Aces and Knaves

by Alan Cook

  The game started badly for me and got worse. James was able to set up blocks on all six points of his inner board while I had two pieces on the bar. As long as he maintained those blocks I couldn't get my pieces off the bar, and with pieces on the bar the rules said I couldn't move.

  He played it perfectly and gammoned me, meaning that he bore all his pieces off before I bore off any. A gammon counts double so he won the match 5-4.

  I offered half-hearted congratulations. James grinned and said, "You play a good game. Next time we'll use the doubling cube. But before you start serving your penance, why don't you call Ned's hotel and make sure he got back okay. He's very reliable—when he says he's going to do something he does it. I want to make sure he's okay."

  I looked at James in surprise. He and Ned must be very good friends. Ned probably got held up at his business meeting until late and then went straight back to his hotel, but at least he could have called here. I looked at my watch again. It was after 11:30.

  James rose from his chair and led me to the control room. When he walked fast he had a noticeable limp. The crowd had thinned out considerably. I suspected that most of them were working people. I followed James through the door to the control room where he handed me a cordless phone.

  "I don't know the number of Ned's hotel," I said. In fact, the only reason I remembered the name of it was because we had passed it on the way to my hotel and Ned had pointed it out to me.

  James asked me the name and turned to a nearby personal computer sitting on a shelf high enough so he could use it standing up. I looked over his shoulder and could see that he was accessing the Tartan website on the Internet. As he worked the keyboard I noticed for the first time that the tip of the fourth finger of his left hand was missing, making it difficult for him to key the letter "s." He found the hotel name on an index page and clicked on it. Ten seconds later he gave me the phone number.

  I punched it in and after two rings a clerk answered. I asked her whether Ned Buchanan had checked in and was put on hold. In 30 seconds she came back on the line and told me that Mr. Buchanan had not checked in.

  I disconnected the phone and relayed the information to James. His forehead creased in a frown.

  "Stan, what restaurant was Ned Mackay's meeting at?" James asked the young man who had welcomed me. He was watching the monitors.

  "The Golden Palace," Stan answered, without turning his head.

  James did his trick with the Internet again and punched a number into the phone. He had a brief conversation. By the time he hung up, his frown had grown more intense.

  "The meeting never took place," James said to no one in particular. "Ned was never at the restaurant."

  Before I could express my surprise James punched in a new number. His side of the conversation went like this: "It's James. Has Ned been there tonight?" Pause. "No, I didn't. When was he there?" Pause. "Did he say where he was going when he left?" Pause "You're kidding!" Pause. "He did?" Fidgety pause. "No, I haven't seen him. I don't know what's going on. I'll call you when I find out." He jabbed the disconnect button.

  James immediately had another go-round with his computer and again punched in a number. He swore under his breath until somebody answered the phone, and then said, "This is James Buchanan. I was expecting a visitor tonight, but he hasn't shown up. He's in San Francisco but he didn't check into his hotel. His name is Ned Mackay. Could you...?"

  James listened and shock registered on his face. He appeared to struggle as he asked several brief questions, including "Where?" and "When?" and then said, "Yes. Yes, I'll be here."

  He turned to me. He said, choking on his words, "That was the police. Ned was mugged...he's been shot."

  "Shot?" I said, uncomprehending. Then, as it sank in, “Is he...?"

  "He...he's dead."

  Chapter 6 DETECTIVE WASHINGTON

  "Hello."

  I was surprised at how fast my father picked up the phone. He obviously wasn't asleep. I had expected he would be. I was still preparing what to say to him. "Oh...hi Dad."

  "Karl? Where are you?"

  "In San Francisco."

  "I know that. Are you all right?"

  "Of course. But Ned..."

  "I know about Ned. The San Francisco Police called me over an hour ago. You weren't with him?"

  "No. I was supposed to meet him at ten, but he never showed up."

  "Thank God you're all right."

