Motion to Suppress

by Perri O'shaughnessy

  "I thought I’d go to Sparks tomorrow, talk to the Otises," Paul said.

  "Okay, you do that."

  "Want to come along?"

  A pause, then Nina said, "Okay. Misty’s parents are definitely posting the bond for her. She gets out tomorrow. She says she needs to spend a day or two by herself at the Lucky Chip before I take her to see Bruno."

  "Makes sense. See you tomorrow morning, then."

  "Yeah. Al and Sharon Otis. This couple I have to meet," Nina said.

  14

  WHEN PAUL CAME down the next morning he found a message from Nina saying she would be a few minutes late, and a sealed envelope at the reception desk. Rossmoor had sent the internal report on Patterson to him by messenger. Apparently even his temporary digs at Caesar’s had been noted.

  In the casino coffee shop, nicked cup in hand, he scanned its pages. He found it refreshingly grammatical.

  Anthony Patterson, as chief of Security at Prize’s, had responsibility for spotting professional "casers," the blackjack card counters. The Reno and Tahoe clubs traded their information in monthly memos, complete with photos of the card counters taken from the glass ceiling while they played.

  The casinos did nothing to stop the occasional weekend big winner, who they realized had useful publicity value, but vigorously fought the real pros that tried to confuse their spotters with camouflage. Besides changing clothing and facial hair, professionals called upon innocent-looking accomplices and played each club for only a short period of time, jumping from table to table with the shuffle. The best card counters jumped from Vegas to the Bahamas to Atlantic City, and stayed away from northern Nevada, where the rules on doubling and surrender hurt the player’s odds.

  Semipros tended to be locals who showed up at the same clubs over and over until convinced by repeatedly being eighty-sixed out the door that the time had come to move on or retire. Although it was not strictly illegal anywhere, very few people had the combination of big stakes, chutzpah, and concentration to make much money counting cards. All the clubs took precautions.

  The report listed Albert B. Otis as a pro. According to the report, he was balding, but sometimes wore a toupee; about five six, but sometimes wore lifts, and had gray hair, but sometimes dyed it black or brown. Sometimes he wore glasses.

  But there was one thing he always wore, a gold ring with a diamond-shaped onyx, and he twisted it while he waited for the cards to turn up. This mannerism had been discussed at a recent northern Nevada club managers’ meeting, where the decision was made that it wasn’t a cue for anyone else or a method of counting, just a useful affectation. One flash of that ring, and Al had been escorted out of the MGM Grand and the Luxor in Las Vegas and Harvey’s at Lake Tahoe.

  For about a month before Anthony Patterson died, Al had been gambling at Prize’s without the pinky ring, undetected. The thick new reddish mustache and beat-up 49ers football jacket helped for a while, but eventually a dealer on the graveyard shift remembered Otis’s Southern accent and told the pit boss, Peter La Russa, who was supposed to tell Patterson in Security.

  The same dealer noticed Otis an hour later, playing a twenty-five-dollar minimum at La Russa’s tables, black chips worth at least $2500 stacked in front of him. Patterson, on shift then, had to have seen him, so the dealer reported the incident directly to Stephen Rossmoor’s assistant.

  The assistant didn’t touch Al, since what she really wanted to know was why Patterson was letting the man play. During one of his off-shifts she viewed the security videos for preceding days, which showed a ringless Al, in various hair colors and getups, winning thousands. He always left when Patterson’s shift was over.

  So it was that on April 24, the watchers in the ceilings had turned their cameras on Anthony Patterson. The next night, the night before Patterson disappeared, Otis returned to play a table at Pit Four, one of Peter La Russa’s tables with fifty-dollar minimums. In three hours he was up $4750, a substantial but not too conspicuous profit.

  Afterward, Al and Anthony Patterson met outside the front door to the club. They were followed to the parking lot, but the watcher was unable to overhear their conversation.

  The report recommended that Patterson be terminated when he reported for his shift the next night, and that updated descriptions of both men be circulated among the clubs. La Russa was to be called in for questioning. For reasons not given, no report to the Nevada Gaming Commission was recommended.

  Patterson failed to appear for his shift on Friday night. His wife called him in sick. Patterson’s wife also called the next night, Saturday, and reported Patterson would be out with back problems. Sunday night Patterson was off duty. The following day his body was discovered.

