“About blackjack,” Potter said. “Basic strategy, that what you use? Because I know all that.”
“Oh, no. Much more sophisticated than that. My wife’s uncle taught me the cards. A real pro. A professional gambler.”
“I read some books on it, but they didn’t do me any good.” Potter fingered his jaw. “I need a shave. I’m a twice-a-day man, like Nixon.”
“I lost a bundle over the years playing blackjack,” Red said. “People who write those books, you know, how to win? I read them all. And you know what I decided? I decided, you can’t win. I decided the bastards writing the books know full well you can’t win. Probably they’re all shills for the gaming industry,” he said. “Wouldn’t surprise me. Park here, okay?”
“I thought you said you had a surefire method of winning, not losing,” Potter said, pulling over to the curb.
“I win with slots.”
“Impossible.”
“No, it isn’t,” Red said calmly. “And now, I’m going to reveal my secret. There’s only one way to win,” he said. “You cheat. Rig it to favor you instead of the house.”
He reached into his shopping bag while Potter was busy parking and pulled on his gloves. Potter had his eyes where they belonged, on the car in front. Wouldn’t want to scrape the shiny paint on the rental car! Forces aligned, shifted, watched over him. . . . He waited for just the right moment, then pulled out the Glock and shot.
But the gun didn’t fire. The safety was on—
Potter screamed something, reaching for the gun, struggling with him. The car bammed into the parked car in front, still in gear. Red felt his neck spasm and fear cut through him.
Potter lunged for the door but Red dragged him back and got an arm around his neck, the other hand reaching around blindly for the Glock, come on come on, and he felt the cold steel and within an instant, he had the safety off and the gun pointed at Potter’s head.
He let go of Potter. Potter fell against the door. If it had been open, he would have fallen to the pavement and escaped.
But the door held. Potter scrabbled at the handle and Red took aim and shot twice.
Potter gave one final lurch. Both arms flailed out as the bullet entered his brain, and one arm knocked Red’s hand.
The gun flew into the backseat.
Potter fell forward and now the horn was blasting. Red tried pulling him off so that he would have a second to hunt for the Glock, but it was too late. The street had suddenly accumulated quite a crowd, and they were all coming his way.
He lunged from the car, pulling the bloody gloves off and stuffing them back in the shopping bag, melting into a crowd of gamblers across the street while a throng piled around the white Corolla.
25
“BARBECUED STEAK, BAKED potatoes, fresh green beans with roasted pine nuts, Caesar salad.”
“Perfect. I’m glad we didn’t stay for the buffet.” Paul sprawled in a butterfly chair on the deck right outside the open kitchen door of Nina’s house, field binoculars in his hand.
“Actually, I’m hoping you’ll do the grilling. I got the coals going before I dropped Bob at Taylor’s house.”
“Oh ho. It was a setup.” For a few more moments he scanned the yard through the binoculars. “I know there’s a woodpecker out there. I’m going to nab that sucker.”
A flurry of tapping got him out of his chair. “Well, look at that. You’ve got yourself a three-toed woodpecker visiting this evening.”
Nina took a turn looking through the glasses, seeing close-up a black, sharp-beaked bird with a yellow head pecking at a red fir in her backyard. “I didn’t know you knew anything about birds.”
“Doesn’t take much learning to count toes,” Paul said. He positioned himself at the barbecue and wrapped a dish towel around his shorts. The steaks sizzled as he dropped them onto the grill.
“So here we are,” he said.
“Uh huh.”
A chirping started up in the backyard. They allowed the summer evening to wash over them. Lying on the chaise longue with her legs drawn up, Nina felt a sense of great satisfaction. The trees darkened and the clouds faded as the streetlights on Kulow came on. She put the binoculars down and sat on the bench by the table watching Paul cook, sipping a margarita.
“Doc Jun didn’t seem to mind having to stay over,” Paul said, his back to her.
“What a day. He was great. He came through, but not in a way I ever would have imagined. Poor Dan Potter. I imagine Dr. Jun will always regret not making the diagnosis. I really think Mr. Potter was in shock. You should have seen him with the baby! What a scene!”
