“He probably wasn’t sure what would happen if the guy hit the pool. He might have survived the fall.”
“You mean the killer didn’t aim for the pool?”
“He would’ve had to be real good to aim for the pool and hit it,” Vic said. “No, I think he pretty much just wanted to toss the guy through the window. This guy’s obviously a psychopath.”
“So the camera didn’t show the killer’s face either time?”
“Nope,” Vic said. “The way I understand it, the killer used the massage table to block the cameras the first time and was wearing something with a hood the second time and was smart enough to keep his face turned away from the cameras.”
“That shows a knowledge of the high-roller floor, doesn’t it?” Jimmy asked. “I mean, knowing where the cameras are?”
Vic stopped eating and stared at Jimmy.
“Hey, maybe this detective stuff is in the genes after all,” he said. “That was very good. Your ol’ man woulda been proud.”
“I doubt it,” Jimmy said.
“This really is a helluva buffet,” Vic said. “I’m goin’ back for some baby backs. You?”
“Maybe,” Jimmy said. “You go ahead.”
Jimmy was completely impressed with this man’s consumption of food, especially as he knocked out details of an extremely gory murder. What a man, what a metabolism.
While Vic went back up for two or three more plates Jimmy wondered how the man had managed to come up with so much information. It had to be more than one cop getting another cop to talk to him.
When Vic returned, Jimmy asked, “Do you take your badge on vacation with you?”
“Sure,” Vic said, setting his plates down. He dug into his pocket, came out with a wallet, and flashed his captain’s shield, which now had a dollop of barbecue sauce on it.
“Did you show that to Cooper?”
“I did.”
He put the shield away and sat down, attacking his food again. This time, instead of one at a time, he took some from each plate in turn.
“So he just told you all this?” Jimmy asked. “For no reason?”
“He had his reasons,” Vic said. “I’m a homicide specialist and he ain’t. That was one reason.”
“And another?”
“He likes to talk,” Vic said. “With people who like to talk, all you gotta do is give ’em a chance. He talk to you?”
“Some.”
“Be a good listener,” Vic advised. “He’ll talk even more.”
“Did you meet his partner, Detective Devine?”
“No, I only talked to Cooper.”
Jimmy nibbled at his own food, wondering if he should say what he was going to say next. After all, the Vegas police were keeping that information under wraps. Still . . .
“Did he tell you about the cards?”
“Nuh-uh,” Vic said. “What cards?”
“The cards that were placed in the pockets of the victims.”
“You tell me.”
So he did. He explained what a Picasso flop was and where the cards had been found.
“You’re probably right about the second set,” Vic said when Jimmy was done. “They must have gotten knocked from his pocket by the impact. Same cards, huh?”
“Yes.”
“And the suits have no significance that you can see?” Vic asked.
“No,” Jimmy said. “Cooper already asked. They’re holding that little tidbit back, aren’t they?”
“Yeah. That’s so they can weed out the phony confessions. Somebody calls, says, ‘I did it, I killed so and so,’ and they ask, what was in the victim’s pocket?”
“I see,” Jimmy said. “But what does it mean to the killer?”
“That’s for somebody to figure out,” Vic said.
“Like you?”
“Maybe you,” the Philly cop said. “You know more about these people, and the game, than I do.”
“Are you saying I’m better suited to investigate this than you are?”
“Better suited, probably,” Vic said, “but not better equipped. You have knowledge of poker and the people involved, I have the know-how to investigate.”
Jimmy closed his eyes. He knew the words he was going to hear next.
“So what we have here,” Vic went on, “is a partnership. We could be partners, like me and your dad was.”
“So,” Jimmy said without commenting, “you’re willing to work on this?”
“I’m willin’ to nose around,” Vic said, “only because I’m bored with Vegas—except for the food. You keep feedin’ me, and I’ll do some work.” Vic laughed. “You can’t get yourself a private eye cheaper than that.”
“Okay, then,” Jimmy said. “What would be your first step?”
“I’ll talk to the other members of this group—the posse?”
“Right.”
“Do you have their names?”
“I have some.” Jimmy took a slip of paper from his pocket and slid it across the table, avoiding a dollop of French dressing that had found its way there from Vic’s first or second salad. “I can get the others from Mike Sexton, if there are, in fact, others.”
“Who’s Sexton?” Vic picked up the paper and put it into his shirt pocket.
“He works for the WPT and the Travel Channel,” Jimmy said. “He’s one of the commentators on TV.”
“Oh, right. I think I’ve seen parts of that show once or twice before. He works with that other guy, that Vincent van Gogh guy.”
“I think it’s Van Patten.”
“Right. Can you call him and get the other names?”
“Now?”
“Why not? You have a cell phone, don’t you?”
“Actually, no,” Jimmy said. He did have one, supplied to him by Harold Landrigan as part of his whole living arrangement, but he left it in his suite when he went out. Usually, there was nobody he wanted to call while he was out, and nobody he wanted to hear from. The cell phone explosion was something that had happened while he was inside, and he had not embraced it.
“But I can go to a pay phone and do it.”