  I had never heard my father so concerned about my safety. "I'm fine, Dad. But someone should call Mrs. Mackay."

  "I did that, myself. She has friends with her now. The police didn't know anything about you so I called Arrow and she told me what hotel you were staying at. I called the hotel, but you weren't there."

  A lot had taken place while I was out of the loop. I said, "The police are on their way here."

  "Are you at your hotel now?"

  "No. I'm at the home of James Buchanan." Looking out his picture window at a postcard view of a lit-up Golden Gate Bridge.

  "James Buchanan? How do you know him?" He sounded incredulous.

  "I didn't until tonight. Ned said to meet him here." Lights of cars moved in both directions over the bridge, like fireflies on parade.

  There was silence at the other end of the line. The doorbell rang. I said, "I think the police are here now. I'd better go."

  "When are you coming home?"

  "Tomorrow morning." It occurred to me that it was already tomorrow.

  "I'll talk to you when you get back."

  "Dad? Is there anything I can do while I'm here?"

  "No. Everything is taken care of."

  "Dad, I'm...I'm sorry about Ned."

  "So am I." His voice cracked.

  There wasn't anything else to say. I said goodbye and hung up. Stan opened the front door and admitted a woman and a man, dressed in civilian clothes.

  The woman said, "I'm Detective Washington and this is Detective Lawson, San Francisco Police Department." She showed him a badge. "I would like to speak to James Buchanan."

  "I'll take you to Mr. Buchanan," Stan said. "You might also want to speak to Karl Patterson." He indicated where I was standing a few feet away in the living room. "He flew to San Francisco from Los Angeles with Mr. Mackay this afternoon."

  "Yes, we do want to talk to Mr. Patterson," Detective Washington said. And then to her partner, "I'll talk to Mr. Patterson. You talk to Mr. Buchanan. You know what to ask him."

  James had cleared the casino immediately after we had found out about Ned's death. He seemed very upset. Everybody had left, including all of the young men, except Stan and a couple of others who were closing things up downstairs.

  Stan escorted Detective Lawson to James' office, where he had closeted himself after kicking everybody out. Detective Washington came into the living room and introduced herself to me. She had a strong voice and her demeanor and body language said she was in control of the situation; her black hair was cut short and her blue pantsuit was the color of power. She was tall, with graceful movements, and I suspected she could take care of herself in a fight as well as any man.

  "I'm sorry about Mr. Mackay," she said, softening her voice a little.

  "Thank you."

  "I'm glad we found you. One of your father's people gave us the name of your hotel, but you weren't there."

  "I was here." Obviously. Okay, Karl, get control.

  "May I ask you a few questions?"

  "Of course."

  She sat in an armchair and motioned me to a sofa facing it. She produced a pencil and a spiral notebook.

  "When was the last time you saw Mr. Mackay?" she asked.

  "About 6:30 or a little later. We flew up from LA together and he drove me to my hotel. Then he...well, I thought he was going to a business meeting."

  "Where was this meeting supposed to be held?"

  "At the Golden Palace Restaurant," I said, remembering what Stan had said.

  "Did Mr. Mackay tell you he was going to this meeting?"<
br />
  "Yes. Actually, he didn't tell me the name of the restaurant. I got that from Stan, the fellow who answered the door. Mr. Mackay was supposed to be here at ten."

  "Did you know that Mr. Mackay never actually went to the Golden Palace?"

  "I didn't find that out until Mr. Buchanan called the restaurant looking for Mr. Mackay."

  "And when was that?"

  "Just before he called the police. About a half hour ago."

  Detective Washington made some notes and then said, "What did you do after Mr. Mackay left you off at your hotel?"

  "I checked in. I was hungry so I ate dinner at a restaurant nearby. Then I rested in my room."

  "Why are you staying at a different hotel from Mr. Mackay?"

  "Uh, because..." I was going to say because I was paying for it myself, but that wasn't true and it was easily verified. "It was a last-minute arrangement. I guess that was the easiest place to get a room."