  Once over Spooner Pass, Paul slowed down to negotiate the hairpin turns so that Nina could relax and marvel at the view of the high desert plateau to which they were descending. The road led through Nevada’s minuscule capitol, Carson City, with its fine courthouse and Victorian houses amidst the thrift shops and fast-food outlets.

  "Is this the most direct route to Sparks, Paul?"

  "Sandy give you another hard time, Nina? Not that I don’t enjoy the pleasure of your company, but you are paying me to do this, so that, I assume, you can be doing something else."

  "It’s true I don’t have time for this," she said, "but so much of this is new to me. I’m learning as we go."

  That was the truth, but what Nina didn’t tell Paul was that she couldn’t help thinking he might have done a better job with the Tengstedts.

  When they had gone about thirty miles farther, Reno appeared out of the dun-colored land surrounded by its desolate peaks. Past McCarran Airport, at the Sparks border, they found the trailer park on Kietzke Lane near the Hilton. The biggest casino in Reno, the Hilton was the only sky-scraper for miles, surrounded by flat ranch-style houses on minilots and the air-cooled malls that had replaced Main Street in most desert communities.

  "Misty and Anthony were married in the basement at the old Bally’s. The Chapel o’ Love, for ninety dollars," Nina told him as they parked in front of the manager’s office just off Kietzke. "Her parents didn’t come." A girl was watering a puny flower bed nearby, and when nobody answered the bell, Nina asked her if she knew which trailer belonged to the Otises. She pointed down the row to the fourth.

  Many mobile homes here, stuck to concrete pads and decorated with desert plants and lawn furniture under umbrellaed patios, had achieved an air of permanence. Al and Sharon’s trailer wobbled on blocks, huge tires propped against a makeshift concrete divider, still ready to roll at a moment’s notice if the spirit moved them. No flowers or shrubs marred the dirt of their lot. Instead three freshly waxed motorcycles and a 1967 blue Mustang convertible heated up in the sun next to a hibachi and folding chairs. Paul walked over to have a look at the bikes.

  Al Otis answered their knock. He was short, and his hair, thick and red with a lot of gray, was tied back in a ponytail. A mustache shaded his face down to his chin, but his nose, cheeks, neck, and shoulders were burned a wicked scarlet. A baggy, sleeveless T-shirt sculpted folds over a museum-quality beer belly. Coconut suntan lotion competed with a liquid lunch in Nina’s sniff test, with alcohol coming out champ. "Come on in, people," he said.

  Inside, the trailer was surprisingly roomy. A deer’s head, antlers tangling with a light fixture, adorned the far wall. A king-size water bed rocked invitingly beneath an Indian blanket. Underneath pervasive desert dust, the place had a tidy look and a homey feel.

  "Have a drink," Al said, adjusting the temperature on the swamp cooler. "Scotch and soda is all I’ve got, but let me tell you, it’s good Scotch. Which one of you is the lawyer?"

  "I’m the lawyer. Nina Reilly," Nina said, nodding at the bottle. "And this is Paul van Wagoner. Where’s Mrs. Otis today?"

  "Who knows?" Al said vaguely, plunking the drinks down on a foldout table in the dining nook. "Sharon’s got better things to do. I can tell you whatever you want. Here’s to crime," he said, k
nocking back the entire glass. He got up from the edge of the bed again and fixed another one, not quite as lethal-looking.

  When he was settled, Nina said, "We’re here to find out about you and Anthony Patterson, Mr. Otis."

  "Call me Al. How come the police haven’t been over?"

  "Unless you’ve told them, I don’t think they know about you and Sharon and Anthony," Nina said.

  "To old friends," Otis said, sipping. "Can you believe this? The casinos are on my case heavy. I may have to go back to linoleum laying, like I did for twenty years, only now it’s mostly vinyl. I don’t think my knees can take it anymore."

  "You’re lucky not to be in jail."

  "I will say one thing for Prize’s—they haven’t dinged me for Gambling Code violations. Course, they’d have a tough time proving anything."

  "Peter La Russa’s still working there," Nina said.

  "Your information’s out-of-date. La Russa got fired last night."

