Dead Man's Hand

by Otto Penzler

"I used to. But not in about a year."

  "How come?"

  "I'm sort of banned from that casino. There was a misunderstanding last year."

  Bosch drank some more coffee and wondered if he should pursue this or if it was a misdirection Blitzstein was hoping he would pursue. He decided to proceed with caution.

  "What was the misunderstanding?"

  "It's got nothing to do with this."

  "If it has to do with that card room in Commerce, then it does have something to do with this. If you want to help me find your wife's killer, then you have to answer my questions and let me decide what matters and what is important. What was the misunderstanding?"

  "All right, I'll tell you if you have to know. They accused me of cheating, and there's nothing I could do to defend myself. I wasn't cheating, and it's their interpretation against my word. End of story. They kicked me out and won't let me back in. Banned for life."

  "But they didn't have a problem with your wife still coming?"

  Blitzstein shook his head angrily.

  "Of course not. She's a draw, man. She brings business in over there. When she's playing, you get all these guys coming out of the woodwork to play against the girl from the World Series and the ESPN commercials. They all want to kick her ass. It's a guy thing. It's like marking their turf, coming in her face. It's the same with all the women on the tour."

  Bosch was silent for a moment. This was no misdirection by Blitzstein. Bosch was beginning to see at least part of the motivation for murder. Blitzstein knew that if the murder of his wife—a well-liked and well-known player—was attributed to a follow-home from the casino in Commerce, then the card room would take a major public-relations hit that could impact its business and reputation. As if on cue to these thoughts, Blitzstein's rage boiled up and added further to Bosch's understanding of the crime.

  "You know what?" he said. "If this thing turns out to be a follow-home, I am going to sue their asses over there. It will be the biggest goddamn jackpot I ever rake in."

  Bosch simply nodded, hoping Blitzstein would say more. But he may have realized he had already said too much. He turned quiet and Bosch started off in a new direction.

  "How would you describe your relationship with your wife?"

  "How do you mean?"

  "You know, were you happy with each other, was it getting boring, were you upset that she was a poker celebrity and you weren't?"

  Bosch stared pointedly at him while he said the last part. Blitzstein reacted immediately.

  "We were fine. We were still in love, and I didn't give a shit about who was a celebrity and who wasn't. You know what poker comes down to? Twenty percent skill and eighty percent luck. Some people are more skilled than others, but luck is always the thing."

  Again Bosch waited a few moments to see if he would say more, but he didn't.

  Bosch continued. "All right, so the card room in Commerce is off limits. Where then do you play? The Hustler or the card room at the Hollywood track?"

  "Nope, I don't play anywhere. They're all together on this. You get banned one place, and they put your picture on the wall everyplace else. It's fucking unconstitutional, but nothing I can do anything about."

  "So you play private games?"

  "When I can get them, yeah. Meantime, I was my wife's manager."

  Bosch thought about his ex-wife and the stories she told about private games, the personal items, car keys, and guns that would sometimes go into the pots.

  "You ever win anything besides money at those private games?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "My ex-wife is a player—you might even know her. Eleanor Wish?"

  Blitzstein hesitated and then nodded. "Yeah, I remember her. I think Tracey told me she was in Hong Kong or Macao these days. I was even thinking of heading over there to check out the casinos."

  Bosch saw an opening and headed toward it.

  "When did you start thinking about that?"

  "What?"

  "Moving to Hong Kong or Macao."

  "Don't put words in my mouth, man. I said I was thinking of going over there to check it out, not move there. Why would I think of moving there?"

  "Because you were banned here. Did the ban extend to Las Vegas? Maybe you were thinking of pulling up stakes."

  "Look, man, it's none of your business. I wasn't thinking about moving anywhere. We have a house here and I was happy. A lot of things were happening for Trace, and I was managing her career. I don't need to defend myself to you."

  Bosch raised his hands in a backing-off gesture.

