“Where’d he go?”
“That’s what I’m tellin’ you, girl. I haven’t a clue.”
“So he avoided the cameras?”
“Incriminating, isn’t it?”
“The way this thing is going down, Dane couldn’t be any worse off than if he’d appeared on national TV and told Katie Couric he did it.” I blew at a strand of hair while I stalled for thinking time. But thought proved elusive. “If Dane has a death wish, I can’t save him. So, let’s focus on the feed from the Poker Room. I’d like to know who was playing with our dead girl—both figuratively and literally. And, maybe we can pick up who might have been watching her.”
Lost in thought, I watched Jerry work through some pull-down menus. He shouted across the room and one of his staff rushed to push various buttons on the main console. So far we had one dead girl, married to a friend who was acting stranger than normal. The girl was cheating at a card game but didn’t win. She claimed she was in some sort of trouble—that much seemed to be true. The Stoneman was either so incompetent he shouldn’t have been allowed within a hundred yards of a Poker Room, or he was up to his ass in alligators. But what was the connection?
Beat the heck out of me.
“I’ll start the tape around one a.m.,” Jerry said. “That’s right after the break where your girl takes a phone call. I presume that’s the one from Dane. You said she didn’t bust out until close to two?”
“Two, right, but I said she made a phone call.”
“No.” Jerry shook his head and cued the feed. The monitor flashed to life. “Here, watch it for yourself.”
I’d been right, Sylvie Dane had been a real looker—style and class with just enough trashy thrown in to call attention to herself in Vegas. Pale, her face drawn, and the looked of the hunted in her eyes, she played aggressively for sure, but more than that—she played with reckless abandon. And from the reaction of some of her compatriots, they were starting to smell a rat. Bad beats were part of the game, but when one player hit a string of luck that defied the odds, the others began to get twitchy. And there were so many ways to cheat.… Of course, I knew how Sylvie did it. But, during the game, she kept her eyes averted behind glasses with lenses just gray enough to obscure the color difference in her eyes.
Jerry was right. Clearly annoyed, Sylvie fished her phone out of her handbag—the same one she’d died holding—and answered the call, cupping her hand around her mouth as she spoke. The conversation had been brief.
I wondered who had called her. “Are there any more calls?”
Jerry shook his head. “I checked twenty minutes either side. Nothing. You can always check her phone.”
“Funny enough, that was missing from the crime scene.”
His eyes widened a bit as he looked at me and took a long pull on his cigarette. He didn’t have to say anything, I could tell we were both on the same page—Dane had time to lift the phone from her purse.
One thing I didn’t know: Was lying a protective habit or a calculation with Dane?
Either way, it so did not work for me.
But now was not the time to think about Dane—it just pissed me off. And when I was pissed, I couldn’t think. I turned my attention back to the poker game unfolding in front of me. While Sylvie was a curiosity, I knew her story—at least I thought I did. On the other hand, a couple of the others at the table were more interesting. I tapped the screen. “That guy there.”
“Kevin Slurry.” Jerry answered as he took a pull on his cigarette then blew a ring of smoke.
I watched the ring dissipate. “They call him ‘the Hawk,’ right?”
“Yep. A big-stakes amateur who loves to slow play, then swoop in for the kill.”
“He had just bought in to the big game when I had arrived in the Poker Room and had my altercation with the Stoneman. I find it curious that he was playing the thousand-dollar buy-in before that. Doesn’t his motor run on higher octane adrenaline?”
“He doesn’t normally go for the satellite games. But, from the looks of it, he’s cleaning everyone’s clock.” Multicolored chips stacked high in rows in front of him formed a wall of money, gaudy enough to get all the attention.
“The cat who ate the canary,” I commented as one of the pros motioned the Stoneman over to the table and had a whispered conversation with him. I couldn’t tell what was said, the cameras in the Poker Room were not equipped with audio, but the conversation was heated and left the pro red faced with anger.
“What’s that guy’s name again?” I tapped the pro’s image on the screen. “I’ve seen him around.”
