Let's go.
CHAPTER 57
I WENT to sleep having killed a man. I woke up thinking I'd at least find out who he was.
It didn't matter if he wasn't carrying ID. There were other ways. So many other ways. Fingerprints. Dental records. Facial recognition software. If ever there was a job for CrackerJack …
"What time is it?" I asked Owen with my one good eye open off the pillow. My head was killing me. The rest of me wasn't faring much better.
Owen was sitting on the edge of the other queen bed in our two-room bunker at the Stonington staring intently at the television and the start of the local morning news. He could've been a statue if it hadn't been for his hands. They were doing that dry wash thing again. What's the deal with that?
"It's six," he answered.
That explained the hint of daylight along the perimeter of the drawn curtains, not to mention why I still felt so tired. It was barely dawn, and I'd only been asleep for a couple of hours. Longer than Owen, though, apparently.
There's one exception to the age-old maxim about news reporting-if it bleeds, it leads-and that's the early-morning broadcast. At the start of the day, one thing trumps everything else. The weather. Short of an apocalypse, that's what people want to hear about first. The eternal question? It's not the meaning of life. It's Will I need an umbrella?
According to the far-too-chipper weatherman pointing out some incoming clouds on the Doppler radar, the answer was a definite maybe. There was a forty percent chance of showers in the afternoon.
Of course, there was a hundred percent chance of two shooting deaths overnight in the Chelsea section of Manhattan.
The weatherman, still grinning, sent it back to the anchor, who did her best to segue into a more somber tone as the words DETECTIVE DEATH appeared on-screen. Next to them was a picture of Lamont. He must have fallen to the ground a thousand times in my mind before I'd finally been able to drift off to sleep.
Now tell us who the goddamn son of a bitch was who killed him. Tell us about "Gordon's partner."
As if he could read my mind, Owen stopped rubbing his hands and glanced back over his shoulder at me.
"They're not going to know," he said softly.
The second he said it, I knew he was right. Even if the police did know, they wouldn't be quick to release the name to the press. It would raise more questions than answers.
"At this time, the identity of the second victim, who is believed to be the man responsible for Detective Lamont's murder, is unknown," said the anchor, so keyed to her teleprompter that she didn't seem to even grasp how twisted that sounded.
Even more so because there wasn't even a mention of the other triggerman. Me.
Was there really no one who saw me shoot him?
The anchor moved on to a fire in a Queens tenement building, prompting Owen to shut off the television. As soon as he turned to me, I knew the question coming, and it certainly wasn't about how I'd slept.
"How do you want to do this?" he asked.
That was the part we hadn't discussed after returning to the hotel. The how. Our focus had been the what, as in What do we do now? The night had changed everything.
Detective Lamont was dead, and we knew why. We owed it to him, his family, and everyone he worked with to come forward. Maybe Owen was right. Maybe justice wouldn't be served in the end. But it no longer seemed like our call to make.
"Lamont's precinct," I said. "I think that's where we begin."
Owen nodded. "Do you want to call ahead?"
"No. Let's just show-"
Before I could get the word up out of my mouth, Owen's phone lit up on top of his backpack by the TV. I thought it was an incoming call at first, but there was no ring, no buzzing or vibrating.
"That's strange," said Owen, going over to check it.
"What is?" I asked.</ol>
"It's an e-mail."
"So?"
"I shouldn't be getting any," he said. "The account uses an entity authentication mechanism I designed myself. It's way beyond the X.509 system."
I stared at him blankly. "Okay, now in English," I said.
"It means that for me to get an e-mail it has to be piggybacked on one I already sent. But I only set up the account yesterday. I haven't sent an e-mail to anyone."
No sooner did he say it than we both realized he was wrong. He had sent an e-mail to someone. From Lamont's car.
"What's it say?" I asked, watching him read.
Owen tossed me the phone so I could see for myself. It was more than an e-mail. It was hope.
Underneath a screen grab from one of the interrogation videos were a name and an address in Washington, DC. Georgetown, to be exact.
My partner always believed in what he was doing, McGeary added. I hope you do, too.