  She seemed satisfied with that answer, but things were moving too fast. I wanted to stop and rewind the last few hours; they hadn't come out right. Should I have become concerned sooner about Ned not showing up? What good would it have done? Why did he lie about his meeting? Did my father blame me for his death?

  In answer to another question, I explained as well as I could my reason for coming to San Francisco, but only about getting business advice, not the part about checking on Ned. My words sounded lame to me. I wondered if I would believe myself if I were the interrogator.

  When she asked at what time I had left the hotel I told her about walking to the Buchanan residence. She raised her eyebrows when I mentioned walking. Was it because nobody walked here? She asked me what route I had taken. I told her.

  "Did you see or hear anything suspicious when you were walking on Grant Avenue?" Detective Washington asked.

  "No. Just the usual tourists and locals...the shops..."

  "Did you go on any other streets in Chinatown or did you stay on Grant?"

  "I stayed on Grant until I got to Columbus."

  "And you didn't hear any gun shots."

  "No! Why?"

  "Because Mr. Mackay was shot in an alley just off Grant, probably about the time you were walking there. Of course, the noise level is so high that I would not have expected you to hear the shots. Or anybody else on Grant, for that matter."

  Then why did she ask me? Was I a suspect?

  I must have looked like a scared rabbit because the corners of Detective Washington's eyes crinkled slightly and she said, "It's nothing to worry about. Just the fact that you were so open with me about your route would lead me to believe your story. In any case, when I talked to your father he said that you hardly knew Mr. Mackay and I'm sure you have no motive for killing him."

  That made me feel better, but maybe she was just trying to get me to lower my guard.

  "A couple of other things," she said. "Mr. Mackay's body was found in a dumpster. Since he's pretty hefty it probably took two men to get him in there. Preliminary estimate is that he hadn't been there more than half an hour. He was found by a homeless guy looking for food. Lucky for us or it might have been hours, or even days, before he was discovered."

  But not lucky for Ned. It didn't matter to him. She asked me several more questions, which I answered carefully.

  Detective Lawson appeared at the entrance to the living room. He was less impressive looking than Detective Washington, with an expanding waistline and a receding hairline. The checked sport coat he wore had seen better days and may even have been in style once. He said, "Mr. Buchanan showed me the log he keeps for guests. Mr. Patterson was logged in at 10:24."

  Detective Washington nodded. "That squares with his story," she said, indicating me.

  I was still recovering from the shock of learning I had been so close to Ned. I said, "Can you tell me what time Mr. Mackay was found?"

  She consulted her notebook. "At 9:25 we received a call saying that there was a man in a dumpster just off Grant and that shots had been heard a few minutes earlier. He was dead by the time the paramedics got there. He had three gunshot wounds, including one in the chest.

  "My partner and I were called. We got to the scene about 9:45. His wallet was gone, but an attaché case was beside the body. There was a leather notebook inside with some of his business cards in it."

  "Do you think it was a robbery?" I asked. I had felt so safe when I walked through there.

  "It appears at this time that robbery was the motive. His wallet is missing, as I said. But we would like to know what he did from the time he left you until he was shot and why he said he was going to a meeting when he wasn't."

  I wanted to know those things too. And his wallet had been taken, with all his money—and more important, his credit cards. The companies should be notified. However, I suspected my father was already working on that. There didn't seem to be anything else for me to do. I asked, "Do you, uh, need me to identify him?"

  "If you would."

  Detective Lawson, who had been talking to Stan by the front door, said, "Mr. Buchanan has volunteered to identify the body."

  James Buchanan came into the living room, looking haggard and limping noticeably. He said, "I've known Ned all his life so it's logical for me to identify him."

  I started to protest, thinking it would be too much for him, but he insisted and I stopped pressing since I really didn't want to do it.

  As an afterthought I asked, "Did you find Mr. Mackay's rental car?"