  "He called you?" Paul said. He had pulled out a folding chair, setting it up to give himself plenty of room, and he worked on a man-size Scotch.

  "Could be," Otis said. "Now maybe you’d like to tell me where you heard all this good stuff."

  "They have you on tape," Paul said. "The club knows all about the arrangement." His hands rested loosely on his legs, but his body looked alert.

  The littler man reached over and plucked up a frayed deck of cards, looking more at ease, as if he felt not quite dressed without them. "My life," he said, "except for Sharon." He started to shuffle, his fingers and hands dancing the ballet.

  "Nice ring," Nina said. "I like onyx."

  "Yeah. I got it in Atlantic City. Lots of action in the clubs, but I like the country life. Give me the fresh air and the desert." He cleared a mountain of phlegm from his throat. "So what can I help you people with?"

  Nina handed him Prize’s report. "I brought a present for you," she said. She and Paul sat back and finished their drinks while Al read.

  "Christ," he mumbled a few times, then he looked up. "So it was my lucky ring. And I’m offended. I made a lot more than twenty grand," he said.

  "What was Anthony’s cut?"

  "Twenty percent. For doin’ nothin’."

  "He kept you in the club," Paul said.

  "Nothing was gonna keep me in that club much longer. They make you in a couple weeks, ’cause you win and everybody else loses. You attract attention." Al snickered.

  "He did do one thing for you. He told you how the clubs made you," Nina said.

  "He did do that for me." Al twisted the ring as he spoke.

  "He wanted a bigger cut, though," Paul said.

  "Hey, Anthony’s old lady has got some good talent defending her," Al said. "I know you didn’t hear that from Sharon. Okay, here’s an early birthday gift for you too. Patterson wanted fifty percent, greedy bastard. Excuse the expression. He wasn’t worth it. They were gonna catch us sooner or later."

  "So how did you work it out with him?"

  "I bet you’d love it if I told you we didn’t, but we did. In our own way. We were square when he went fishin’."

  "Was your way to pay him some extra in coke? Because some was found in his house."

  "Now, that’s a very personal question," Al said, smiling. "Here, let me get you a refill."

  "Where were you and Sharon the night Anthony disappeared?" Nina asked. "The Thursday before he turned up dead. Night after your last party at Prize’s."

  "Oh, yeah. Home. Right here, hugging my honey, watching a James Bond flick on the VCR."

  "So what was your reaction when you heard? Who do you think murdered Anthony Patterson?" asked Nina.

  "First off, if it was anybody, I would have thought it would be Misty’s toes put down permanent in the sand. I was truly amazed to hear Anthony was dead, because he was not a guy to let someone get the advantage. How that little babe put him out I don’t know, but no doubt she had her reasons."

  "He pissed off a few people, didn’t he, Al? Including you."

  He nodded agreement. "Right up to the end. You know, I was doing fine on my own. Now everybody’s interested in my personal business. Any chance the casino’s looking to charge me with conspiracy? What do you think? You’re a lawyer."

  Nina shrugged noncommittally.

  "Anyhow, tell me this. Why’d Misty cop to tapping Anthony in the first place? And what’s it got to do with me, huh? She pretty much wrote her own ticket to the pen. I’m nervous about all this attention I’m getting. Any kind of fame is a liability in my work. This kind is death."

  He had a point.

  "She has a problem," he went on, moving close, enveloping Nina in his fumes. "Because she cheats on her man. Now, that’s not right, a woman behaving that way, although you gotta feel sorry for her, ’cause she’s a looker, like my Sharon. She’s got too many opportunities. Want another one?"

  He got up and poured them all some more Scotch. The sun shot a warm glancing ray through the window onto Nina’s hair. Al stared at it as if fascinated. Somewhere in back, a radio was playing a mournful country tune.

  "How do you know about that, Al? Did Anthony tell you that?"

  "He was always going on about it. I assumed he knew something. Maybe he didn’t. She didn’t make him feel real safe—bet on it." He laughed heartily.

  "Did he say anything to you about his wife that last day you saw him?"

  "Yeah. Said something to do with the advantages of the job. Said he was close to nailing her. We are not talking here about a happy man, I’m sorry to say."