“Morton.” Jerry pulled on his cigarette, then gazed with narrowed eyes through the smoke at the image on the screen. “First name Felix, but no one calls him that to his face if they value their skins. Most refer to him as ‘the Professor.’ He’s from somewhere back East, I think. Chases the big money.”
“Stop the tape,” I said a bit louder than I had intended, making Jerry jump. “Who is that?”
“Where?” He leaned forward.
“There.” I pointed to a fuzzy image. A pair of jean-clad legs.
Jerry pushed buttons and searched other feeds until he found the right one to back out. Blurry but recognizable.
“Well I’ll be damned,” Jerry and I said in unison.
We looked at each other. “You first,” I said.
“The kid who was counting cards…”
I’d forgotten about that. “What time were you tangled up with him?”
“A little after two. He told me that he’d left the Poker Room because some of the players were hassling him, not letting him play.”
“Not only the players.” I crossed my arms and leaned back. “He’s the kid I fired the Stoneman over.” I would’ve said the plot thickens, but that was too much of a cliché, even for me. “He must’ve been on break from one of the other tables or he wouldn’t have been allowed to stand there.” As I said it, the steward hustled him away from the table.
But he’d been there long enough.
“You think he was in on whatever scam was going down?”
“It would be interesting to find out, wouldn’t it?”
“You done with this one?” Jerry asked. At my nod, he rekeyed the original feed.
I pointed to the man sitting opposite Sylvie Dane. “River Watalsky. I didn’t know he was back in the game.”
A muscular guy with sandy brown hair cut military short, small angry eyes, and thin lips, Mr. Watalsky had a killer instinct, and an uncanny knack to get his card on the river, hence the nickname. Unfortunately, River’s luck ran hot and cold, and he was the last one to realize when it had turned icy. He’d won and lost so many fortunes even the oddsmakers in Vegas had quit laying odds on him. When he’d been down on his luck, I’d gotten him a job or two. Last I’d heard he’d been driving a cab.
“Yeah, surprised me, too,” Jerry mumbled as he took the last drag on his cigarette—his fifth since I’d arrived but who was counting? “He’s a good guy. Nice to see luck smiling on him again.”
Tonight, from the size of the stack in front of River and the fact he had a grand to buy in, I guessed Lady Luck had visited him once more. I didn’t know who won the tournament, but from the stack of chips in front of him, I’d bet he’d at least made it into the money.
Jerry reached for his pack and shook another cigarette out. He lit it with the butt.
“I thought you’d quit.” On the theory that secondhand smoke was worse than the filtered stuff, I scooched my chair away.
“I’ve tried everything. Even some laser hocus-pocus, if you can believe that.”
“No way.”
“I knew it wouldn’t work when I saw the pile of butts in the bushes by the front door to the place, but I’m desperate. I’d try hypnosis if I wasn’t scared of what other suggestions might be implanted—I’ve seen those hypnotists on the Strip. My insurance premiums are through the roof. My wife is hounding my ass. Gotta love her, but she’s driving me crazy
.”
“My kind of gal.” I tapped River Watalsky’s image on the screen. “That guy can ferret out a cheat better than anybody I know. I wonder how come he was hoodwinked by the looker.”
“He wasn’t.” Jerry let smoke out through his mouth then sucked it back in through his nose. I didn’t even know that was possible. “He got pretty steamed at Sylvie Dane.”
“Really? What’d he do?”
“Not much. The Stoneman stonewalled him, what could he do?”
“Take matters into his own hands?”
“Watalsky?” Jerry’s voice rose an octave as his eyebrows shot north. “No way.”
“People kill so often for money that it’s become hackneyed. You know that.”
“Yeah, but she was losing, remember?”
“True, but something was going down, that much seems obvious. So, the two were in it together and she’d get the split later. I don’t know. There’s lotsa ways this could’ve worked.”
“But Watalsky? If that guy has a mean bone, I’ve not seen it.” Jerry had dug in his heels.