“What amazes me is that Amagosian gave Dr. Jun the hint.”
“I know! I know! Amazing! To think three generations of the family might have the illness, and no one knew it! Jessie was so frightened. Then to learn there’s a treatment!”
“But Potter’s still not going to let it go?”
“All he has to do—all Riesner has to do—is file a request to lift the levy on the money, allow the Entry of Judgment to be vacated. But he won’t do it, Paul. And Mr. Potter is taking his advice.”
“Did you talk to Riesner about it?”
“I had to. To see if some of it was his personal animosity.”
“And?”
“He likes me even less now,” Nina said.
“So it’s not over.”
“No. And the good old boys who run Nevada are lurking around in the background too. I’d like to know what they’re thinking.”
“You sound like you still have plenty of energy. After today, I think I’d be upstairs in bed—”
“With a wet washcloth on my forehead?” Nina said.
“Sandy’s expression. No. I’m not going to fade out. I’ve got the momentum now and I’m going to keep it. I told you, I’m changing my style. Going on the attack and staying there.”
He brought the steak to the picnic table and she brought out the rest of their dinner. They sat across from each other, yellow candles puddling golden pools of light. She poured two glasses of cold white wine, and they clinked their glasses.
“To summer nights,” said Nina.
“Summer nights.”
Nina ate slowly, enjoying the meal and Paul’s company. He ate with such gusto. He did it like he did everything else, fully absorbed in the moment, every lift of the fork direct and no-nonsense. He looked very good right now, his blond hair a little long at the moment, relaxed.
She was so lonely. And he had done so much for her. She didn’t feel the usual pressure from him tonight, and that scared her. She had gotten used to being desired. But she didn’t feel Paul’s desire now. Was he just tired? Or had he made a decision about them?
So go with the flow.
She intended to let nature take its course. No fancy footwork, no candles—well, maybe one—no sexy underwear tonight. She hadn’t organized another seduction scene, she’d been busy practicing law all day and he would understand. Clean sheets and good intentions were the best she could do.
Maybe she would never accept Paul. She needed to find out about that. This was a way to find out. But she knew one thing. No more mourning. She had to stop mourning.
She set the dishes in the sink.
He came in from the deck, carrying the barbecue tongs, and she said, “Paul?”
“Mmm-hmm?”
“Let’s turn off the lights and lock up and go upstairs.” She waited for a response, but Paul just slipped the tongs into the soapy water as if he hadn’t heard her.
“Let’s try again,” she said. “No more weeping. I promise.” She went up to him and put her arms around his neck. “Please,” she said. “Give me another chance.”
Paul’s body didn’t react. He reached his hands up and took her arms away. “I don’t think you’re ready.”
She buried her face in his shirt, breathed in his smell.
“It’s obvious you don’t want me.”
She cupped his face in her hands and looked him in the ey
e. “I can’t tell,” she said. “Try me. It won’t be like last time.”
“Don’t do this to me,” he said. “Stop torturing me.” But he let her take his hand and lead him upstairs.
She began to undress and he watched her. When she was down to her panties, she climbed into bed. Hitchcock had followed them in. He sat by the door, his head cocked, trying to decide if he should circle on his rug and lie down to sleep.
Paul still stood in the dusk, uncertain. She could see that he wasn’t sure he wanted to come to her.
“I can’t live up to him,” he said. He reached down and petted Hitchcock. “You know, I think we better not.”
“Oh, God, Paul,” Nina said. “We’re this close to losing each other. Don’t give up. Please. Get in bed with me.” Paul came slowly to the bed. He sat down, not looking at her. Nina stroked his back, ran her hand through his hair.
He lay down beside her, and she kept rubbing him, his temples, his jawline. His eyes were closed. He was letting her lead, and this was the right way. She nuzzled at his neck. His hand came up and gently, lightly, he traced her lips with his finger.
“You sure this time?” he whispered. “You sure, Nina? Because I can’t take any more pushing and pulling.”
