The blackjack dealer started to her left, dealing some of the players a third card, face up. Jones studied his cards—the Five of Diamonds and the Ten of Hearts. He tapped his finger on the green felt behind his cards, signaling that he wanted her to deal him another one. He received the Seven of Spades, bringing his total to over twenty-one. Oh, no he thought. Not again. The dealer scooped up his cards and the five black chips. Everyone else at the table lost, except for the old man and a middle-aged woman. They received a 1-to-1 payout for beating the dealer.
“That’s sucks,” Jones said, shaking his head. “I can’t believe that happened.”
Mick gave him a cocky smile. “I won’t say I told you so. That wouldn’t be polite.”
“You damn right it wouldn’t be. So, save it for someone else, all right?”
“Cheer up.” Mick sounded hopeful. “It’s not the end of the world.”
Jones considered his options. Unless he kept a positive attitude, he was going to crash and burn. “It’s just a bump in the road, that’s all. I’m only down a thousand bucks.”
“You should have a drink.” Mick smiled. “You know, it will take the edge off.”
“No, I don’t drink.” Jones knew that drinking and playing cards didn’t go well together. He learned this lesson the hard way. Earlier in his gambling career, while he was nursing a good buzz, he lost a large sum of money.
Mick looked at him like he was crazy. “Different strokes for different folks, I guess.”
“I’m going win this time,” Jones said, placing another five hundred dollar bet.
“I’m a high-roller, too.” Mick took a swig off his bear. “I’ll bet the same amount as you.”
Jones rubbed his hands together. To beat the odds, he knew he had to have a strong belief in himself. “I know the tide is going to turn. I’m definitely going to win this time.”
“Like I said before, I’m gunning for you, kid.”
The blackjack dealer started from her left, dealing five players two cards, face up. In the process, she had dealt herself two cards—the Nine of Spades face up, the other card face down.
“It looks like things have turned around,” Jones said, looking at his pair of eights.
“It’s about time.” Mick nodded. “I was worried you were never going to pull it off.”
“That’s a beautiful hand, isn’t it?”
Mick made a thoughtful nod. “Well, it all depends on how you play it.”
“Here it goes.”
“I love your determination, kid. Show us how it’s done.”
The blackjack dealer started from her left, dealing some players a third card, face up. Jones split his eights and bet another five hundred dollars. The dealer dealt him a card—the Three of Diamonds. He tapped his finger on the table, behind the cards, indicating he wanted her to deal him another card. He received the Six of Hearts, bringing his hand to seventeen. He was satisfied with the first hand, so he waved his right hand over the cards. Jones tapped his finger behind his second eight, indicating he wanted another card. The dealer dealt him the Ten of Spades, bringing the second hand to eighteen. Satisfied, he waved his right hand over the cards, indicating he wanted to stand. The dealer turned over her card, revealing the Ace of Hearts, which brought her total to twenty. She picked up his cards and ten black chips. Everyone else at the table lost, too.
“I’m out.” Jones buried his face in his hands. “I can’t lose any more money.”
“You’ll do better next time.”
“I lost nine thousand dollars. Two thousand here. Seven thousand at the craps table.”
“You’ll make it back.”
Jones felt like someone had pulled the rug out from beneath him. He was drowning under a mountain of debt. “I can’t do it.” He stared at him. “I’m out of money, flat broke.”
Mick rubbed his chin. “I may have a solution for you.”
“I’ll bite”
“It’s easy to get cash, if you know the right people. Come with me.”
Jones followed him through the casino, weaving through the crowd. Two women at the roulette table jumped up and down, holding each other’s hands, screaming with excitement. Everyone at their table celebrated with them, some clapping their hands, others raising their drinks in the air. Jones was amazed at how many people were having a great time.
“This is a wild place, isn’t it?” Jones asked.
“Oh, you can say that again.” Mick sounded upbeat. “This place is incredible.”
“Even though I’ve lost a lot of money, I still feel like I belong here.”
Mick grinned. “You feel like you’re part of a big family, don’t you?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I feel like you do, too. Like there’s no other place I’d rather be in the world.”
Jones followed him through a door, into a large office. He sat down in a client’s chair across from the desk and crossed his legs. Behind the desk was a large man, punching data into a computer. The man was wearing nice clothes—black suit, black-and-white-striped shirt, white tie. He had a neat goatee and short brown hair.
“My name is John,” he said. “John Locke. I’m the business relations manager.”
“I’m Tim.” He raised his chin. “Tim Jones.”
Lock gave him a stern look. “How much money do you need?”
“I didn’t think it would be this easy.”
“No one comes in here for any other reason.”
Jones felt his palms became sweaty. He wanted to leave, but he wanted a chance to make his money back. “I lost nine thousand dollars.”
“I’m not interested in what you lost tonight. I’m interested in the grand total.”
“I lost twenty-nine thousand dollars.”
Lock didn’t bat an eye. “I’ll get you a loan for thirty grand.”