  "You certainly don't. Anyway, back to what I was asking about. Yes, my ex-wife does play in Macao. She likes it. Anyway, she used to tell me about these private games she played when she was over here. She said you could win anything sometimes. It was like owning a pawnshop. People would throw in jewelry, cars, guns. You ever won any stuff like that?"

  Blitzstein looked at Bosch for a long moment, his eyes going through a slow burn from cold to hot.

  "Fuck you, Detective Bosch. I want a lawyer."

  "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing's wrong, except for you trying to fuck me in the ass. I want a goddamn phone, and I want to call a lawyer."

  Bosch leaned back in his seat.

  "You know, once you say that, we're done. I can't talk to you and I can't help you. You sure you want—"

  "Help me? Yeah, help me into a prison cell for something I didn't do. Fuck you! Get me the phone. We're done here."

  Bosch drummed his fingers on the table for a moment and then nodded.

  "All right, we'll do it your way. I'll go get you the phone."

  He got up slowly, giving Blitzstein a last chance to change his mind, then left the room when he didn't.

  Gunn met him in the hallway.

  "Well, you got close," she said. "You convinced me—or rather, he convinced me—but I still don't think we have enough to charge him."

  "Maybe not. Has my partner called?"

  "Oh, shit! Your phone! Where is it? I ... I think I left it out there on your desk when we got the coffee."

  They walked out to the squad room and Bosch grabbed his phone. He'd missed three calls from Ferras while he was in the interview room with Blitzstein. He called back quickly.

  "Harry, where you been?"

  "In an interview. You got something?"

  "Jackpot, man. We got it all."

  "Tell me."

  "You were right. The driver-side door has a secret compartment. The armrest unsnaps from the door and opens up. The latch was hidden behind the speaker grille in the door."

  "What did you find?"

  "We found the money, the gun, a workout shirt, and gloves. It's all there. The gun's got a suppressor on it, too. A homemade job. There was also a bracelet in the compartment she must've put in there. It's from when she won a qualifying tournament for the World Series of Poker in oh-four."

  Bosch looked at Gunn. He was annoyed. It was all information he could've used before Blitzstein shut things down and called for a lawyer. He turned away and went back to Ferras.

  "Did you run the gun yet?"

  "Yeah, just did. It's a dead end. It was reported stolen nine months ago by the original owner in Long Beach. A gun dealer named Kermit Lodge. Said it was stolen off a table at a gun show in Pomona."

  Bosch knew it wasn't a dead end. If they found a link between the gun's original owner and Blitzstein, then the dead end could become an integral piece of evidence. But that was for later. He asked Ferras about the workout shirt and the gloves.

  "It's a long-sleeved plastic pullover. You know, for like sweating and losing weight."

  "And the gloves?"

  "Just your basic work gloves. They look new. There's blowback on the shirt and the gloves. The thing is, Harry, the shooter knew about the secret compartment. He shot her, then dumped the gun, the shirt, and the gloves in the compartment. The husband, Harry. He shot her, hid everything in the compartment, and then started cal
ling for help."

  "Yeah, now we just have to prove it. He just lawyered up."

  Ferras didn't respond, and in the silence Bosch thought of something. One last strategy.

  "What kind of work gloves are they? Leather, plastic, cotton?"

  "Cotton."

  Bosch felt a small spark of hope. The gloves and the shirt had been worn by the killer so that he would avoid getting blowback—blood, brains, and gunshot residue—on his body. But blowback came in all sizes—including microscopic—and cotton was porous.

  "Okay, I want you to leave the scene," Bosch said. "Go down to Long Beach and pick up the gun dealer. Bring him up here to RHD."

  "Pick him up for what?"

  "Just tell him he reported the theft of a weapon and that we've recovered it and need him to come downtown to identify it. Keep him in the dark. Just get him down here."

  "Okay, I'm on it."

  "Good."

  Bosch closed the phone.

  "What did they get?" Gunn asked.

  "Everything."