I shrugged. “Farfetched, I know, but feasible.” I made a sweeping motion. “For God’s sake, the whole table knew Sylvie was cheating.”
“Seems like everyone knew except the Stoneman, the little shit.” Jerry squashed out the butt of one cigarette after lighting another from the glowing embers.
I tried to ignore his chain-smoking, but wasn’t very successful. “When did the game end?”
“They broke it up right after Sylvie left. The Hawk took the pot.”
“Thanks to Sylvie and her little game, whatever it was,” I scoffed. “I’m going to want to talk to Watalsky.”
“Sure. You pick the time and place.”
“This morning, my office.” Neither of us took our eyes off the video feed.
“It’s already morning. Better make it afternoon,” Jerry said, the cigarette held between his lips bouncing with the words. “He’s on a roll. You know him, with money in his pocket he’ll play until he’s tapped out or thrown out.”
As we watched, Sylvie hooked a finger under the chain around her neck and pulled what looked to be a pocket watch out of her cleavage. I’d heard that was a great place to stash stuff, but having no cleavage of my own, I wouldn’t know. “Can you zoom in on that?”
Jerry gave me a sly grin as he toggled a few switches. “My pleasure.”
In no mood to play, I ignored the exaggerated leer that followed.
Besides, nobody in Vegas really cared about cleavage anymore. These days, everyone had a set of first-class, custom jugs. Five grand and serious pain just to be like everyone else. There was an interesting irony there.
Made of white gold, with what appeared to be a rather ornate pattern in precious stones on the cover, the watch looked expensive.
“Interesting bauble for a girl always low on funds. I wonder what happened to it. It wasn’t around her neck when I saw her on the Ferrari.”
“Dane took it, maybe?” Jerry commented, his eyes never leaving the feed. After a few moments, he froze the picture. Tapping it, he looked thoughtful. “There’s something…”
“What?”
“Hang on.” His chair shot back as he stood. Without a word, he strode from the room, leaving me alone with the silence and the ticking of the clock hanging on the wall.
Not much time passed, not even enough for me to get nervous, before he burst back into the room, waving a piece of paper over his head. “That watch rang a bell.” He thrust the paper at me. “It’s stolen.”
“Really?” I snatched the paper from him, smoothed it on the table, and began reading. Two weeks ago. From one of our nicest suites. “Do you know these people?”
“Big fish from Toledo. The suite was comped.” He turned the paper back around and read from the second page—I hadn’t made it that far. “The watch they reported stolen had been in the family several generations, they were pretty upset. Apparently some famous ancestor had inscribed his initials on the inside cover.”
“I wonder how it ended up in Sylvie Dane’s possession?” I also wondered what happened to it, but I didn’t voice that. If Jerry knew, he’d have told me. But I knew who might be able to shed some light. Dane had some answering to do—he hadn’t mentioned the necklace, nor, come to think of it, the missing shoe. “Could you get me a photo?”
“It’ll be grainy, but your wish is my command.” Jerry moved the cursor over an icon and pressed. Somewhere in the darkness behind us a printer whirred to life.
After flipping open the cover on the watch, Sylvie made a show of checking the time, then snapped it shut and tucked it back into its nest. Most of the men at the table were riveted. Even the Hawk. Even Marvin Johnstone who stood off to the side.
For the next forty-five minutes, Sylvie played fast and loose until her stack was gone. Rachael escorted her from the table, as she said she had. Sylvie didn’t look afraid, just…angry. When Dane joined her, she narrowed her eyes as she grabbed his elbow whirling him around. Her mouth set into a grim line, with an in-your-face tilt to her chin, she motivated him toward the exit.
Dane and his wife made a striking couple as he untangled his arm and grabbed one of hers just above the elbow, turning her skin white from the grip of his fingers. Neither of them looked pleased to see the other. No, they both looked mad as hell.
Not what I expected, but somehow that didn’t surprise me—disappointed me, perhaps, but surprise? Not so much. I could be really stupid, but I was a fast learner—with Dane everything was smoke and mirrors, a clever game of misdirection.