Jones had an uneasy feeling about it. He knew money like this didn’t come without strings. “What’s the catch?”
“You just have to understand the terms of the loan, that’s all. No misunderstandings.”
“I’m listening.”
Locke got to his feet, moved in front of his desk, and leaned against it. He folded his big arms across his chest. “You have thirty days to repay the loan, including ten percent interest.”
“That’s not going to be a problem.”
“Hold on a second.” Lock’s voice toughened. “Think long and hard about it.”
Jones didn’t need much time to decide. It was a no brainer. “I’ll make up the money I lost. Plus, I’ll be able to pay you back, too.”
“You won’t pay me back. You’ll pay back my employer.”
“Who’s that?”
“You’ll never meet him. I’m the middleman. So, you’ll only deal with me.”
“That’s not going to be a problem. You seem like you’re easy to deal with.” Jones was relieved he had found an opportunity to make up his losses. Destined to beat the odds, he knew his luck was going to change. He couldn’t lose. Not in a million years. The next time he put his chips on the table, he intended to make a killing.
“If you don’t pay back the money, my boss will send people after you.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Jones waved him off. “I’ll be able to pay it back.”
Locke gave him a grave look. “In the end, he’ll collect his cash. One way or the other.”
“Don’t sweat it.”
“Do you still want to roll the dice?”
Jones felt a growing sense of excitement. He couldn’t wait to start gambling again. By the end if the cruise, he intended to be debt free. “Show me the money.”
Chapter 20
Malone sat in his living room, thinking about Boris Basov’s parents. On a business trip from Russia, Igor Basov flew to Miami, where he stayed for several months. While engaged in an illegal business transaction, he met a young woman, who worked at a local grocery store. After dating her for a short time period, he got her pregnant. But after she had the baby, she f
ound out her lover was part of a brutal crime organization in Russia. Horrified, she didn’t want him to have anything to do with their child. That didn’t go over well with the mobster, but a week later, he was killed in a drug smuggling operation. When Boris Basov grew up, he was curious to learn more about his father’s side of the family. With this in mind, he traveled Russia, where he met his three half brothers—all high ranking members of the Russian Mafia. Accepted into the crime family, Boris Basov returned to the United States. With unlimited funding, he opened a string of illegal businesses. Specializing in embezzlement, arms trafficking, and contract killings, he made everyone back home a lot of money. Malone’s cell phone rang. It was his wife, Karen.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” Malone said. “It’s so nice to hear from you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“This place isn’t the same.” Malone sighed. “Not without you being here.”
There was a long pause on the line. “I can’t talk long.”
“Oh?”
“I’m going out.”
Malone was starting to feel uncomfortable. “It’s a little late, isn’t it?”
“Like I said before, I’ve decided to move on with my life.”
“Who are you going out with?” Malone’s heart sank in his chest. Maybe she’s going out on a date, he thought. He felt bile rising in the back of his throat. He didn’t want to pry into her personal business, but he wanted to know where she was going.
“I just called to wish you a happy birthday, that’s all.”
“It’s not until tomorrow.”
“Check the clock.” Karen sounded distant. “It’s already past midnight.”
“Will you come over tonight?”
There was another long pause on the line. “You’re drinking right now, aren’t you?”
“I’m not going to lie,” Malone said. “I’ve had a few.” He looked at the glass of whiskey on the coffee table, noticing most of it was ice. His drinks never seemed to last long, no matter how hard he tried to pace himself. He grabbed the glass, placed it to his lips, and gulped the rest of it down. It burned the back of his throat. Picking up the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, he poured himself another drink.
“I knew it.” Malone heard her sigh. “It’s the same old story.”
“Why even ask me?”
“I’m worried about you.” Karen sounded upset. “I still hope you’re going to change.”
Malone thought she was blowing things out of proportion. “It’s my birthday, isn’t it?”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“I’ll put the cork back in the jug soon, probably in a few days.”
“You can do better than that.”
Malone was confused. “What are you talking about?”
“Give Alcoholics Anonymous a try.”
“I’m on a dangerous case, you know that.” Malone took a drink from the glass and felt the tension begin to ease from his shoulders. Oh, that feels so much better, he thought. Leaning back on the couch, he stared at the whiskey in his glass, realizing it was a double edge sword. On the one hand, he loved how it made him feel—calm, relaxed, and invincible. But on the other hand, he couldn’t put it down, not until he was good and hammered. He put the glass to his lips, opened his mouth, and took another long swallow.
“This doesn’t have anything to do with your work.”
Malone didn’t follow her. “Huh?”
“Alcoholics drink all the time, regardless of their circumstances.”
“I drink a lot more during tough times. You know that.”
“You get drunk when things are going good, too. What’s your excuse for that?”
“Let me think about that for a second.” Malone was silent for a moment, contemplating the question. No matter how hard he racked his brain, he couldn’t come up with a valid answer. “I can’t defend the indefensible.”
“You’re going to have to come to grips with that.”
Malone felt a cold chill rush through him. “That’s a really good point.”