  He updated her on the phone call and she was immediately apologetic about forgetting about his phone. She knew he could have used the information about the secret compartment to press Blitzstein. It seemed obvious that he would have known about the compartment in his wife's car, yet he never mentioned it when discussing the precautions she took.

  "Don't worry about it," Bosch said. "It's done."

  "Then what's the next move?"

  Bosch didn't answer at first. He pulled his fold of cash out of his pocket. He had three one-dollar bills. He studied these and asked Gunn if she had any ones. She pulled out some cash and held out two ones.

  Bosch chose one of Gunn's dollars and gave her one of his in exchange. He then put the dollars in one pocket and returned his cash fold to the other.

  "Okay," he said. "Now we'll see what kind of a poker player David Blitzstein is."

  Bosch walked back into the interview room and put his cell phone down on the table in front of Blitzstein.

  "There's the phone," he said. "But since you are calling an attorney, I need to Mirandize you and make sure you have a full understanding of your rights. It's procedure."

  "Then let's get it on," Blitzstein said. "I want to make the call."

  Bosch pulled out a business card and sat down at the interview table across from Blitzstein. The card had the rights advisory on the reverse side. He read it out loud, then had Blitzstein read it and sign it as well. He watched as the suspect signed it with his left hand.

  Bosch pushed the phone across the table to him.

  "Who you going to call?" Bosch asked.

  This seemed to give Blitzstein pause.

  "I don't know," he said. "I don't know any criminal-defense attorneys."

  Bosch looked up at the ceiling as if considering it.

  "Let's see ... Johnnie Cochran's dead. And Maury Swann's in jail. There's Dan Daly and Roger Mills. Those are good guys. There's also Mickey Haller. I hear he's back in business."

  "Haller. I've heard of him. He's on TV a lot, so he must be good."

  Bosch shrugged.

  Blitzstein clicked a button on the phone and then punched in 411. He asked the directory-assistance operator for Haller's number. He then hung up without a thank-you and punched in Haller's number. Someone answered and transferred him. There was a long silence before Blitzstein had the lawyer of his choice on the line. After a few minutes of short-sentence discussion, he clicked off the phone.

  "He's on the way," Blitzstein said. "He'll get me out of here."

  "That shows a lot of confidence in somebody you've never met," Bosch said.

  "I have to have confidence in somebody. You people are trying to pin this on me."

  "We look for evidence, and it takes us where it takes us. We aren't looking to pin anything on anybody—unless they deserve it."

  "Got it."

  "Anyway, that's all I'm saying. You asked for a lawyer, and we can't talk about the case anymore. Those are the rules."

  "Damn right. You can leave now."

  "Not quite. I have to stay with you until your lawyer gets here. Those are the rules, too. We've had a few people hurt themselves after we leave them alone. Then they try to blame us."

  "You know, that's not a bad idea. Maybe I should pop myself in the eye and say you did it."

  "You try that and I'll make sure you file the report from the hospital."

  They sat in uncomfortable silence for a long three minutes after that. Bosch studied Blitzstein and waited for the right moment.

  Finally he began.

  "You want more coffee?"

  "No, it tasted like oil."

  Bosch nodded and let another thirty seconds go by.

  "When did you start playing poker?"

  Blitzstein shrugged. "When I was a kid. My old man was a beer drunk who played with his drinking buddies in the garage a couple nights a week. I used to watch and he'd let me take his hand when he went to take a leak."

  "Starting early like that, you must've played a lot of games over the years."

  "Too many to remember."

  "I never played against my wife. Did you ever play against Tracey?"

  "We tried to avoid it. Me and Trace knew each other too well. We knew the tells."

  Bosch nodded.

  "I always wanted to go head to head against a pro," he said. "What do you say?"

  Blitzstein shook his head in confusion.

  "What are you talking about?"

  Bosch leaned forward across the table while pulling his money out of his pocket.

  "You ever play liar's poker?"

  Blitzstein made a dismissive gesture with his left hand.

  "Not since I was about thirteen."

  Bosch held up the bill he had traded Gunn for. He folded it in his hand so Blitzstein would be unable to read the serial number.

