“I don’t know,” Sexton said. “They’re not lettin’ us in on their plans. I’m just glad it’s their problem.”
“They’ll probably talk to his friends first,” Jimmy said, “and anybody who’s been seen with him.”
“Maybe they’ll solve it before they have to talk to all two hundred plus players.”
“Yeah,” Jimmy said, his mind racing, “maybe.”
“I’ve got to go, Jimmy,” Sexton said.
“Okay, Mike. Thanks for the info.”
“What info? Ah didn’t give you anythin’.”
“Right,” Jimmy said. “Nothing.”
Sexton took off, leaving Jimmy with the nickel slots and his thoughts.
Jimmy decided the murder would best be a curiosity pursued in his spare time, not allowed to interfere with his poker game. The police probably wouldn’t even get around to questioning him. If they were going to interview all the participants in the tournament, they might as well try to talk to everyone in the casino. The logistics of the whole thing were just too unwieldy. Besides, if they found evidence that a woman did it, they’d be questioning women.
With any luck he wouldn’t be involved at all.
His noninvolvement lasted all of two hours. It was just after nine, and he was riding a hot streak when the tournament director tapped him on the shoulder.
“Mr. Spain?”
“What is it?”
“Would you come with me please, sir?”
Jimmy looked up at the director, who was wearing a sour expression.
“Am I being given a time-out?” he asked. “Look, all I said was I didn’t think this fella here— What’s your name, again?”
The man he had been tormenting for the past two hours, completely psyching out of his game, was about to answer when the director said, “No, sir, it’s the, uh, police.”
“Police?”
“Yes, sir.”
Jimmy looked around, saw two men he assumed were detectives standing at the edge of the playing floor.
“The police want me?”
“Yes, sir,” the director said. “They’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Jimmy looked at the stack of chips in front of him, which was about forty-five thousand dollars. “I’m kinda hot here,” he complained.
“I understand, Mr. Spain,” the director said, “but the police are sort of in charge at the moment. Don’t worry. You won’t be blinded off.”
Jimmy looked around the table. The other players certainly did not look disappointed at the prospect of his streak being interrupted.
“Save my seat, guys,” he said unnecessarily as he stood up. “I won’t be gone long.”
As he followed the director, he heard someone say, “I hope he never comes back.”
He didn’t turn around to see who it was.
“I’m Detective Cooper,” the black man said, “and this is my partner, Detective Devine. We’re with the Las Vegas P.D. Homicide Squad.”
“Devine?” Jimmy asked, realizing immediately it was the wrong thing to say.
“Yeah, what about it?” Devine asked pugnaciously. The man’s clear blue eyes bored into Jimmy from beneath bushy white eyebrows. He’d probably been getting shit about his name for twenty years or more on the job.
“Nothing,” Jimmy said. “I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just, you know, an unusual name.” Great, he thought, now he’s pissed at me.
He looked at the other detective, the younger, calmer one.
“And your name is James Spain?” Detective Cooper asked.
“Jimmy,” he answered. “I go by Jimmy.”
“All right, Mr. Spain,” Cooper said. “As you may or may not know we’re investigating a possible homicide that took place here in the casino hotel.”
“I . . . might have heard something about it,” Jimmy admitted. “What’s it got to do with me?”
“What makes you think it’s got anything to do with you?” Devine demanded.
“You’re standing here talking to me,” Jimmy said. “You pulled me out of the game—at a time, I might add, when I was getting pretty hot.”
“Is that a fact?” Devine asked. “Are we botherin’ you?”
“No,” Jimmy said, “no, I didn’t mean you were— Look, what’s this about?”
“Sir,” Cooper said, giving his partner what looked like a legitimately annoyed look, “do you know a woman named Sabine Chevalier?”
“Yes, I do,” Jimmy said. “She’s a player in the tournament.”
“Is that all she is?” Devine asked. “Fine lookin’ woman like that? You wouldn’t be hittin’ that, would you, Spain?”
“Is that what she— Look, okay, I know the woman casually, that’s all.”
“And do you know a girl named Kat Landrigan?”
That stopped Jimmy cold. Why were they asking about Kat?
“Yes, I do,” he said. “Is she all right?”
“Oh, she’s fine,” Devine said. “She just might have helped kill a guy last night, that’s all.”
“Andy,” Cooper said, glaring.
Jimmy bit his lip. He almost said, Andy Devine? The man glared at him, as if daring him to say something.
“Look, Mr. Spain,” Cooper said, “if you know these two women we’d like you to come with us to answer a few more questions.”
“Come with you where?”
“Just to a room in the hotel we’re using.”
At least they weren’t taking him to their precinct, or whatever they called it here in Vegas.
“Sure,” Jimmy said. “Why not? I’d like to cooperate any way I can.”
“That’s real good, pal,” Devine said. “That makes us very happy.”
As they began to walk away from the tournament director and the playing floor, Jimmy asked, “Can you tell me why you picked me out specifically?”
“Sure,” Devine said. “Both of your girlfriends gave you up.”
“Gave me up?”
