She smiled. “Yes. You do understand.”
“Yeah, I do. It’s okay,” he said. “Maybe there’ll be another moment?”
“Yes,” she said, “yes, perhaps.”
They stood, an awkward silence between them.
“I must get to my table,” she said. “I have enough chips for one or two hands. I may have to go all in on the first decent hand I get.”
“All you need to do is double up a few times, and you could be right back in it. Just try to put everything else out of your mind. You’re no longer under suspicion, so the murders shouldn’t concern you.”
“I understand that,” she said. “Really, I do. But . . . I keep seeing that man falling into the pool. . . .”
“I know,” he said. “I see it, too.”
She put her hand on his arm, then slid it down to take his hand and squeeze it.
“Good luck,” she said, and went to sit at her table. He watched her walk, had a brief picture of her in his mind the way she had looked the night before, then shook his head to dispel it.
As he walked to his own table he wondered if she had wished him good luck in the game or in something else.
TWENTY-NINE
Vic was truly grateful to Jimmy Spain for giving him something to do. Margaret had been bitching at him ever since they arrived about losing money while she—somehow—kept hitting those silly penny slot machines. The only kind of gambling he really liked was blackjack, but when the cards started running bad, he had to quit. It was too damned frustrating. And once he quit he needed something else to do, something that would cost no more money.
Jimmy had given him that.
He couldn’t believe it when he’d seen Jimmy Spain in the casino. After all, he hadn’t seen the kid since he was a teenager. But once he convinced himself he was right, he had to approach him. After all, he wouldn’t have a career if it wasn’t for Frank Spain, the best cop he ever knew. That was why it bothered him when the kid blew him off. But when he came back and asked for help, it never occurred to Vic to say no—especially not after he’d offered them a comped suite at the Bellagio!
Yeah, but, he woulda helped the kid anyway . . . or so he liked to believe.
Vic’s specialty was interrogation. That’s why he decided to try to catch the two eliminated posse players in their room, to see what he could get out of them. It didn’t sit right with him that two members of the group could get killed without the others knowing something. One, maybe that could be personal, but two? No, the others had to have some inkling of what was going on.
The elevator opened onto an empty fifteenth-floor hallway. He went the wrong way first before checking the numbers on the wall. He was glad Margaret wasn’t with him. She always stood back with folded arms while he went the wrong way, waiting for him to return with that look on her face—the one that made him understand the existence of domestic violence.
When he reached the correct room number—1516, given him by a desk clerk who hadn’t looked very closely at his Philly police shield and ID—he knocked on the door. There was no answer, so he knocked again. It was only because he had gone the wrong way first that he recalled having seen a maid’s cart down the other hallway. He retraced his steps and used both his shield and a twenty-dollar bill to pry her master key card from her. He promised to return it before she finished cleaning the three rooms, the doors to which she already had ajar. He left her standing in the hall, looking very uncomfortable.
Vic went back to room 1516 and prepared to use the card on the lock. He knew if he was caught by the Vegas cops his Philly shield would cut him no slack, but if he was going to investigate for Jimmy, then he had to take advantage of every opportunity.
Also, he had been sitting behind a desk for so long as a captain that he was getting a rush out of all this legwork.
He slid the key card into the lock and when the light turned green he turned the handle and pushed. As soon as the door opened he knew something was wrong. He could smell it. He reached for his hip, where his gun would have been if this had been Philadelphia, but came away empty. He knew he should close the door and walk away and put in an anonymous call to 911, but it wasn’t in him. Something was wrong inside and somebody need help.
At least, that’s what he told himself as he opened the door and stepped inside. Three steps in and he saw the bloody bodies, one on each bed. He only had time to register that their throats had been cut before something heavy hit him on the back of the head. . . .
THIRTY
Mr. Spain?”
It was a conspiracy, he thought. Any time he built up any kind of momentum they came for him.
Slowly he turned to look over his shoulder at the man behind him.
“Sir, if you’ll come with me?”
It was the same man they had sent for him last time. Maybe they thought a familiar face would soften the blow.
“We’ll take care of your chips, sir.”
“Yeah,” Jimmy said, standing up, “I know.”
As he was being led away he heard one of the players asking, “Why don’t they just disqualify that guy? The rest of us are playin’ our butts off and he keeps gettin’ breaks.”
Always one in every crowd, Jimmy thought.
The tournament director was waiting for him this time and led him to Detectives Cooper and Devine, standing just off the casino floor.
“Spare me,” Jimmy said to Devine before the man could speak. “My ass is yours.”
“Smart fucker,” Devine said.
“Would you come with us, Mr. Spain?” Cooper asked.
“Where? Downtown?”
“Right here in the hotel,” the black detective assured him.
Jimmy stared at the man, then said, “Aw, don’t tell me . . . another one?”
Cooper held up two alarmingly long fingers and said, “Two.”
“If you have two more bodies,” Jimmy said, “why do you need me? I thought I was in the clear after the thing with the pool?”
“You’ve never been in the clear with me,” Devine said, but both Jimmy and the man’s partner ignored him.
“We’re taking you with us because somebody asked for you,” Cooper said.
