“Get lost,” Valentine said, and hung up the phone.

Valentine scratched his chin while staring at the Celebrity playing card lying on his blotter. Where there was smoke, there was usually fire. If Celebrity wanted the case to go away, it was not just because of the bad publicity. Casinos received bad publicity every day, and it didn’t stop people from gambling in them.

He had an idea, and he went on his computer, opening the database of his friends who worked in the gaming industry. Information on close to a thousand people was kept on this database. He pulled up all the names of people he knew who’d gone to work for Celebrity. There were thirty files. Scanning through the names, one jumped out at him: Paul Cummins, an old crony from Atlantic City, and one of the top security men in the business. Paul had recently gone to work for Celebrity’s casino in Detroit, and Valentine called him on his cell phone.

“Paul here,” Cummins answered through a mouthful of food.

“Quit eating on the job.”

“As I live and breathe, if it isn’t Atlantic City’s gift to the world.”

“I miss you, too. Look, Paul, I need your help.”

“Name it.”

“A Celebrity playing card has turned up in a murder investigation,” Valentine said. “The card is clean, but something tells me it’s still a valuable clue, only I’m not seeing what it is.”

“Well, for starters, our playing cards aren’t in general circulation,” Cummins said. “Whoever had our card shouldn’t have, because they’re not supposed to leave the casinos.”

“They’re not?”

“No, sir. Ever since we got scammed by our own cards last year, we stopped selling them to the general public.”

Valentine felt like a bucket of ice water had been poured down his back. Years ago, casinos had sold used playing cards in their gift shops. But then the used cards had started turning up on the tables, mucked in by skilled sleight-of-hand artists. Some casinos had started “canceling” the used cards before they sold them by punching a hole in them, while others had stopped the practice altogether.

“So how would someone get a card out of one of your casinos?” Valentine asked.

“They wouldn’t,” Cummins said. “Not legally, anyway. Our cards are printed by the U.S. Playing Card Company in Cincinnati, and shipped by armored truck to each casino. When the cards reach the casino, they’re kept under lock and key until they’re delivered to the tables. The cards are used for an eight-hour shift, then collected, inspected, and destroyed.”

“How could someone get one of your cards?” Valentine asked.

“They’d have to bribe an employee. If that happened in Detroit, I’d find out about it, because every card is accounted for before it’s destroyed.”

Valentine picked up the card lying on his desk. “What would you do?”

“I’d have the employee arrested,” Cummins said. “I’d also notify management, and we’d probably do something drastic, like have all our playing cards changed. Now, if you don’t mind, I want to ask you a question. A Celebrity playing card has obviously been taken from one of our casinos. I’d like to know, which one?”

“Why?”

“Job security.”

Valentine examined the card in his hand. Celebrity’s name was printed in bold colors on its back, but not the casino’s location.

“I don’t know,” Valentine said.

“Just tell me the back color,” Cummins said.

“Purple.”

“Be still my beating heart.”

“Not yours?”

“No,” Cummins said. “Purple is from our new casino in Las Vegas that opened last week. They’re hosting the World Poker Showdown.”

“When last week?”

“The grand opening was Friday night. They didn’t invite you?”

Valentine counted backward on his fingers. Last Friday was six days ago, and Jack Donovan had died eight days ago. Another bucket of water came splashing down his back, this one even colder than the first.

“Thanks, Paul,” he said. “Thanks a lot.”

4

Valentine said good-bye to Cummins and hung up, then weighed calling Gerry. He wanted to tell his son what he’d learned, and also to apologize. He hadn’t believed that Jack Donovan was murdered. Now, he knew better.

He’d let it wait. Confirming what Gerry already knew wasn’t going to make his son feel better. In fact, it would only get him more worked up. Better to let Gerry spend a peaceful night with his wife and baby, and tell him tomorrow.

His size twelves made the wooden floors creak as he padded through the house to his kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water from the tap, and had it halfway to his lips when he remembered how awful the water tasted in Florida. Like a science experiment,as Gerry was fond of saying. He took a long swallow anyway.

The kitchen window looked onto his backyard, and he watched a mother cardinal deliver an insect to a nest of babies. The babies’ mouths were visible above the nest’s branches, each screaming Me!The mother dropped the insect and flew away.

He poured the rest of the water down the drain. Jack Donovan had been in the hospital for several months. That meant the cards from Celebrity’s Las Vegas casino had been delivered to him. Jack had doctored them in some fashion, and given them back. Being a smart crook, he’d kept one for himself, just in case he ever needed to blackmail his partners. That was the card he’d given to Gerry. The blackmail card.

But why had his partners killed him? The poor guy didn’t have much time left. His partners must have been afraid of something.

Valentine went outside and sat on the back stoop. The sun was setting, its dying rays turning the sky a burnt orange. Some nights, he crossed the bridge to Clearwater Beach, and watched the sun set over the Gulf of Mexico. It was painful without his wife, but he did it anyway, knowing that time was the only thing that could heal his wounds.

His stomach was making funny sounds, and he realized he didn’t feel well. He went inside and opened the pantry in search of the Pepto. As he started to pour out a spoonful, he realized what was bothering him. Jack Donovan had been murdered while Gerry was visiting him. The murderer could have waited, but had obviously wanted to shut Jack up. Was the murderer afraid of Jack revealing the poker scam to Gerry?

He put the Pepto back on the shelf. It made all the sense in the world. No wonder Gerry was so upset. His visit to Atlantic City was why Jack Donovan had died.

Valentine took a turkey-and-cheese Subway sandwich out of the refrigerator, and ate half while standing at the kitchen sink. One of the great shortcomings of the male species was its unwillingness to cook food for one person, and Valentine had started buying sandwiches from Subway and storing them in the fridge. He ate an apple for dessert, then decided it was time to go across the street and have a talk with his son.

Gerry and his beautiful wife and baby lived on the same block, only across the street and at the other end. The distance kept things healthy, and he tossed the core of his apple into the bushes before crossing.

The burg they lived in was called Palm Harbor. It was sandwiched between several other burgs, and the residential streets saw little traffic. He and his late wife had bought their house right before real estate prices had gone through the stratosphere. These days, it seemed everyone wanted to live in a small town.

Parked in front of Gerry’s house was a car with a Z license plate. A Z meant it was a rental. Exhaust was coming out of its tailpipe, music blaring out of its radio. As Valentine got closer, he glanced at the driver. An Italian guy around his son’s age, with a drooping moustache and sunken eyes. Valentine slapped his hand on the sill of the open window.