“What my partner means, Mr. Spain,” Cooper said, “is that both of these women said they were with you last night at the time of the murder.”
“With . . . me? Both of them?”
“That’s right, stud,” Devine said. “Must’ve been some party.”
“They don’t claim to have been with you together,” Cooper said, his tone betraying his exasperation with his partner. Jimmy didn’t get a good cop–bad cop feel from the pair. He got the feeling they didn’t work well together. “Not, like, in a threesome or anything.”
“So what are they claiming?”
“They’re both using you as an alibi, sir,” Cooper said. “You can understand how that would make us a little . . . curious.”
SIXTEEN
Jimmy thought they were going to take him to a floor of hotel rooms, but instead they took him down a hall to some offices. There were two other offices with closed doors, a uniformed cop standing in front of each.
“Excuse me a minute,” Cooper said. He walked over to speak with the men, leaving Jimmy with Detective Devine.
“Hey, look,” Jimmy said, trying to make peace, “we got off on the wrong foot—”
“I know what foot we got off on, Spain,” Devine snapped back. “You professional poker players make me sick. You sit and play games while us working stiffs sweat for a living.”
At least Jimmy knew now that there was a lot more behind Devine’s attitude than any personal enmity toward him. He could live with that.
“Okay . . .” he said.
Cooper came back and asked Jimmy, “Would you step in here with us, please?”
“Detective,” he said, “your partner seems to have a hard on for poker players. Don’t you think we’d get more accomplished if you and I talked alone?”
“Hey, listen, you son of a—”
“He’s right, Andy.”
“What?” Devine looked apoplectic.
“I’ll talk with Mr. Spain alone.”
“Listen, Cooper, I got more time on th
e job than you—”
“That may be,” Cooper said, “but I’m the primary on this case. We’ll do it my way. Mr. Spain?”
Spain preceded him into an office furnished with two desks, desk chairs, and some file cabinets. Cooper closed the door behind them, leaving Devine out in the hall.
“Why do I get the feeling you guys aren’t exactly good cop–bad cop material.”
“Andy’s not a bad guy— Well, okay, he is, actually,” Cooper said. “But don’t worry about him, Mr. Spain. All you have to do is answer my questions, and you and I will get along fine.”
“Happy to hear it.”
“And the quicker we get this done, the quicker you can get back to your game.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“Have a seat.”
Jimmy looked around and chose an ergonomic chair.
“All right, then,” Cooper said. “Suppose you tell me your relationship with Sabine Chevalier.”
“I hardly know her,” Jimmy said. “We met a couple of nights ago, had dinner last night . . . and that’s it.”
Cooper consulted a small spiral notebook he took from his shirt pocket. He shrugged his shoulders to make his sports jacket sit right again, but there was no need. Not only was he the younger, calmer detective but the better dressed as well. It was obvious he did not buy off the rack, as his partner did.
“She said you had dinner in the evening, then went back to the game.”
“That’s right.”
“Then she says you called her and asked her to come to your room after the game.”
“And she said she came up?”
“Yes.”
“Just because I called her?”
“That’s what she said.”
“Wow,” Jimmy said, “I wish I had that power over women, don’t you?”
“My wife wouldn’t let me.”
“Well, I just don’t, Detective,” Jimmy said. He’d already decided he didn’t know Sabine Chevalier well enough to lie for her. And now not backing her alibi, he figured he never would get to know her any better. But it was foolish of her to think he’d lie.
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning I never called her to ask her to come to my room,” Jimmy said. “She wasn’t there.”
“So you’re saying you’re not her alibi for last night.”
“That’s what I’m saying—but for what it’s worth, I don’t think she has it in her to kill anyone. . . . How was he killed?”
“Apparently,” Cooper said, “somebody broke his neck.”
“I especially don’t see her killing someone that way,” Jimmy said. “I mean . . . she’s a woman.”
“Women kill, Mr. Spain,” Cooper said, “especially men.”
“We probably give them good reason to.”
“My wife would agree with you,” Cooper said. “What about this Kat Landrigan?”
“What about her?”
“Can you alibi her?” the detective asked. “Was she in your room last night?”
“Yes,” Jimmy lied.
“Doing what . . . if you don’t mind my asking.”
“I don’t mind you asking,” Jimmy said, “because you’re not doing it while your partner leers at me.”
“He’s not really my— Go on.”
“Kat is my—what should I call it—protégé? Trainee? Student?”
“They all fit,” he said. “She claims you’re her teacher.”
“Yes, I am.”
“And you’re teaching her . . . poker?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And that’s what you were doing last night?”
“The first day broke up at midnight,” Jimmy said, hoping he was telling the detective what Kat told him. “We came up here to go over the day’s play, hand by hand.”
“You can remember that?” Cooper asked. “I mean . . . every hand?”
“Any poker player worth anything can remember every hand, Detective,” Jimmy said. “It’s the only way we don’t make the same mistake twice.”
“Are you a regular on the circuit, Mr. Spain? Is that what they call it? The circuit?”
Jimmy nodded. Now he had to see if he could get by without mentioning that he was an ex-con. “I used to be.”
“What happened?”