A sharp knock came at the front door downstairs.
Another knock. Louder.
“There is no way we’re going to answer that. No way. It’s not Bob,” Paul said in a bleak voice, opening his eyes. “You said he was safe at Taylor’s.”
“We won’t answer,” she whispered.
Three impatient knocks on the door, and a loud voice. “Police. Anybody home?”
“My clothes,” Nina said. She jumped out of the bed and rushed around the room. “Never mind. I’ll find something. You answer.”
Swearing, Paul was already up, pulling himself back together. She ran her hand over the hair she had rumpled and sent him out the door and down the stairs. He cursed every step of the way.
“If it isn’t Sergeant Cheney,” Paul said.
Sergeant Cheney pulled up on the waistband of his pants, adjusting the gun at his side, his big brown face impassive. “Hello, Paul. Long time no see. Is this a bad time?”
Paul crossed his arms. “You could say that. So, is this something that can wait? ’Cause, as one old pal to another, I’d sure appreciate that.”
“Can’t wait,” Cheney said, shaking his head. “Won’t wait. Gonna invite me in?”
Nina arrived at the door, demurely dressed in a striped shirt and jeans. “What’s this about?” she asked. She motioned to Paul and they stepped out onto the porch with Cheney. She closed her door firmly behind her. No warrant, no entry, that was her motto.
“Little matter of a gun,” Cheney said. “You know a fellow named Kenny Leung?”
“Uh oh,” Paul said. “You finally found Kenny’s gun, and not in a good place.”
“At the scene of a homicide.”
Nina and Paul looked at each other. “Amanda Lewis?” Nina said.
Sergeant Cheney reached a big paw into the pocket of his shirt and pulled out a tiny spiral notebook. He flipped through it. “Man by the name of Atchison Potter. A visitor from Oahu in Hawaii. At six oh eight. This evening. Shot at close range in his rental car just past Caesars, with a nine-millimeter Glock. Recovered at the scene.”
“Potter?” Nina’s mouth was hanging open. What was happening? Nina thought immediately of Charlie Kemp. Shot. And Amanda Lewis. Also shot. With the Glock? All connected to the jackpot. All connected to Kenny and Jessie.
She could see Potter holding Gabe just a few hours before. He might have come around. He hadn’t deserved to die like that, no matter what he had put Jessie through.
She thought wildly, Paul didn’t get here until seven-thirty or later. Her eyes went to him, unguarded, and she was afraid he saw what she was thinking. She held the door tightly. Cheney shifted from foot to foot.
“Are you really going to make me stand out here on the porch and talk to you? Don’t you worry about the neighbors?”
“Yes,” Nina said, “and no, I’m not worried about my neighbors. I’m sorry, Sergeant. It’s just my policy not to let police inside my home unless there’s a very good reason or a warrant.”
“There’s good reason,” Cheney said. Paul and Nina had worked with him before. The relationship had been friendly, but Nina was feeling a difference now.
Cheney went on, “The gun was registered to Leung’s father, who owns a local restaurant called the Inn of Five Happinesses. His father admitted loaning the gun to Leung months ago. Leung said he wanted to do some target shooting for relaxation. Apparently, that’s a big activity on weekends in Silicon Valley.” Cheney shook his head. “Nothing like firing off a gun to make you feel real calm. Anyway, Mr. Leung helped me find his son. They had a phone number for Kenny Leung logged on their caller ID. Called him up, and he answered. One thing that did come up was that Mr. Ken Leung had surrendered his gun to a Mr. van Wagoner a couple of weeks ago. Is that a fact?”
“Paul, wait,” Nina said. “You don’t have to say anything.”
“Let’s get this cleared up. He gave me the gun.”
“Well, grab your jacket. I need a couple hours out of your life.”
“Am I under suspicion?”
“I’ll wait in my car.” He held up his hand, fingers open. “Five minutes,” he said. He went out to the street where the cruiser was waiting.
