“Come straight with me about something,” Rufus said.

“Sure.”

“When that guy was threatening me with the pipe, you thought I was selling you out, didn’t you?”

Valentine considered denying it, then decided not to lie. “Afraid I did.”

“Sorry. It was the only ruse I could think of.”

There was a commotion in the hallway. Four uniformed cops entered the suite, followed by Pete Longo, chief detective with the Metro Las Vegas Police Department’s Homicide Division. As Valentine rose from the couch, the cops drew their weapons.

“Stay seated,” a cop ordered him.

Valentine dropped back into his seat.

“Where are your guns?” the cop asked.

“We don’t have any,” Valentine said.

The cops searched the suite anyway. Valentine glanced at Longo, whom he’d known for many years. Longo had recently lost a lot of weight, but hadn’t changed his wardrobe. His rumpled suit swam on his body.

“Can’t you help us, Pete?” Valentine asked.

Longo shot him a skeptical look. “You don’t have any firearms in the suite?”

“There’s a bullwhip lying beneath the couch, but that’s it.”

The cops finished their search. The one who’d been doing the talking approached the couch and said, “You better be telling the truth.”

“Ain’t no reason to lie,” Rufus replied.

“Come with me,” Longo said. “I want to show you something.”

Valentine and Rufus followed Longo out the door, happy to be away from the uniforms. They took an elevator to the lobby, which was swarming with more cops, some in uniform, some plainclothes. Yellow police tape cordoned off an area around a door with an emergency exit sign above it. Longo lifted up the police tape and they walked beneath it. The detective pointed to a door propped open with a metal chair.

“Take a look,” Longo said.

Rufus went first, and came away shaking his head. Then Valentine stuck his head in. The light inside the stairwell was muted, and he let his eyes adjust. When they did, he saw their two attackers lying at the bottom. Their faces looked eerily peaceful, save for the bullet holes in their foreheads.

“Recognize them?” Longo asked, now behind him.

“Those are the guys who just attacked us in our room,” Valentine said.

“Did Rufus Steele shoot them?”

“No.”

“Did youshoot them?”

“No.”

“I’d like to do a paraffin test for gunshot residue.”

“Be my guest.”

“I also want to talk to your son. Last time I checked, he had a grudge against some mobsters in town. Maybe this was his way of paying them back.”

“Gerry isn’t in Las Vegas, ” Valentine said. “I put him on a plane to Philadelphia four hours ago.”

“Why did you do that?” the detective asked.

He almost told Longo it was none of his business, then reminded himself he was a suspect in a double homicide and everythingwas Longo’s business. “The World Poker Showdown is being scammed, and nobody knows how. The secret is in a hospital in Atlantic City.”

“And you sent your son there to figure it out.”

“That’s right.”

Longo’s face was stoic. He doesn’t believe me,Valentine thought. Gerry’s stay in Vegas had been rough, and Valentine didn’t want his son getting dragged back here.

“If you don’t believe me, call him,” Valentine said.

Longo dug his cell phone from his pocket.

“Give me your son’s number,” the detective said.

5

Stepping off the Delta 767 at Philadelphia Airport, Gerry Valentine spotted an undercover detective standing in the terminal. The detective was a handsome guy, black, six one, athletic, and pushing forty. What blew his cover were his cheap threads. That was where most detectives disguising themselves screwed up. They dressed like schleps.

Up until last year, Gerry’d been a bookie, and had done his fair share of business with underworld types. But then his life had changed. He’d gotten married and had a beautiful little daughter. His priorities had shifted, and he’d decided he didn’t want his kid to have a criminal father. So he’d shut down his bookmaking operation and gone to work in his father’s consulting business. It hadn’t been easy. Sometimes, Gerry’s past came back to haunt him, and he now considered walking back onto the plane.

He decided against it. Better to walk past the detective and see if anything happened. He’d always been good with his mouth, and could talk his way out of most situations. As he got close, the detective stuck his hand out.

“You must be Gerry. I’m Detective Eddie Davis.”

Gerry had heard Davis’s name before. Davis had helped his father track down his partner’s killers a few years back. Gerry shook his hand.

“Let me guess. My father sent you.”

Davis scowled. “He asked me to look out for you. Something wrong with that?”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

Davis followed Gerry to baggage claim, where they watched some misbehaving kids ride around on the carousel. “Your father said you had a bad experience in Las Vegas, and that George Scalzo was involved,” Davis said. “Hearing that, I figured I’d better meet you at the airport.”

Gerry checked the tags of the garment bags on the carousel. He needed to get rid of this guy. He was going to Atlantic City to learn how Jack Donovan’s poker scam worked, and expected to run into his friends from the old days. What was he going to say, “Hey Vinny, this here is Eddie Davis. Keep your mouth shut, he’s a cop”? No, that wasn’t going to work.

“Your father said Scalzo murdered a guy named Jack Donovan, and you and some buddies went to Vegas gunning for him, and nearly got yourselves killed,” Davis said.

“Dad likes to exaggerate,” Gerry said.

“Your father said one of your buddies got the hair on his face burned off by a flamethrower. That an exaggeration?”

His garment bag appeared. Gerry pulled a strap out of a side pocket, attached it to the bag, then threw it over his shoulder. He knew the Philly airport like the back of his hand, and would give Davis the slip once he got downstairs. He couldn’t have a cop playing Me and My Shadow with him on this trip. Not even a well-intentioned one.

“Ready to roll,” he said.

Going downstairs, Gerry excused himself and headed for the men’s room. Davis tagged him on the shoulder like they were playing touch football.

“I once had a suspect duck out through the side entrance,” Davis said. “You weren’t thinking of doing that, were you?”

“I’ll tell you after I take a leak,” Gerry said.

Davis shot him a disapproving look. “For Christ’s sake man, I’m here to help you.I know about your background with the rackets. I won’t hassle any of your friends if we run into them.”

Davis sounded sincere, which made Gerry suspicious.

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I need your help with a cheating case I’m working on,” Davis said.

Gerry considered Davis’s offer. Having a cop watching his back wasn’t such a bad idea. He’d made an enemy out of George Scalzo in Vegas, and suspected Scalzo would pay him back someday soon.

“Okay,” Gerry said.

They sped along the scenic New Jersey Expressway in Davis’s souped-up ’78 Mustang, the four-lane, pencil-straight highway bordered by lush berms and mature oaks. Atlantic City had been created as a summer playground for rich people from Philadelphia, the expressway being the shortest distance from that city to the sea.

“This case has been driving me crazy,” Davis said. “There’s a retirement condo on the south end of the is land where a resident is cheating other residents at cards. This guy is stealing retirement money. I want to nail him, but none of the residents will cooperate. He’s local, they’re local, and none of the cops working the case are.”

“How much is the guy stealing?”

“A couple grand a week. He’s done this to hundreds of elderly people.”

Gerry got the picture. The cheater was what his father called a public menace—someone who enjoyed hurting people as much as stealing. “What’s the guy doing?”