“Burn out,” Jimmy said. “I took some time off. But lately I’ve been playing in the poker rooms and casinos in California. A few tournaments leading up to this one.”
“And the girl?”
“We live in the same building. When we met, and when she found out I was a professional poker player, she asked me to tutor her.”
“And you said yes?”
“Not right away,” Jimmy said. “She had to convince me.”
“How did she do that?”
Jimmy was amazed. The same question coming from Detective Devine would have sounded suggestive.
“With her talent.”
“She’s that good? To play with these pros, I mean? She seems too young for that.”
“Well,” Jimmy said, “that’s what we’re here to find out.”
“And you’re a professional?” Cooper asked. “I mean, you don’t do anything else for work? Just gamble?”
“You could say that. My main game is poker, pure and simple. Anything else is just fooling around.”
“You must be pretty good if you can make a living at it.”
“Do you play poker, Detective?”
“Some,” Cooper admitted. “We have a game once a month, some of my, uh, friends and colleagues.”
“And are you any good?”
“I win more than I lose.”
“Do you play Texas hold ’em?”
“No,” Cooper said, “mostly we play stud. I don’t know much about hold ’em—which reminds me.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a plastic ziplock bag. Inside the clear bag were three playing cards.
“Can you tell me what these are?”
“May I?”
Cooper handed him the bag. Inside was a jack of spades, a queen of hearts, and a king of clubs. Since that much was obvious, Jimmy wasn’t sure what the detective wanted to know.
“I mean, I know what they are,” Cooper said, as if reading Jimmy’s mind. “I know what cards they are, but do they represent anything?”
“Well, not these three specific cards,” Jimmy said, “but in hold ’em any combination of picture cards is what we call a Picasso flop.”
“Okay, I know what a flop is,” Cooper said. “I learned that from television. The first three cards dealt out on the table, right?”
“Right,” Jimmy said, “and many card combinations have nicknames. For instance, if a pair of fives land on the flop we call that the speed limit.”
“For fifty-five miles an hour.”
“Right. A pair of eights would be snowmen.”
“I see,” Cooper said. “And this is a Picasso flop.”
“Yes,” Jimmy said, “for the painter Pablo Picasso?”
“I know who Picasso was, Mr. Spain.”
“Sorry,” Jimmy said. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“No offense taken.” Cooper put his hand out and Jimmy returned the bag with the Picasso flop in it.
“So these cards have no specific meaning beyond that,” Cooper said.
“That’s right.”
“Well,” Cooper said, “I appreciate your help.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t help Miss Chevalier very much,” Jimmy said. “Are you, uh, holding them both?”
“Yes,” Cooper said, “in separate rooms down the hall.”
“And you are fairly certain that a woman is the killer?” Jimmy asked.
“There are some indications that a woman was with the deceased last night. That’s all we’re saying.”
“Am I allowed to ask the deceased’s name?”
“Sure,” Cooper said. “It’s gonna get out, anyway. His name is Tim Bennett.”
; “Bennett?”
“Did you know him?”
“I came pretty close last night, but officially, no.”
“Okay, then. We’re done with you, Mr. Spain. You’re free to go.”
“What about Kat?” Jimmy asked, standing up.
“We’ll be releasing her in a little while. We just have a few more questions for her.”
“Can I be present?”
Cooper was about to open the office door and stopped.
“Why would you want to be?”
“I feel responsible for her.”
“Are you a lawyer?”
“No,” Jimmy said, “we went through that already. I’m a poker player. Does she need a lawyer?”
“Not at the moment.”
Jimmy waited. Cooper didn’t open the door, but neither did he speak.
“So?” Jimmy asked.
“I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to be there,” the detective said finally, “but you can wait for her, if you want, in the hall.”
“Okay,” Jimmy said. “Thanks.”
“And try not to let Devine get to you.”
“Does he get to you?”
“Every day.”
As Cooper finally opened the door, Jimmy asked, “The cards in the plastic bag? You mind if I ask why they’re in a bag?”
“They’re evidence, Mr. Spain,” Cooper said. “This particular Picasso flop was found in the breast pocket of the dead man’s bathrobe.”
SEVENTEEN
Jimmy stood in the hall while Cooper walked over to Detective Devine and the two uniformed cops. Apparently he’d been able to match Kat’s story, effectively giving her an alibi for whenever Bennett was killed. Now what he had to find out was why she’d lied to the police.
And the same went for Sabine Chevalier. As pissed off as she was undoubtedly going to be, he was more pissed that she had tried to drag him into this. He didn’t need trouble with the police. Luckily, the way it looked now he was not necessarily a person of interest in this case, as both Kat and Sabine seemed to be. That meant there was a good chance Cooper wasn’t going to check him out and come up with his record. But why did she lie in the first place? Had she killed Bennett?
As he was trying to sort it all out, a door opened down the hall and Sabine came out. He braced himself for what was to come as she approached him. He needn’t have bothered. She walked past him without a word. He was so surprised he turned and watched her walk. In fact, he was so intent on watching her that he didn’t hear Detective Devine sidle up next to him.
The Picasso Flop Page 9