“They’re going outside. I suggest you let them make the hand-off first,” Mabel said.

Still holding the phone, Running Bear said, “The hand-off?”

“Yes. The man who won the $10,000 will give the dealer his share. Get it on camera so you can show it in court as evidence.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“Why else would they be going outside? To exchange recipes?”

The elders, who’d been silent until now, laughed under their breath.

Running Bear relayed her instructions, then hung up. Mabel shifted her attention to the monitor showing the casino’s parking lot. She watched the crooked dealer and his partner enter the lot, and stand between a pair of parked cars.

“Can you get a close-up?” Mabel asked.

Running Bear played with a toggle switch on the monitor’s keyboard, and a close-up of the two men filled the small screen. They were chatting away, and Mabel brought her face up next to the picture and watched their lips.

“I wonder what they’re talking about,” Running Bear said.

“They just introduced themselves to each other,” Mabel said.

“How can you know that? The film has no sound.”

“I read lips. Tony taught me. It’s an old cop trick.”

“But how can these two men be in collusion if they don’t know each other?” Bowlegs asked, clearly confused.

“Easy. The dealer recruited the player during the game,” Mabel explained. “Maybe he winked at him, or kicked him under the table. We’ll never really know. The important thing is, they’re working together, and have cheated you.”

“I get it,” Bowlegs said.

“What are they talking about now?” Running Bear asked.

The crooked dealer and his partner were having a heated discussion. Mabel resumed watching. “They’re talking about the split. The dealer wants seventy percent of the money. The player is telling him he only deserves half.” She paused. “Looks like they’ve decided to settle on sixty/forty. Are you filming this?”

“Yes,” Running Bear said.

They watched the partner remove the $10,000 from his pocket, and give the crooked dealer his share. He took his time counting it, and all Mabel could think of was how terrific this would look in court.

“I think that’s enough evidence. Wouldn’t you agree?” Mabel said.

Running Bear called security on the walkie-talkie. On the monitor, they watched the guards run up to the two men, arrest them, and haul them back inside. Mabel felt immensely pleased with herself, and she gave Running Bear a tug on the sleeve.

“Now you can take me home.”

Chapter 40

Valentine and Gerry were leaving the Peppermill’s restaurant when Bill Higgins appeared. The director of the Nevada Gaming Control Board was not happy.

“Bronco’s flown the coop,” Bill said.

“He’s gone? I thought the Reno cops had the roads blocked off.”

“Bronco drove to Klinghoffer’s place, and stole a dirt bike from the garage. Klinghoffer’s kid knows all the paths in the hills, and told Bronco which ones to take. I’m heading out there right now. I figured you and Gerry would want to join me.”

It had been a long day, and it was about to get a lot longer. Valentine was exhausted, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him from running down Bronco. He would go to his grave before he let that happen.

“We’re in,” he said.

Bill drove them to the Klinghoffer place on the north side of town. Reno lived for the night, and its sidewalks pulsed with throngs of people, the casinos’ neon lights painting their faces in custom-car colors.

“How can this son-of-a-bitch be so hard to catch?” Bill asked.

“Bronco figured out something a long time ago, and it’s what’s kept him out of jail,” Valentine replied.

“Which is what?”

“Every cheater gets caught. It’s part of the business. So he prepared himself. I’m sure he’s got storage units all over the state. He’s probably used some of them before. Hustlers call it health insurance.”

“They alldo this?” Bill asked.

“The smart ones do. I once busted a hustler named Izzie Hirsch. Izzie worked private card games with his brothers. One time, Izzie was playing in a game at a guy’s house. Izzie began to switch a deck for a stacked deck in his lap. Suddenly this little voice says, ‘Daddy, why does that man have cards in his lap?’ It was the owner’s seven-year-old kid, who’d snuck into the room. The game stopped, and everyone stared at Izzie.”

Gerry leaned through the seats. “What did he do?”

“Izzie pointed a finger at another player in the game, and said, ‘I was counting them. I think this guy’s holding out cards.’ The other player jumped to his feet, and said, ‘Are you calling me a cheater?’ Izzie says, ‘I sure am.’ And they went outside and started rolling around on the lawn. Then, they jumped into a car, and left.”

“They jumped into a car?” Bill said.

“The other player was Izzie’s brother, Josh. They worked together. They’d planned this in case they every got caught.”

“Health insurance,” Bill said.

“Yeah. And Bronco has more of it than any cheater in this state.”

Sergeant O’Sullivan met them in the driveway of Klinghoffer’s place. A group of TV reporters stood nearby, waiting to get a statement from the sheriff, and O’Sullivan pulled them out of the reporters earshot. In a hushed voice he said, “Rebecca Klinghoffer just came clean with us. Yesterday, her husband stole a jackpot from a casino in Reno using information Bronco gave him. Bronco used that to extort Rebecca. That’s why she stole the jackpot from the Peppermill.”

O’Sullivan was breathing heavily, and Valentine saw a line of sweat dotting his upper lip. He had good reason to be nervous: Not only had Bronco escaped from his jail, he’d also corrupted one of his jailers. The sergeant’s head was on the chopping block, and Valentine put his hand on O’Sullivan’s shoulder.

“Want us to keep this under our hats?”

“There’s nothing I’d like more,” O’Sullivan said.

“Your secret is safe with us. I need to talk to Rebecca and her son. Is there some place I can do that in private?”

The sergeant’s eyes indicated the second floor of the garage in the back of the property. “She’s upstairs, in the kitchen. I think she took a Valium for her nerves. The boy is lying down. You won’t get anything out of him.”

Valentine lifted his eyebrows in a question mark.

“I tried,” O’Sullivan explained. “He’s home-schooled, doesn’t communicate well with strangers. I think it’s the mother’s doing.”

Valentine thought back to the boy in the Peppermill eating an ice cream while holding Bronco’s hand. If Bronco could figure out how to soften the kid up, so could he.

“What’s the boy’s name?”

“Karl, Junior.”

“I’ll let you know if he says anything.”

Valentine took his time going up the stairs to the second floor apartment above the garage. In his younger days, he would have taken the steps three-at-a-time, the image of Bronco riding a dirt bike to freedom gnawing a hole in him. If growing older had taught him anything, it was that nothing got accomplished from rushing. Bronco had won this round, and working himself into a lather over it wouldn’t change a damn thing.

He rapped on the door and went in. A uniformed cop sat at the kitchen table with Rebecca Klinghoffer, who was blowing her nose into a Kleenex. In the table’s center was a topographical map of Reno, and Rebecca was using a pencil to draw the path she believed Bronco had taken to escape.

Valentine introduced himself while looking around the kitchen. The appliances were old, the furniture mis-matched and unattractive. It was the kitchen of a couple just starting out, living from paycheck to paycheck.