Mr. Lucky

43

They left Stanley Kessel’s house at one-thirty. Valentine had Gaylord drive to the Off-Track Betting parlor where Ricky had picked winners the day before. In the backseat of the car was the garbage bag of used lottery tickets they’d found inside the house. Gaylord was convinced that it was evidence, and Valentine was too tired to argue with him. Ricky had bought a bunch of tickets, found a $50,000 winner, and re-covered the scratch-off spots with a similar-looking substance. There was no crime in that.

They stopped at an all-night convenience store and got coffee. It was really strong. When their cups were empty, Valentine explained to Gaylord why the tickets weren’t evidence. This time, the sergeant got it.

“So where does that leave us?” Gaylord asked when they were back on the highway.

“We need to find evidence that Ricky scammed the OTB parlor. Otherwise, we don’t have a case.”

They did not speak for the rest of the drive. Valentine had dealt with a lot of brilliant criminals, and Stanley Kessel was heading for the top of the chart. He didn’t leave meaningful clues, or evidence that would hold up in court. That was the difference between the average criminal and the pro. The pros rarely went to jail.

They crossed the state line and pulled into the OTB parlor’s parking lot. A low-slung car was parked in the back of the lot. The vehicle was rocking to the beat of love, and Gaylord pulled a flasher off the floor and stuck it on his dashboard. He turned it on while hitting his siren. Two half-dressed adults bounced up in the seats.

“Make him take you to a motel,” the sergeant yelled out his window.

The car sped away. Gaylord parked in front of the parlor and killed his headlights. Valentine got out and walked to the front door. He stood on his tiptoes and tried to see the roof. The moon was taking a powder behind some clouds, and he couldn’t see anything. He returned to the car and asked Gaylord for a flashlight.

“It’s in the trunk. I’ll pop it for you.”

Valentine walked around to the trunk and took out the flashlight. He twisted the light on and walked up to the front door. Shining the light on the roof, he ran the beam back and forth several times. He saw only one antenna. He went back to the car.

“Mind if I climb on the hood of your car? I need a better vantage point.”

“Go ahead. But take your shoes off, okay?”

Valentine slipped his shoes and socks off and climbed onto the hood. This time, he focused the flashlight’s beam on the spot where the antenna was. A thick black wire protruded from the roof. He swore and climbed down.

“They beat us here,” he said, getting in the car.

“They destroyed the evidence?”

“Yes.” He punched the dashboard and watched the indentation slowly vanish. It was a perfect metaphor for what was happening. He knew how Ricky had scammed every single game, and he couldn’t prove a damn thing. “I need more coffee.”

“You think that’s going to make you think better?” Gaylord asked.

“Yes.”

“You think there’s something you missed?”

“Maybe.”

“Why don’t you sleep on it? Maybe in the morning—”

“By tomorrow they’ll have destroyed every piece of evidence there is. If you want to pack it in, I’ll drive you home.”

“I was only suggesting—”

Valentine turned sideways in his seat. “Suggest something else.”

“Like what?”

“Like a solution.”

“What do you mean?”

“How would you handle this case if it was yours?”

Gaylord chewed it over all the way to the convenience store. Valentine had decided that the guy wasn’t stupid, just stuck in a crummy system that wouldn’t let him use his brains for anything besides typing reports. As Gaylord pulled into the lot, he slapped the wheel.

“Got it,” he said, a triumphant smile on his face. “We go after the woman who helped Ricky with the blackjack scam. She’s an accessory. Stick the computers we found at the house under her nose and turn the steam on.”

Valentine found himself smiling. Out of the mouths of babes and police sergeants came the most amazing things. He tried to recall the woman at the blackjack table. White hair and cigarettes was all he could pull up. She’d passed Ricky dozens of signals. That took hundreds of hours of practice. And trusting your partner. Only, that had to come naturally.

“She’s a relative,” Valentine said.

Gaylord stared at him. “You think so?”

“Positive.”

“That first cup of coffee must still be working.”

Sitting in the convenience store’s parking lot, Valentine called Bill Higgins at home on his cell phone. Normally, he tried not to call Bill at home and ruin his evenings. In the end, it was only casinos’ money they were talking about, and usually that could wait until the next day. But this was different. He had to assume that Ricky had contacted the woman who’d helped him cheat at blackjack and alerted her to what was going on. Bill needed to grill her, before she had a chance to work on her story.

“Her name is Helen Ledbetter,” Bill said.

“You know her?”

“I interviewed her last week. She’s a retired bookkeeper, used to work for the casinos. You really think she was involved?”

There was real doubt in Bill’s voice. Had Helen Ledbetter served him coffee and something to eat and won him over? She’d rehearsed her role in the scam and probably rehearsed being interviewed by a policeman as well.

“Let me put it another way,” Valentine said. “She’s the only lead we have. And if you can’t link her to Ricky Smith, we don’t have a case.”

“And I’ll probably end up losing my job,” Bill said.

“Correct.”

“I’ll need a search warrant,” Bill said. “Considering I don’t have any evidence, I’m going to have to do some tap dancing before a judge. This is going to take time.”

“How much?” Valentine said.

“Give me until early tomorrow morning.”

Valentine filled two sixteen-ounce Styrofoam cups with coffee and walked to the front of the convenience store. Gaylord was shooting the breeze with the manager, a turbaned Middle Easterner with a permanent smile plastered on his face. As Valentine put the cups on the counter, he saw Gaylord glance at the doughnuts sitting in a cardboard box beside the cash register. What did marketing people call that? Point of purchase. Valentine picked up a napkin and plucked a pair oozing with purple jam.

“These too,” he said. “My treat.”

“Would you like some cigarettes?” the manager asked as he rang up the items.

“How did you know I smoked?”

“Sergeant Gaylord said you were a policeman,” the manager replied.

“Do all cops smoke?”

“All the ones that come into my store do.”

“I’m trying to quit.”

“Nicotine gum perhaps?”

Valentine threw up his arms in defeat. The manager’s smile grew, and he added a package of nicotine gum to his items. Taking out his wallet, Valentine extracted a ten-dollar bill and handed it to him. As he waited for his change, he glanced at his money. He was running low and would need to find an ATM soon. He took the change from the manager and tucked it into his billfold, then noticed a piece of paper he hadn’t remembered seeing before.

He pulled it out and stared at Ricky’s racing slip from the OTB parlor. Printed on it was the date and time of the race and the three winning horses Ricky had picked. Ricky had wagged the slip in his face, then left it on the seat of the car. Valentine guessed he had subconsciously known the slip would come in handy and had stuck it into his wallet. Putting the slip to his lips, he kissed it.

“Did you win the lottery?” the manager asked excitedly.

“Close enough,” Valentine said.