  So they had a confirmation of sorts. This could be bad news for Misty. If Anthony had seen the videos of Misty with Rossmoor during his last shift and had planned a showdown with his wife on Thursday, why did he end up dead? Did she kill him, defending herself? Like Paul, Nina wondered if Rossmoor did not consider earlier that Anthony would look at videos of the casino and see his wife entering and exiting his private rooms. Did he tell Misty? Or decide on his own to defend her from her husband’s revenge?

  "Me and La Russa really didn’t want to hear, but he talked anyway. Last time he was in the dumps he went and talked with the wife of one of the guys he suspected of being after his wife. Now, that perked him up," Al said after a moment.

  "Who was it?"

  Al winked at her. "Janet. Jenny. Something along those lines."

  Janine Clarke, thought Nina. So he told Clarke’s wife.

  "You’d think he’d go after his own wife," Paul said.

  "She tell you he beat her? He was a forceful guy, yeah, but careful. He knew he was walkin’ down a fine line with her and he didn’t want to trip. Tell you something, Paul. Don’t ever love anybody that hard. I should talk."

  "Al," Nina said. "What’s Sharon’s reaction? To Anthony’s death?"

  Another hesitation. "She cried. They stayed friends, you know. She never liked Misty."

  "Close friends?" Paul poured himself another slug.

  Al laughed, a laugh that trailed into more coughing. "Sharon had enough of him when she was married to him, and nowadays, she likes younger guys. Anyhow, his wife had her claws curled in him."

  "Which movie was it?" Paul said. "The James Bond one."

  "Excuse me?" Otis said. "Oh. Who knows? They all run together, a baldy with a big gut, lots of skiing off cliffs and jumping outta airplanes and babes in bikinis. You tell me, you decide to check."

  He looked at the antlers on the wall, then at Nina. For the first time she registered his eyes, amused and wary, unaffected by the liquor. "So ... Nina, tell me—you do any Nevada work?"

  "I’m not licensed in Nevada."

  "I might need a lawyer," he said. "You decide to associate with somebody with a Nevada license, we’ll do business together." He moved his eyes appreciatively over her body, and gave her another wide smile.

  She straightened her back, setting off a minor cloud of dust. "It’s not likely," she said.

  "Huh? Oh. A shame. Have another drink," Otis said, blinking.
>
  "Just soda," said Nina.

  "You a swimmer, Al? Like to get out in the lake in the summer?" Paul said while his glass was refilled.

  Otis said, "I’m from Tallahassee. Nearest I ever got to swimming in a large body of water was dipping my toes in Lake Okeechobee, and once or twice in the surf in Naples. After that warm gulf water, the lake could freeze off a guy’s machinery. Why do you ask?"

  "Just wondering about what people do for a good time here in Sparks, besides gamble. Ride any of those nice bikes parked outside?"

  Otis flipped the cards out into the air and caught them neatly in his other hand. "Those belong to Sharon. She brings ’em home from the dealership, rides ’em a few days, then takes ’em back and sells ’em. I bought her a Honda motorcycle franchise when we got married. She don’t make much, but it was always the only thing she wanted, and she’s happy."

  "You take good care of her," Paul said.

  "The best. She’s my baby," Otis said.

  "So where’d you get all the money for a dealership? And who staked you on the playing at Prize’s?"

  "And how come I live in this funky dump, is that what you want to know? And where’s the money I made? Now we come right down to it, don’t we? Well, I got my up times and my down times. The money I made at Prize’s went for back bills and some dinners with my wife."

  "Gambler’s ruin," Paul said. "Your stake had to be at least a hundred thousand dollars."

  "It wasn’t that much. I get by with a little help from my friends. And please don’t bother asking for names." Al was having another drink, looking at Nina again, having a good time. Nina thought, life must get rather dull between junkets, so she and Paul were playtime. How much of what he said was true?

  "Tell us about your system," Paul was saying in a friendly voice. "Is it the Thorp system?"

  "Why not? It’s public—I didn’t invent it. Always a pleasure to be a mentor for an aspiring player.... No, Thorp is way too hard," he said, picking up his cards from the top of the small refrigerator beside the couch and shuffling again. "Only the Japanese are good enough at math to handle that ratio stuff. I learned my stuff from the Archer book."