  "Five sixes," he said.

  The object of liar's poker was to predict the total number of specific letters or numbers in the serial numbers of all dollar bills in the game. If Blitzstein took the bait, it would be a total coming from only two bills. Five sixes was a high bid.

  Blitzstein shook his head.

  "I don't play with amateurs."

  "With all those card rooms cutting you out, I would say that was all you had left to play with. Six sixes."

  "Jesus!" Blitzstein said in exasperation.

  "Come on, Mr. Pro. What've you got?"

  "I've got an hour in this room with you, and I think you're going to drive me nuts."

  "Then I guess I win by default."

  Bosch started putting his money away. Blitzstein leaned forward.

  "Just hold on, boy."

  He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out his cash. He found a dollar bill and crunched it in his fist.

  "You bid six sixes? Then I call without even looking. I know you're bluffing. You've got a major tell."

  "Yeah, what is that?"

  "You look away at the precise moment you should stare unflinchingly at your opponent."

  "Is that right?"

  Blitzstein dropped his bill on the table and Bosch did likewise. Bosch had five sixes in his serial number. He opened Blitzstein's bill carefully. It had one six. Bosch took both bills off the table.

  He held Blitzstein's up and smiled.

  "I'm going to frame this!"

  He put it into his shirt pocket, shoved his winning dollar bill into his pants pocket, and smiled.

  "Now I can tell people I beat a poker pro."

  "Yeah, I hope it makes you happy."

  This time Bosch stared unflinchingly at his opponent. And he saw Blitzstein's tell. A quick moment where his confidence deserted him and he wondered if he had just stepped into a trap.

  "It does make me happy," Bosch said. "Very happy."

  Bosch and Gunn walked into the forensics lab on the fourth floor and asked the counterwoman if a lab rat named Ronald Cantor was working. They were in luck. Cantor was in the lab
and they were buzzed through the gate.

  Cantor was an SEM jockey. His job was analyzing collected evidence with a scanning electron microscope. The normal wait time for this particular analysis ranged from four to six months. But there were unofficial ways around this. Lab rats were given morning, lunch, and afternoon breaks. What they did on those breaks was up to them. It was personal time. For example, if they wanted to, they could take cases out of order and put the evidence under the SEM lens. It was all about the incentives to do so.

  Ronald Cantor had an ongoing incentive when it came to Bosch. Five years earlier, Bosch had solved the murder of his nine-year-old niece, who had been snatched from her front yard in Laurel Canyon by a man who asked her for help finding a lost dog. Though devastated by the loss of the young girl, the Cantor family was always grateful to Bosch, primarily because he not only solved the case but also saved them the agony of going through a trial. During the killer's capture, Bosch had shot the man to death during a struggle for control of Bosch's gun. Ever since that day, Bosch was gold when it came to getting case time under the scanning electron microscope.

  "Ronnie, how are you?" Bosch said as he approached.

  "Doing good, Harry. This your new partner?"

  "For the day, you could say. Detective Gunn, this is Ronnie Cantor, SEM expert. Have you taken your morning break yet, Ronnie?"

  "No, just beginning to think about some hot chocolate, actually."

  "Well, I gotta little thing here I was hoping you'd take a look at real quick. We got a guy down in one of our rooms, and we need to pull the trigger on him in the next hour. Keep him or kick him loose. You could help us out while I went down and got the hot chocolate."

  Cantor swiveled on his stool away from the lab table where he was working and looked directly at Bosch.

  "What have you got?" he asked.

  With two fingers, Bosch pulled Blitzstein's dollar bill out of his shirt pocket and held it out.

  "Shit!" Cantor said. "You've been carrying it in your pocket?"

  "Just a couple minutes. It's been in our suspect's pocket, and he just handled it. I'm looking for anything and everything. GSR, blood, anything. We think he killed his wife this morning, but we're having a hard time making the jump from thinking to knowing. He's got a big-time lawyer heading our way as we speak."