“I’m not a suspect, or Cheney wouldn’t have turned his back on me and wouldn’t be waiting in the cruiser,” Paul said as they went back into the living room. “Where’s my wallet?” He finished dressing rapidly.
“I’ll come too.”
“I don’t need a lawyer. I’ll learn as much as I tell.”
“Don’t implicate Jessie,” Nina said. Paul laughed curtly.
“Always on the lookout for the client,” he said.
“Kemp, Amanda Lewis, Potter—I don’t know who is next on this death list. Maybe it’s Jessie and Kenny.”
“Maybe one of them is the shooter.”
“No. I don’t believe that. It’s much more likely that they’re in danger. Paul, Cheney’s going to want to know where Jessie and Kenny are. He’s going to insist on interviewing them.”
“Should I refuse?”
“No. No. He’ll arrest you. But—tell him I’ll produce them both tomorrow morning at his office instead. See if he’ll go along. If not, do what you have to do.”
“Will do.” At the door he stopped and turned to her. His eyes looked puzzled, hurt. “It wasn’t going to work, up there in your bedroom.”
“It was just bad luck.” But she didn’t run to him. Bad luck, and they had lost. They both knew it.
The South Lake Tahoe police station was in the same courthouse complex where Paul had spent the day. Cheney escorted Paul through the buzz-through door, past the curious stares of two or three officers on duty, into his office, which bore a photograph of his pretty young wife and not much else other than two chairs, beige, and stacks of paper and file boxes.
Paul felt very different than he had felt the last time he had been here. A delicate balance between cops had been upset. Now Cheney sat on the high side of the seesaw, and Paul sat down in the dirt with the dirty people. He had a desperate urge to defend himself, and a consciousness of the strangeness of his position.
After all, he had done nothing wrong. Not in this case, anyway.
“Storage,” Cheney said, noticing his glance. “My pending files. No case is ever dead for me until I solve it.”
“I remember. The girls who disappeared in winter.” A few years before, Cheney had allowed Paul to examine some old files that eventually led to the solution of a serial murder case. That had been back when Paul’s days as a homicide detective in San Francisco still felt fresh, and being fired from that job still felt okay, as if the rebellion and insubordination he could not help were somehow symbols of something weightier than immaturity.
“Yeah, that�
��s right. You were helpful with that, and I appreciated it. Well, for every one solved, there’s another one waiting in these boxes. I keep ’em handy. Never know when insight or inspiration might strike.”
“You’re looking fitter than when I last saw you.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s my wife. She’s got me on the Omega Three plan. Certain kind of eggs only, grain-fed, some special hormones. Black bread for toast. A Mediterranean emphasis. She’s twenty years younger than me, you know. I got to run to keep up with her. I just turned fifty-four, and she says she wants me to live to ninety, but let me tell you, I do sneak out for the occasional cheeseburger.”
“Otherwise, why live?” Paul asked.
“Now, about the Glock. Okay to tape this?”
Paul told the tape recorder that it was fine, and they went through the preliminaries.
“I did take Kenny Leung’s weapon. He brought it into Nina Reilly’s law offices, and I didn’t feel it was an appropriate accessory.”
Cheney pulled out a notebook. “When was this?”
Paul gave him the rundown on Kenny’s 9-millimeter, when he took it, when he saw it last, trying to keep out privileged information. But he had to explain about the marriage. It was damned embarrassing. It made them all sound like con men. Cheney listened to the whole story, blinking, writing down occasional notes.
“You put it in the right-hand pocket of your jacket. You wore that jacket the rest of the night. Took it off when you got home, and no more gun.”
“That’s right.”
“Ms. Reilly, Kenny Leung, and Jessie Potter knew you had it. Saw you put it in that pocket.”
“A pro might have been able to tell I was carrying from the weight and the outline,” Paul said. “I brushed against a dozen or more people walking across the casino floor when we went back for the check. I stood around for an hour in the banquet room waiting for the check to be handed over.”
That led to a whole lot of talk, as Paul patiently went through what he knew about the legal dispute between Atchison and Jessie Potter. He asked for water.
Writ of Execution Page 33