“You don’t have to.” Vic reached into one of his jacket pockets and came out with a phone. “Use mine. I’m gonna go check out the desserts.”
Jimmy called Sexton and found out there were six posse members in all. Sexton gave him the names Kat had not been able to supply. By the time Vic returned with a plate full of desserts he’d written down the other names and hung up.
“Got ’em?” Vic asked.
“Yeah.” He gave him the second slip of paper, which went into the same pocket as the first. “There’s four more of them.”
“So they’re all at risk,” Vic said. “I’ll find out what the Vegas cops are doin’ about protectin’ them.”
As Vic popped a chocolate éclair into his mouth, Jimmy couldn’t help but ask, “How do you not weigh three hundred pounds?”
“Metabolism,” Vic said. “Accordin’ to my doctor I burn up an amazin’ amount of calories during the course of the day. I gotta tell ya, if you hadn’t come to me with this, I woulda gone nuts here.”
“Well then,” Jimmy said, “I’m glad I could be of help.”
“You want some dessert?” Vic asked.
“No,” Jimmy said, “I’m good.”
TWENTY-THREE
Jimmy gave Vic his room number in the hotel before the two men separated outside the Buffet.
“What are you going to tell Detective Cooper if he finds out you’re nosing around?” he asked.
“Just what I told you,” Vic said. “I’m bored. In fact, maybe I’ll offer him my services as an outside consultant. I know we’ve done that in Philly.”
Jimmy couldn’t see a downside to that, as long as Cooper didn’t find out he was the one who’d called in Vic in the first place.
He went back to the game and tried like hell to focus on the cards and players for the rest of the evening. Having located Kat’s table, he looked up from time to time t
o see how she was doing. From his seat he could also see Sabine Chevalier’s table. Both women seemed to be holding their own. He thought it was amazing that either of them were still around, given the circumstances. He reminded himself to tell them what Vic Porcelli had said—that the cops were not that intent on proving that a woman had murdered Tim Bennett.
Unless, of course, there were two killers.
Jimmy hadn’t given Paulie DiCicca much thought, but he had barely left the elevator court when Paulie came bearing down on him.
“You probably forgot all about me with all this excitement goin’ on, Jimbo,” Paulie said, as if reading Jimmy’s mind.
“You got that right, Paulie.”
“Well, I ain’t goin’ away, ya know.”
“Even with the hotel and casino crawling with cops?” Jimmy asked.
“Naw,” Paulie said bravely. “They got nuttin’ on me. I did my time.”
“So you heard about the murders.”
“I heard somethin’ about a guy takin’ a header inta the pool. What’s your connection?”
“I was there,” Jimmy said. “I saw him hit the water. Plus, he’s a poker player. So as a witness, and a poker player, I’ve got cops crawling all over me.”
“That a fact?” Paulie looked all around him while Jimmy took in today’s turtleneck. It was a horrible mustard color and made him look like he had no neck at all.
“Yep, even more so because there have been two poker players murdered.”
“Don’t sound like a very safe occupation.”
“Not over the last couple of days.”
Paulie suddenly narrowed his eyes and stared at Jimmy suspiciously.
“Say, your ol’ man used ta be a cop, right?”
“That’s right.”
“That why the cops are askin’ you questions?”
“I guess as a poker player and a son of a cop they think I’ll have some insight.”
Now Paulie looked around a little more nervously.
“Hey, Paulie, I’ve got to ask.”
“What?”
“What’s with the turtlenecks, man? This is Vegas. It’s hot!”
“Outside, yeah,” Paulie said, “but I stay inside where the action is, and that air-conditioning’ll kill ya!”
Paulie’s feral little eyes darted around. “Even though they got nuttin’ on me, I hate cops.”
“Then you better get going, Paulie, because here comes the detective in charge.”
“Where?” Paulie looked around wildly.
“The black guy in the suit.”
“Fuck!” Paulie swore, spotting the guy. He pointed a diminutive index finger at Jimmy. “We ain’t finished. We gotta talk.”
“Sure, Paulie,” Jimmy said. “Later.”
Paulie looked back as the black man got closer, then swore again and took off, almost running across the casino floor.
As the black man reached him, Jimmy said, “Excuse me, can you tell me the way to the pool?”
“I don’t really know,” the man said with a Jamaican accent, “but I don’ think you really wan’ to go there, mon. I heard there are cops all over de place.”
“I see,” Jimmy said. “Well, thanks for the warning.”
“No worries, mon.”
The black man went into the elevator court, and Jimmy started across the casino floor to the poker room, laughing to himself.
Jimmy tried to get his head back in the game. Two murders in two days should take precedence over a poker game, but as he looked around the table and the room he realized hardly anyone was giving the two dead men any thought—except maybe the other posse members.
He noticed that players were being called away from the game, most likely to be interviewed by the police. He wondered if the cops would ever come to the decision that the tournament should be stopped.
Every so often, when a player was eliminated, his or her name would circulate around the room, especially if they were a name player. You’d hear whispers that Hellmuth is gone or Negreanu just went broke. It was worth the huge fifteen-thousand-dollar entry fee just to be around to hear that. Others simply got knocked out of the game and went slinking away. He wondered how many of the other posse members were among the players who had been eliminated. Or if they might have been yanked from the game in his absence for their own good.