BOOK THREE
TRUST NO ONE, NOT EVEN YOURSELF
CHAPTER 58
IT DOESN'T matter if you don't know a door card from a river card or whether a full house beats a flush, anyone old enough to see the inside of a Las Vegas casino can walk right into the poker room at the Bellagio.
Walking into Bobby's Room is a different story.
Bobby's Room-named after Bobby Baldwin, the 1978 World Series of Poker champion-is the poker room inside the poker room at the Bellagio. It features two high-stakes tables that are completely walled off from the other forty some-odd tables, complete with a polished-looking host, a maître d' of sorts, who stands guard at the door to make sure none of the riffraff ever make it in. Minimum buy-in is twenty grand. The games being played, however, almost always require a much bigger bankroll. Much bigger.
On the one hand, Bobby's Room caters to a very privileged clientele. On the other hand, there remains a certain egalitarian element. Especially if that other hand is clutching a boatload of money. Better yet, a yachtload.
Truth is, almost any Tom, Dick, or Harry flashing a lot of cash is more than welcome to play in Bobby's Room.
That goes for any Valerie, too.
Valerie Jensen, dressed in a leather Chanel skirt, a silk Valentino blouse, and a pair of red Christian Louboutin Lady Peeps, handed the host at the door a house marker for two hundred thousand dollars with the carefree ease of someone who had plenty more where that came from. The fact that she didn't was the first lesson her father, a professional gambler, had taught her when she was a little girl back in Somers, New York.
Poker is a game of lies. If you want to tell the truth, go to confession … .
"Gentlemen, I'd like you to meet Beverly Sands," announced the host as he pulled out the lone empty chair at the table for Valerie. It was the "three seat," three spots to the left of the dealer.
Valerie, aka Beverly Sands, sat down amid the polite nods from the other players. Save one, they were all pros. She looked around the table; she'd seen them numerous times before on TV, playing tournaments. And more times than not, they were winning those tournaments.
But as attractive as Valerie was-stunning, really-not a single pro allowed himself the slightest gawk or ogle. That would be a sign of weakness.
Never show weakness at the poker table.
That was the second lesson Valerie's father had taught her. This one doubled as a life lesson, his mantra all during the battle with the lung cancer that ultimately took his life but never his spirit. Never show weakness … period.
"Two," said the host, giving the dealer what would've been the peace sign anywhere else. In Bobby's Room, it meant give the lady two hundred thousand dollars in chips, which was what the dealer promptly did after gathering up the pile of cards in front of him. A hand had just finished.
The game was No-Limit Texas Hold'em. Two cards facedown to each player, followed by five share cards in the middle. Best five from the seven wins. Simple as that.
Of course, if it were really that simple, there wouldn't be nearly a thousand books out there dedicated to explaining how the game should be played.
Given the high stakes, there were no blinds to jump-start the betting. Instead, every player had a five-hundred-dollar ante. This meant Valerie wouldn't have to wait for the dealer button to come around her way. She could be dealt in immediately.
With the speed of a robotic arm on a Detroit assembly line, the dealer placed the cards from the last hand in the automatic shuffler to his right and pulled out the second of the two decks used in the game. After a quick cut, he began to deal, giving Valerie a few seconds to look around the table again. Her father's voice was so clear in her head, it was as if he were back from the grave, sitting right there next to her.</ol>
There's a fish in every poker game. That's the player who's in way over his head. If you look around the table and can't spot him, get the hell up immediately. Because you're the fish.
Valerie smiled to herself. She wasn't going anywhere.
Her fish was seated directly across the table in the eighth seat. He was the only other nonpro at the table, but everyone knew who he was. That's just the way it is with multimillionaires. When you land in Vegas in your own Gulfstream G650, it's tough to fly under the radar.
Shahid Al Dossari was a Saudi Arabian banker who was purportedly an advisor to the Saudi royal family, among other things. He was handsome, he was charismatic, and he was currently under investigation for money laundering by the US Government.
Including Special Agent Valerie Jensen.
"It's your action, Ms. Sands," said the dealer with a slight nod. The betting had been checked around to her.
Valerie reached for the sunglasses that had been resting in her blond hair, dropping them down across her blue eyes. Slowly, she lifted up her two hole cards on their edges, pulling them toward her across the felt as if she were giving the table a shave. Game on.