:00 a.m. “Where’s your loyalty, Marie?! I told you to pack a protein bar!”
This week it’s the Nifty after Sixty dating event. Next week it’s my personal favorite: the doomsday preppers convention. I’m counting down the days. I’ll be surprised if I can sleep before then.
It’s Tuesday evening, a few days after the bonfire. I’m in one of Siesta Playa’s ballrooms hosting a luau-themed bingo night for a room full of eager participants who range in age from 60 to 102. The number of medical devices and implants in this room would short-circuit a metal detector.
My only objective tonight is to ensure everyone is having fun. Oh, and also, Dr. Missick has insisted that I remind everyone that there are complimentary condoms in a bowl near the door that guests can (read: must) take at the end of the night.
I like to think I’m putting on a pretty great event. The energy in the room is lively and fun. We have a DJ onstage blasting hits from the ’60s and ’70s. A few waiters traipse through the crowd, passing around cocktails and denture-friendly light bites. I’m wearing a huge flower tucked behind my left ear and a flowy pink dress courtesy of Lara. Also, I’ve been given free rein on the microphone, which was a bad idea from the start.
“. . . And so that’s why we had to put down my childhood dog,” I say, wrapping up a long-winded story.
Eyes blink up at me in stupor.
Right. I’m losing them.
I think fast and draw another ball so I can call out the corresponding number.
“B-5!”
“God fucking damn it!” Mr. Leroy shouts loudly enough for everyone to hear.
I don’t miss a beat.
“Wee-oh, wee-oh, wee-oh!” I singsong like a siren, pointing Mr. Leroy over to the limbo station set up in front of the stage. There’s a house rule: if people get out of hand with the cursing and foul language (which happens a lot with this group), they must limbo. I wave for the DJ to turn the music up as Mr. Leroy stands to accept his punishment. It’s silly and dumb, but it’s also really fun. And Mr. Leroy actually clears the pole, which is good because earlier I accidentally sent a guest to Dr. Missick after they accidentally threw their back out.