appreciate this, Eddie.”
“I bet you do. So here's what I want in return.” Taking a piece of paper from his leather jacket, he unfolded it, and slid it across the table. “The lab boys put Doyle's notebook through an ESDA machine yesterday. The machine detected an impression of a page that had been torn out. It was a note Doyle had written to his brother, Tom. Take a look.”
Valentine slipped his bifocals on. The ESDA machine made a copy that looked like a bad Xerox, and he had to squint.
Tom,
Sorry for the blow-up yesterday at lunch,
but this Bombay investigation has made me
a nervous wreck. So many of my friends seem
to be involved. I still don't know what to do.
Thanks for lending a sympathetic ear.
Doyle
Davis leaned forward and lowered his voice. “If I'm reading this note right, it seems that Doyle discovered another scam at The Bombay, one where employees were involved. Normally, I'd go and lean on Tom Flanagan and find out what Doyle told him. However, since you were tight with Doyle, I figure you might be able to get him to open up.”
Valentine put his bifocals away, then slid the note back to the detective. “The scam Doyle is referring to involved slots. A lot of employees were in on it, probably a whole shift. But it never came off.”
Davis sat up very straight. “Say what?”
“I spoke to Liddy Flanagan about it. She said Doyle spoke to the auditors at the Division of Gaming Enforcement, and the Casino Control Commission. They monitor the take on The Bombay's slot machines every week. And the auditors said the take was normal.”
“So what happened?”
Valentine chose his words carefully. He hated guessing, but in this case, he had no choice. “My gut says Doyle stumbled onto the scam right as it was about to happen. The employees got scared and backed off.”
“You don't think the employees killed Doyle to keep him quiet, do you?”
Valentine shook his head. “Doyle had a lot of friends at The Bombay. But I'll tell you this: Every one of them probably pissed in their pants when Doyle got killed.”
“Thinking they'd get blamed,” Davis said.
“Exactly.”
The detective grew silent. Then said, “We're talking about what, a hundred employees who must have known about this.”
“At least.”
“People in the cage, security people, chip people, dealers. A lot of lives ruined if I decide to keep digging.”
“A lot of lives.”
Davis finished his coffee. Conspiracy to defraud a casino was a serious crime in New Jersey. But Valentine had a feeling the people involved had learned a lesson. Like Doyle, he had a lot of friends at The Bombay, and he did not want to see them go to jail for a crime that had never come off.
“Let it go, Eddie,” he told the detective.
Their check came. Davis was taking his wallet out when his eyes flew out the window. He whistled through his teeth. “As I live and breathe. What do we have here?”
Valentine followed his wolfish gaze. A navy Saturn had parked in the IHOP lot, and a knockout of a woman was getting out. He slipped his bifocals back on. It was Kat Berman.
“That's her,” Valentine said.
“That's the woman you knocked down?”
Davis's eyes were dancing, the juices flowing to places they hadn't been flowing before. They both stood up as Kat entered the restaurant and approached their table. She was wearing makeup and had brushed out her mane of hair, the effect strong enough to make Valentine catch his breath.
“So let's hear it,” she said, looking straight at Valentine.
“I want to apologize,” he mumbled.
“So do it!” she snapped.
“I'm sorry about the other night. I was out of line.”
She crossed her arms. “That's pretty lame.”
“I'm
“That's a little better.”
“From the bottom of my heart.”
“Much better.” She glanced at Davis. “Hello.”
The detective was grinning like a kid at his first school dance. “How you doing,” he said cleverly.
She looked at Valentine. “Would you mind?”
“Mind what?”
“Introducing us.”
Valentine was not used to having his tongue tied in knots. This woman was having a strange effect on him. He said, “Kat Berman, I'd like you to meet Richard Roundtree.”
“Nice to meet you, Richard.”
Davis stared at Valentine like he'd lost his mind.
“What did I say?”
“Richard Roundtree . . .”
Kat was laughing. “You know, you look just like him.”
“Who?” the detective said.
“Richard Roundtree,” they both said.
Davis was fuming, any potential for magic reduced to a shambles. He shot a murderous glance at Valentine, who busied himself staring at the floor.
“I need to run,” the detective said. “It was nice meeting you, Kat.”
“Nice meeting you, Richard,” she giggled.
Valentine walked Davis to his Thunderbird. He put his hand on the younger man's arm and got the cold shoulder. “Hey look, I'm really sorry. I think it has something to do with growing old. Not all the neurons connecting.”
Davis murmured something unpleasant under his breath, then got into the car. A moment later the window rolled down, his profile a study in constraint.
“You are one cagey old man,” he said.
And before Valentine could ask him what he meant, the detective gunned the ancient engine and drove away.
24
Deal
Valentine slid into the booth, his seat still warm. Kat had slipped out of her leather jacket and was wearing a clingy black turtleneck that accented every vivacious curve. Dottie appeared with menus and a smug look on her face.
“Nice trade,” she said.
When she was gone, Kat said, “She a friend of yours?”
“She tried to steal some money from me.”