“What? Is somebody else using me as an alibi?” Jimmy asked.
“Not quite,” Cooper said.
They got off at the fifteenth floor, and Jimmy followed Cooper down the hall while Devine walked behind him. He so distrusted the man that his back itched.
Coming up the hall toward them were white-clad men wheeling a gurney. On the gurney was a black plastic body bag, obviously full. The three men had to step aside to let the body go by.
“That the second one?” Cooper asked.
“Yep,” one of the men answered.
“The white-haired guy is still in there,” the other man said.
“Okay, thanks,” the black detective said.
Jimmy’s stomach went cold. The only “white-haired guy” he knew of who had anything to do with this was Vic Porcelli.
They reached a room where the door was wide open. There were two uniformed policemen standing there. They nodded at the detectives as they went past. As they entered the room Jimmy saw blood on the bed. Christ, he thought, Vic?
When they were in the room he saw Vic Porcelli, seated on a chair by the window, holding an ice bag to the back of his head. There was a paramedic next to him, packing up his stuff.
“He won’t let us take him to the hospital,” the paramedic told Cooper.
“That’s pretty foolish of you, Captain Porcelli,” Cooper said. “You took a nasty hit on the head.”
“That’s okay,” Vic said. “I’m okay.” He looked up then and saw that Jimmy was with the detectives. “Hey, kid, sorry. I couldn’t let them call Margaret, ya know? She’d have a fit.”
“It’s okay, Vic.”
“So you two know each other,” Devine said. “Old buddies, huh?”
Vic looked at Devine and said, “Of course we know each other, asshole. I asked for him, didn�
�t I?”
“Listen, you—” Devine started forward, but Cooper got between him and Vic.
“Vic’s first partner on the job was my father,” Jimmy said. “That’s how we know each other.”
“And how did he know you were here?” Cooper asked.
“We ran into each other in the casino a couple of days ago,” Jimmy said. “I told him I was playing in this tournament.”
“The captain, here, has got a comped suite in this hotel,” Devine said. “You know anything about that, hotshot?”
“Yes, I do,” Jimmy said. “I got it for him.”
“In payment for what?” Cooper asked. “His help in playing detective?”
“Hey, hey,” Vic said, “I am a detective.”
“What about it, Jimmy?” Cooper asked.
Jimmy noticed there was blood on the cloth that was wrapped around the ice bag.
“Hold up,” he said to the paramedic before he could leave. “He’s going with you.”
“He says no,” the paramedic said.
“I say yes,” Jimmy said. “Vic?”
“I’m fine, kid—”
“I’ll take away your comp if you don’t go with them,” Jimmy threatened.
“Aw, hell—” Vic said. He tried to stand and immediately started to fall. Jimmy moved forward and grabbed his right arm as Cooper grabbed the left.
“I guess he’s going with you,” Cooper said.
The paramedic turned to another one Jimmy hadn’t seen until now. He was standing off to the side with a folded gurney.
“Let’s take ’im.”
“Right.”
Jimmy and Cooper relinquished their hold on Vic and passed him to the paramedics.
“I’ll be along in a little while,” Jimmy told Vic. Then he said to the paramedics, “His bills are on me.”
“Take that up with the hospital,” the first one said. “We just treat ’em in the field and transport ’em.”
Jimmy watched as the men got Vic strapped to the gurney and then wheeled him out. His mind was racing the whole time. He still didn’t know what Vic had told the two detectives, but he was going to play this to the hilt.
“You haven’t told us why you got him a comp here, Jimmy,” Cooper said.
“I did tell you,” Jimmy said. “He’s my father’s old partner.”
“I’m sure your old man will be proud,” Devine said snidely.
“He would be,” Jimmy said, “if he was still with us.”
Cooper gave his partner a disgusted look. Devine went out into the hall with the two uniforms.
“What happened here?” Jimmy asked.
“Two more posse members,” Cooper said. “Brouchet and Abrahms. They had their throats cut. Apparently, your father’s old partner walked in on the killer.”
“What was he doing up here in the first place?”
“He wouldn’t say,” Cooper said. “Pleaded confusion one minute, said he was all right the next.”
“Well, Vic’s got a hard head.”
“Maybe that’s what saved him.”
“Wait a minute,” Jimmy said. “If he walked in on the killer who had a knife, why didn’t he just kill Vic, too?”
“I don’t know,” Cooper said. “I’m trying to work that out myself. It’d be nice if Captain Porcelli cooperated. I might have to call his superior. Which would probably get him in trouble.”
“Let me talk to him,” Jimmy said, waiting for Cooper to spring his trap. “He’ll cooperate.”
“You go to the hospital, tell him I’ll be along soon. Get him ready to talk,” Cooper said.
Jimmy looked at his watch. He wondered when the WPT would pull him from the tournament.
“I’ll take care of it.”
He started for the door, then stopped and turned.
“Detective.”
“Yeah?”
“There’s only two left, you know.”
“We hope.”
“What do you mean?”
“Who’s to say when this killer runs out of these posse members he won’t just start in on other players?”