He got involved in some hands when his cards warranted it, won more than he lost, and with an hour to go in the day’s play he was safely on his way to the fourth day. That’s why, when he saw Kat during a table break going into the rest room, he followed her. With fifteen minutes to return he figured it was long enough for a short talk.
“Hey, Jimmy,” she said when she came out. From the look in her eyes he could tell she was exhausted.
“How you doing, kid?”
“Holdin’ my own,” she said. “I feel like I’m all in, though.”
He let her get away with the poker lingo this time.
“A good night’s rest will do you good.”
“Dude, how can I rest when I’m a suspect in a murder?” she asked. “And now there’s been another one.”
“That’s what I wanted to tell you,” he said, and went on to explain why she most likely was not a suspect anymore.
“So they think the same person killed them both?”
“It’s probable,” he said. “Look, have you seen what’s been going on with the other posse members? Any of them been eliminated?” He realized how that sounded and added, “From the game, I mean.”
“As a matter of fact, I saw Eddie Brouchet get knocked off a couple of hours ago—um, I mean, knocked out of the game.”
“Did you see where he went?”
“No, dude, I didn’t.”
“Okay,” he said. “Better get back and finish strong. Then go straight to your room and get some sleep.”
“You don’t have to tell this lady twice,” she said.
“Lady?”
“Did I say that? Okay . . . sometimes your ideas aren’t half bad. Cloney Gowan does get a lot of attention.”
Jimmy studied her: lip gloss, eye shadow, miniskirt, and silk blouse. He had been so preoccupied with the murders he hadn’t noticed the changes she was going through.
“You look nice.”
“Don’t say ‘nice,’” she said. “That dates you. At least say ‘hot.’”
“Okay, you look hot.”
She studied him for a beat.
“Maybe not. By the way, how are you holdin’ up, old man?”
“This old man is doing better than you, kiddo,” he said. “I’ve had lots of late nights in my time.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet,” she said. Abruptly, she grabbed his tie, pulled it loose, and took it off.
“What are you doing?”
“If I’m gonna be more like a lady, you gotta loosen up some. Stop wearin’ a tie every day.”
She gave it to him, and he put it in his pocket. “That sounds fair.”
“Have you been nosin’ around like you said?” she asked.
“Some.”
“Find out anything?”
“Yeah,” he said with a smile. “I’m not much of a detective.”
TWENTY-FOUR
At midnight the game broke up. Everybody did what they had to do to get their chips back the next day and then headed for elevators, escalators, or the casino floor. The field had been narrowed considerably, but there were still enough participants to keep the game going another couple of days.
Jimmy wanted to find Sabine and tell her essentially the same thing he’d told Kat, but before he could locate her the police located him, in the persons of Detectives Cooper and Devine.
The two Vegas cops approached him, Devine looking determined and Cooper disappointed.
“You’re mine, asshole,” Devine said right away.
“Not tonight,” Jimmy said quickly. “I have a headache.”
“Har, har, you’re comin’ with us,” Devine said. “Do I get to put the cuffs
on you . . . please?”
Jimmy knew the other man would have liked to cuff him in front of everyone. He looked at Cooper but was getting nothing from the black detective.
“No, that’s okay,” Jimmy said. “I’ll come quietly. We going to headquarters?”
“Just come with us,” Devine said. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”
That could have meant any number of things, but rather than guess, he went along and decided to wait to find out.
“Is this going to take long, guys?” Jimmy asked. “I’m kind of hungry. It’s been a long day.”
“Shut up and sit down, smart guy,” Devine said.
They took him to the same office they’d used last time, only this time both Devine and Cooper came in with him. Cooper still hadn’t said a word.
Jimmy sat, avoiding the ergonomic chair this time.
“I checked you out, smart guy.”
Oh, great.
“Why didn’t you tell me you did time?” Cooper asked.
Now Jimmy knew why he looked disappointed.
“For murder, no less,” Devine said almost gleefully.
“Manslaughter,” Jimmy said.
“You pleaded down to manslaughter,” Devine said.
“I did my time.”
“And you thought you could hide that from us?” Devine asked.
“Why would I try to hide it when I know you can check me out?”
“Then why didn’t you tell us?” Cooper asked.
“It wasn’t important,” Jimmy said. “It had nothing to do with what’s going on here.”
“You knew you’d be a suspect if you told us,” Devine said. “You knew I’d lock your ass up.”
“For what?” Jimmy asked with a shrug. “Come on, guys. I was sitting at the pool when the guy took his header. I’m innocent.”
“Of the second murder maybe,” Devine said. “But how about the first?”
“Same guy,” Jimmy said. “Again, not me.”
“We’ll see,” Devine said. He looked at Cooper. “I say we cuff him and take him in, but it’s your call.”
Cooper studied his partner and then Jimmy before speaking. “He’s right, Andy,” he finally said. “It’d never stick. We’d end up cutting him loose.”
“Fuck ’im,” Devine said. “Let him spend some more time in a cell.”
The Picasso Flop Page 13
