known as Billie Farrell.
He wasn’t conscious of feeling anything, not shock or excitement or anything in particular. Didn’t realize until he fumbled around for his cell phone and had to try to punch the buttons that his hands were shaking.
It took him a couple of attempts, but he got the one he wanted. Listened to it ring somewhere in the Texas Hill Country while he stared at the TV screen with hot, narrowed eyes. When an answering machine picked up, he disconnected, then dialed the number again. This time a man’s voice answered. Swearing.
“Okay, this better be an announcement of the Second Coming, or else I just won the Publishers Clearing House sweepstakes. Which is it?”
“Tony. It’s me, Holt.”
“Dude. D’you know what time it is?”
“Yeah. Listen, is Brooke there?”
“Of course she’s here. She’s asleep, what did you expect? At least, she was-” There was a sharp intake of breath. “Wait. It’s Brenna, right? God, don’t tell me. You found her? Is she-she’s not-hey, Brooke. Baby, wake up. It’s Holt. He’s found-”
“Maybe,” Holt interrupted. “I don’t know. I need Brooke-”
“I’m here.” Brooke’s voice was breathy with sleep, and shaky.
“Okay.” Holt took a breath. Told himself to be calm. “I need you to turn on your television. ESPN. Okay?”
“Okay.” Her voice was hushed but alert. She’d been married to a deputy sheriff once upon a time, so Holt figured maybe getting phone calls in the middle of the night wasn’t all that unusual for her.
“I don’t know which channel,” he told her. “Just keep clicking until you find the poker tournament.”
After a long pause, she muttered, “Okay, got it.”
“Watch for her-the woman player. Okay, there she is. Tell me if-”
He didn’t get the rest of it out. There was a gasp, and then a whispered, “Oh, God.”
He felt himself go still, and yet inside he was vibrating like a plucked guitar string. “Is it her? Is it Brenna?”
He heard a sniff, and when she spoke in a muffled voice he knew Brooke was crying. “Oh, God, I don’t know. It could be, but she was just a little girl when she…It’s been so long. I’m not
Holt held the phone and listened to soft scufflings and some masculine murmurs of comfort while he waited, eyes closed, heart hammering. After a moment Tony’s voice came again, gruff with emotion.
“Hey, man, I’m sorry. She can’t tell for sure. It’s been what-eighteen years? She says it might be her. But you’re gonna go check her out, right?”
“Yeah,” Holt said, “I’m gonna go check her out.” He picked up the remote and clicked off the set.
An hour later he was in his car on I-15, heading east toward the rising sun and the bright lights of Las Vegas.
He hit the jackpot right off the bat. The casino manager at the Rio was new, but Holt found a couple of dealers who’d been around awhile, and had actually worked the poker tournament he’d been watching on ESPN reruns.
Although, even if they hadn’t, they would have remembered Billie Farrell.
“Sure, I remember her. Cute kid. Pretty good poker player, too,” Jimmy Nguyn said as he lit up a cigarette and politely blew the smoke over his shoulder, away from Holt and the other dealer. Jimmy was a guy in his late thirties with a Vietnamese name and an Americansize body-five-eleven or so and hefty. He had a cardsharp’s hands, though-big and long boned, with nimble, tapered fingers. He wore a pencil-thin moustache and his hair slicked down and looked like something out of a 1930s gangster flick.
The other dealer snorted and moved upwind of the smoker. She was a tall, angular woman with sun-damaged skin and long blond hair she wore pulled up in an off-center ponytail. She’d told Holt her name was Cricket. Now she popped a piece of chewing gum in her mouth, tossed the ponytail over her shoulder and said, “Come on, Jimmy, she was more than ‘pretty good.’” She looked over at Holt. “She had talent, that one, plus charisma up the wazoo. That year, the one you’re talking about? Came
“Stuck around?” Holt felt his stomach go hollow.
Cricket shook her head. “Quit right after that tournament you saw, didn’t she, Jimmy? That’s the way I remember it, anyway. I guess it was…I don’t know…pretty hard for her to tough it out, after what happened.”
“What did happen?” Holt kept his voice low, hiding the despair that was rolling over him like a bank of cold Pacific fog.
She shrugged and shifted around, looking uncomfortable. “Okay, well, she had this partner…”
It was Jimmy’s turn to snort. “Guy was a real scumbag.” He dropped his cigarette onto the parking lot asphalt and ground it to dust under his shoe as he said musingly, “Miley Todd was his name. Never did get what a young pretty girl like that saw in him. The guy cheated and got caught,” he explained to Holt. “Got himself banned from the casinos for life.”
“Billie was clean, though,” Cricket put in.
Jimmy lifted a shoulder. “Yeah, okay, the kid probably was clean. But there’d have been talk. There’s always talk. Rumor and innuendo-you know how it is. Carries a lot of weight in this town.”
“I don’t think that’s why she quit,” the blond dealer said, quick to jump to another woman’s defense. “Billie was tougher than that. Tough as nails. What made her such a good player. If she’d wanted to stay, she would have.”
Jimmy held up a hand. “I’m just sayin’…”
Cricket gave him a dismissive look and focused on Holt. “All I know is, she won pretty big that night-finished in third place-and she took her money and split. That’s the last the poker world saw of her.”
Holt hauled in a breath. “Okay, then, thanks for your time.” He couldn’t turn away fast enough. It was all he could do to keep his disappointment in check, and what he wanted more than anything was to slam his fist into something and cuss until he ran out of words bad enough. To come so close. And now it looked like he was right back at square one. Well, maybe not square one, since at least he had a name and a town.
“Hey,” Cricket called out to him as he was about to open the door of his car, “you asking about Billie, I’m assuming you’re looking to find her, right?”
Holt turned to look back at her. “Yes, I sure am.”
“Well, then, don’t you want to know where she is?”
“Excuse me, miss. Could you help me out here?”
Billie gave the hose nozzle a twist to shut off the water and lifted what she hoped was a helpful smile to the customer who was standing a few feet away with a bedraggled gallon-size Michaelmas daisy in one hand and a fading sedum in the other.
She’d noticed the guy wandering up and down the aisles, first because she’d never seen him before, second because he looked a lot like Clint Eastwood. In his prime. And third, because he didn’t look like the sort of person to be browsing in a nursery on a weekday morning. He was wearing slacks and a sport-type jacket, for one thing, instead of jeans and a T-shirt. He wore a dress shirt with no tie, open at the neck, which gave him a casual, rumpled look in spite of the dressy clothes. Still, he looked out of place, Billie thought. Dirty Harry in a flower shop. And she had a pretty good sense for people who seemed “off” in any way. Her survival, for a good part of her life, had depended on it.
“Sure,” she said, wiping her hands on her blue cotton apron. “What can I do for you?”
He shifted the two pots up and down, like he was trying to gauge their weight.
“I’m looking for something pretty with flowers. These look a little…I don’t know…tired.” He’d put on a smile, but it didn’t look comfortable on him. As if, Billie thought, turning on the charm wasn’t something that came naturally to him.
She studied him covertly from behind her sunglasses. “You’d have better luck with annuals this time of year. We’re starting to get in some cool-weather stuff now. Be more in a week or two.”
“Yeah, but they die, don’t they? I’m looking for something you don’t have to plant new every year.”
Billie shrugged and nodded toward the pots in his hands. “Well, those two you got there are perennials. They’ll come back every year.”