  "The key was in Mr. Mackay's pocket," Detective Washington said, "and we got a description of the car from Hertz. We're searching for the car now." She looked at me and said, "Thank you for your help, Mr. Patterson. If we have any more questions we know where to find you." And to James, "Are you ready to go, Mr. Buchanan? We'll drive you to the morgue."

  James put his hand on my shoulder and said, "As I said, I've known Ned all my life. This is...a terrible tragedy. Please convey my sorrow and sympathy to your father."

  "I will." There didn't seem to be any adequate words for the situation.

  "Stan will drive you back to your hotel." James actually smiled slightly. "I know you lost our bet, but considering the circumstances it's the least we can do."

  ***

  Stan also said some words of sympathy as he drove easily up the hill on the almost-deserted street. It was after 1 a.m.

  "Did you know Ned?" I asked, wondering how long Stan had worked for James.

  "Not real well, but he's come to the house several times since I've been there. I found out he and James grew up together. They also came to this country together, and eventually went their separate ways, but lately they've been talking to each other a lot."

  "How did you know where Ned's business meeting was supposed to be?" I asked, and then realized that I sounded like the police.

  Stan didn't seem annoyed at the question. "Ned called James at our office last Friday. James was out of the building so I took the call. Ned asked me whether he could meet with James Tuesday evening—tonight. He said he had a dinner meeting at the Golden Palace, but he would come over to the house afterward."

  It occurred to me that Stan had known I wasn't Ned when he first saw me on the monitor. He must have consulted James before letting me in. I asked, "Did Ned do much gambling?"

  "He talked a lot, drank a little and did some gambling, but not much that I recall. He didn't seem to have the passion for it that some of the guests do."

  This was at variance with what James had said. Of course, if it was true that no real money was changing hands, maybe that explained Ned's behavior. Perhaps a compulsive gambler wasn't compulsive when there was nothing real at stake. If that was true I couldn't be a compulsive gambler because I liked to play games, regardless of the stakes.

  I wanted to ask Stan about the legitimacy of the casino operation, but why should he tell me anything? Instead, I asked, "How long have you worked for James?"

  "About two years. I went there right from the Stanford business s
chool."

  Another MBA. "Isn't that work a little...beneath your talents?"

  "Oh, I only work at the house one night a week. I work at the corporate headquarters the rest of the time. James makes all his management-track people do that. He says it's good to get some real-world experience. That's true, I suppose, if you want to end up running a casino."

  I wasn't going to show my ignorance by asking what corporate headquarters he was referring to. I said, "I noticed that all his employees were men. Doesn't James have any women working for him?"

  Stan took his eyes off the road and looked at me. Since we were cresting the top of Hyde Street and the pavement had disappeared from in front of us I hoped like hell he'd look back at the road. I felt like Steve McQueen's detective must have in the chase scene from the old movie, Bullitt. He finally turned his eyes back to the road and said, "What are you, a spy for the government equal opportunity people?"

  "No."

  He chuckled. "James just prefers men to women."

  We arrived at my hotel. He pulled up to the front door. "Thanks for the ride," I said. We shook hands and I asked, "Do you have far to go?"

  "Back to the Buchanan place. I live there."

  As Stan drove away I stood there for a minute and gulped the cool night air. It brought back some sense of reality to me. Everything that had happened since I had entered James Buchanan's home was outside my known world. But I was afraid it would end up being a quickly fading dream.

  I would fly home in the morning, talk to my father, commiserate with him briefly about Ned. He would formally thank me for trying to help, say he didn't need my services anymore, probably have a check made for me. Then we would go our separate ways again.

  As for Ned, my father would make sure that his wife and children were provided for, financially. He would attend the funeral, perhaps give a eulogy. Then he would set about finding a replacement for Ned. The company stock would drop briefly, but it would recover.

  Detective Washington and her partner would file their report. They would attempt to find witnesses to Ned's shooting and fail. The case would go on the books as an unsolved murder. Life would go on. Without Ned.