Forcing my focus back to the screen, I watched for a moment. Something else wasn’t right, but I couldn’t pinpoint it. “Rewind that section, would you?”
I kept my eyes on Dane and his wife as Jerry did as I asked, “Again.”
By the third time I had it.
Her shoes. Slingbacks with a peep-toe. There’s-no-place-like-home red. With a red sole. I’d seen those shoes before.
“Damn.” I leaned back in the chair and let my breath out in whoosh.
“What?” Jerry asked as he crushed the butt in the ashtray. He seemed oblivious to the fact it was overflowing.
“I saw those shoes on a girl in the casino.” I closed my eyes, playing back my mental tape. What had she looked like? Leaping out of the chair, I squeezed my eyes shut as I paced across the small cubicle—not much room to think. Trying to picture her face, I could only conjure vague details. Brunette, I thought. Hispanic, maybe. Medium height. Medium weight. Average everything. Well, that really narrowed it down. She’d seemed nervous, anxious…and tired. I’d passed all that off to a new job and a late night. Why hadn’t I paid more attention? Because I was fixated on the friggin’ shoes, that’s why. Boy, I sure had a case of the stupids. And it was getting worse. Not a good sign.
“Dane’s wife was wearing them, then they show up on some chick in the casino?” Jerry asked as he rose and stepped out of his cubicle. Returning a few moments later, he handed me the print of Sylvie Dane’s watch, which I folded and pocketed. He parked one butt cheek on the edge of the console and pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket, wiping his brow before he stuffed the bit of cloth back where it had come from. “You think Dane’s wife has somebody else’s shoe planted in her neck? And, do I need to point out that those red shoes on her feet in the video and the ones you saw could be different pairs?”
“Even with my diminished IQ I considered that, but it’d be one heck of a coincidence, don’t you think?” I tapped the screen that still showed Sylvie Dane frozen in time. “Those shoes are a special, limited-edition kind of thing, I’ve seen them in the holiday fashion mags. Christian Louboutin. And expensive beyond the reach of us commoners. Can I have a print of that still shot also?”
It only took him a moment to get me what I wanted.
“Get some of your guys on those shoes right now,” I barked at Jerry in my best follow-those-shoes voice. “Last I saw her, the girl was near Delilah’s. T
hat would be around four or four thirty. Sorry I can’t be more precise—time is getting away, lately. With a picture, HR can give us a name.” Before he could grab his box of cancer sticks, I snatched it. With a flourish, I squashed the thin cardboard in my fist as I held it under his nose. Then I let the remnants sift through my open fingers into the wastebasket.
“I’ve had enough folks dying on my watch, thank you very much.”
Chapter Five
On autopilot, I tapped my foot as I waited for the elevator. Unable to handle even the tiniest glimpse of reality, I studiously avoided looking at myself in the mirrored surface of the bronze doors. One floor down to the lobby—even though Security was on the same level as my office, there was no direct route between the two. I should’ve taken the stairs, but my recent enthusiasm for self-betterment seemed to be flagging. Somehow, while I had been busy actually enjoying myself, life had done a one-eighty and galloped into the gloom.
Teddie was gone. Bodies were piling up.
Along with “the bad die young” I should add “the good times never last” to the Lucky O’Toole Book of Wisdom—a very thin volume, but each sage, clichéd, tidbit learned the hard way.
Silently the elevator doors slid open and I stepped inside. With my shoulders pressed against the back wall, I crossed my arms across my chest and closed my eyes, letting my head lean back. I took a couple of deep breaths. The truth of it was, I was running on fumes. I couldn’t sleep, hadn’t been eating, and had been drinking more than even I thought was healthy. The only exercise I got was running from one crisis to another. I had a sneaking suspicion that my friends were thinking of staging an intervention.
After a moment of unfamiliar introspection, it dawned on me that, given the option, Sylvie Dane would probably want to change places with me. A very real example of my mother’s frequent admonition that things could always be worse. Clichés apparently ran in my family. Too bad it couldn’t be something useful like long legs or a sunny disposition.
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