Jimmy left with that sobering thought repeating in his mind.
THIRTY-ONE
Jimmy had to find the tournament director, or somebody from the WPT, even Mike Sexton. Anyone he could to tell that he had to go to the hospital to take care of Vic Porcelli. But when he got down to the first floor he found Vic waiting in the elevator court, a bandage on the back of his head.
“What the hell are you doing?” Jimmy asked.
“I’ve had worse from slipping in the shower,” Vic said.
“People die from slipping in the shower.”
“Look, you wanna kick me out of our room here, go ahead, but—”
“Oh, relax,” Jimmy said. “I’m not going to kick you out of your room.”
“Well . . . good,” Vic said. “I got one of the paramedics to examine me and bandage my head. He shone a light in my eyes, says I don’t have a concussion, so . . . here I am.”
“What happened up there?”
“Come with me to my suite,” Vic said. “I’ve got to change this bloody shirt.”
They got back in the elevator, went to Vic’s floor, and entered his suite. It was bigger than Jimmy’s.
“Have a seat,” Vic said. “I’m gonna wash up. Help yourself to the macadamia nuts. I already opened them. They’re great.”
He grabbed a fresh shirt from a chest of drawers and went into the bathroom, leaving the door ajar. Jimmy had noticed the rooms had Internet access, and Vic or his wife had a laptop computer set up on the desk.
The water ran in the bathroom and then cut off. Vic came out wearing the clean shirt, a plain one, powder blue, no insignia or writing on it. He was drying his hands on a towel.
“Four murders in four days,” Jimmy said to Vic. “What do you make of this, Vic?”
“There’s a lot I don’t know, Jimmy.”
“Based on what you do know.”
“Okay,” the detective captain said, tossing the towel through the bathroom door. “This is not a serial killer—this is somebody working out something personal.”
“How do you know that?”
“I don’t know that,” Vic said. “I don’t even know if the Vegas cops think they’ve got a serial killer. I’m telling you what I think based on fact.” Vic frowned at him. “Ain’t that what you just asked me to do?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then don’t interrupt me.”
“No, sir.”
“You wanna pass me the nuts, damn it. I didn’t mean for you to eat all of ’em.” Then he went on. “This is personal, and by that I don’t necessarily mean the victims did something to him. I mean he has a personal reason for killing them. What that reason is I can’t even guess.”
“So could it be somebody who knows them?” Jimmy asked. “And who they knew?”
“My guess is yes.”
“But if it’s personal—”
Vic held up his index finger to silence Jimmy.
“Listen to what I’m sayin’,” he said, his tone scolding. “His reason is personal. That don’t mean he knew them—but I’d say he did.”
“Okay. Have you shared this with Detective Cooper?” Jimmy asked.
“No,” Vic said, “and after finding me in that room I don’t think he’s gonna want any help from me. In fact, I may still end up behind bars. Once they realize I didn’t go to the hospital they may come for me.”
“Vic, I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be,” the older man said. “I coulda said no, you know?”
“By the way,” Jimmy asked, “how did they find you in the room?”
“The maid did,” he said. “The one I conned out of her key card. Told her I’d bring it back, and when I didn’t, she came looking.”
“How did she know what room?”
“I think I told her.”
“And how did she get in if you had her key card?”
“She must’
ve had another one.”
“Okay,” Jimmy said, “okay.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got to get back to the game—if I’m even still in it.”
“Would they do that?” Vic asked. “Kick you out?”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know.”
“Well, you better get down there then.”
“Yeah, right.” He started for the door, then stopped. “When do you go home?”
“Tomorrow afternoon.”
“Stay out of it until then, Vic,” Jimmy said. “And thanks for your help.”
“I’d like to help catch the guy,” Vic said, “especially after he cracked my skull. I owe him.”
“Like you said,” Jimmy replied, “the Vegas cops aren’t going to be too happy with you. Just get on your plane tomorrow and go home.”
“If they’ll let me,” Vic said. “Meanwhile, you be careful.”
“I will.”
“You should probably stay out of it, too, you know?” Vic called after him.
“Oh,” Jimmy said, frowning, “I know. You’re not the only one to tell me that.”
Jimmy was waiting for the elevator when Vic came trotting into the court.
“Jimmy. I’ll tell you something based on everything I’ve learned in my career.”
“What’s that?”
“As involved as you’ve been in this thing?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sure the killer is gonna turn out to be somebody you’ve talked to over the past four days,” Vic said. “Remember that.”
“I will, Vic,” Jimmy said. “Thanks.”
He got on the elevator, thinking about all the people he had seen and spoken to in the past few days.
He was still thinking about it when he stepped out of the elevator. Suddenly, he was grabbed roughly from behind and run into the wall. Then he was jerked away and pushed, so that he stumbled into the little foyer that housed the pay phones. There was a man there using a phone who looked up startled.
“Get out,” Detective Devine told the man.
“But,” the man said, “I’m on hold—”
Devine grabbed the receiver from the man’s hand and slammed it down.
“Get a goddamned cell phone like the rest of the world!” he shouted. “Now get out of here!”
The Picasso Flop Page 16