“I’ll talk to you later, when your figure it out.”
“Wait a moment.” Malone felt a sense of urgency. “Let’s try to work things out.”
There was another long pause on the line. “I can’t listen to this anymore.”
“I’ll get some help for my drinking, I promise. I’ll talk to a counselor about it.”
“No, I’m done with you.”
“Wait a second.” Malone felt his heart drop in his chest. “Please don’t hang—”
Malone sat there for a moment, pressing the phone to his ear, but she was gone. He clipped his cell phone back onto his waist. Frustrated, he gulped down his drink. Oh, being married is difficult, he thought. I can’t live with her, and I can’t live without her. He got off the couch, grabbed the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and headed to the sliding glass doors. Outside, on his back patio, the night was cool, laced with a slight bit of humidity. Standing behind a waist high railing, he stared down at the boats in the Biscayne Bay, some of them docked for the night, others heading toward the Atlantic Ocean. He lifted the bottle of whiskey above his head, as if toasting to them, and then took a long pull off the bottle.
Chapter 21
Peterson came into the homicide squad room, one hand holding a cup of coffee, the other a manila folder. She sat down and put the coffee mug on her desk. Her eyes were bloodshot. She placed the folder in her lap, reached her hands over her head, and stretched. Malone could tell she was wrestling with her own demons.
“Did you have a rough night?” Malone asked.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about the victim, Steve James. His skull. His blood. His brains.”
“It’s part of the job.”
Peterson looked upset. “I could have done without seeing it, though.”
“You’re not as bad as you used to be.”
“How do you do it?”
“I just flip the switch at night. I tune everything out.” Malone knew it was easier said than done. To keep the streets safe, detectives had to develop a thick skin. Up against criminals that were tougher than nails, law enforcement officers had to be prepared to engage in a deadly confrontation on the drop of a dime.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be like you.”
“Don’t try to be.”
“You seem like you have it all together.”
Malone felt like a failure. He couldn’t stop thinking about how much he missed his wife. “I’m got my fair share of problems. But I keep putting one foot in front of the other.”
“So, the job does get to you?”
“Sure it does. But other things bother me a lot more.”
“Do you want to get them off your chest?”
“No, I’d rather talk about the case.” Malone got to his feet and moved to the white coffee maker. He grabbed a mug and poured himself a full cup of coffee, black. He sat down behind his desk and took a sip. Outside, the morning sun beat through the window, casting half of the squad room in bright light. It always seemed to give him a pounding headache.
“I’ve got the Medical Examiner’s report. It confirms everything we suspected.”
Malone believed you could never be too thorough. “Let’s hear the details.”
“The victim was Steve James. Forty-two. Five-foot-ten. One hundred seventy pounds.”
“Did he have a family?”
“He was married. He had three kids, 7, 10, and 12.”
“That’s got to be hard on everyone.” Malone shook his head. He had to talk to James’ wife because she could have important information about the investigation. It looked like he had committed suicide, although murder couldn’t be ruled out, not until his family members, friends, and colleagues had been questioned.
“I’ll let you talk to his wife.” Peterson paused. “You’re much better at that than I am.”
“Do you have a time of death?”
Peterson looked back at the report. “He died between the hours of ten A.
M and one P.M.”
“Do you have a cause of death?”
“One nine millimeter bullet to the side of the head did him in.”
“Tell me about the murder weapon.”
Peterson looked troubled. “The gun we recovered from the crime scene matches the slug found in the deceased. However, the gun is untraceable. The serial numbers have been filed off.”
“The crime lab will get to the bottom of it. Let’s give them some time and see what they come up with.” Malone knew hard steel dies were used to stamp serial numbers into metal gun frames. Each digit was punched into the gun’s frame, which compressed the metal far beneath it. When someone ground the serial numbers away, the remaining surface of the gun looked smooth. To the naked eye, the numbers weren’t visible anymore. However, since the compressed metal still retained the original marks, sometimes the crime lab could restore their appearance by applying a strong acid to the gun’s smooth surface. The acid would dissolve a few layers of the compressed metal, which would expose an etched pattern of the original serial numbers.
“Our guys are working on it now,” Peterson said. “We should know something soon.”
“Tell me about the gunshot residue powder.”
Peterson looked back at the report. She placed her index finger to her lips, obviously processing the information. “GSR was found on James’ right hand, suit jacket, and hair.”
“It’s consistent with him firing the gun.”
“James had stippling burns on his skull, right around the bullet wound to his head.”
“It happens when someone is shot at close range.”
Peterson looked puzzled. “Do you think everything adds up?”
Malone opened his top drawer and pulled out James’ 1099-B. He leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head, and stared straight ahead. “James lost over forty million dollars in the stock market.”
“That’s a lot of money,” Peterson said. “More than most people see in their lifetime.”
“It’s a reason to commit suicide, no doubt about it.”
“So you think Kemp was telling the truth?”
Something didn’t sit right with Malone. He kept thinking about the murder weapon.
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