Valentine sat up in his seat. “You think so?”
“I’d bet my hat on it.”
Mabel rarely disagreed with him, especially when it came to his work. This sounded more like a scolding, and before he could answer, she continued.
“I think you need to take a fresh approach to this case, Tony.”
“You do?”
“Yes. You’re still angry at the casino owners in Las Vegas for what they did to Gerry. You have to forget about that.”
He swallowed hard. “Okay.”
“You also have to forget that Ricky Smith jumped out of a burning building,” Mabel said. “You’re letting that cloud what happened inside the casino. The man won eighty separate bets at blackjack, craps, and roulette. He didn’t lose once.”
“People get lucky,” he heard himself say.
Mabel laughed. “Not like this.”
He suddenly felt like an idiot. Mabel had obviously spotted something on the tape. He’d watched the tape again late last night after getting home from Key West. He’d been sleepy and dozed off near the end. “What did you see?”
“The surveillance tape in your VCR of Ricky Smith is actually four tapes spliced together,” his neighbor said. “There’s a time posted on each segment. Did you bother to check them?”
“No.”
“The times are continuous. He was running from game to game in his bare feet. Is that the way winners act?”
The sun was starting to set, and Valentine realized he was smiling. “No, they sure don’t.”
“The whole thing stinks, if you ask me.”
His headlights caught a green billboard on the side of the highway. Slippery Rock was another thirty miles, and he punched the accelerator with his foot.
“You’re a genius,” he told his neighbor.
From the elevated interstate, downtown Slippery Rock looked like something out of a storybook: four blocks square, the red brick streets laid out in a perfect grid, the buildings no more than three stories high, with old- fashioned storefronts and no neon lights. It was a pleasant step back in time, and as Valentine entered town, the bell in the tower of the Old First Presbyterian Church tolled seven o’clock. The roads were slick from a rain he hadn’t encountered, and he inched the vehicle down Main Street while searching for the Century 21 office.
Turning around, he drove through downtown a second time. It reminded him of several bucolic burgs he and his late wife had considered as places to retire to. In the end they’d chosen Florida, but a town like this would have been high on the consideration list. It was so clean it sparkled, and that was always a good sign.
He found the Century 21 office on a side street, the mullioned front window a montage of available homes and condos. Tapping his keys on the front door, he stamped his feet to stay warm. The mountains were always colder. Too bad he hadn’t remembered that when he’d packed. A cleaning lady unlocked the front door.
“I’m looking for Dolores Parker,” he announced.
The cleaning lady shrugged. “Who you?”
“Her seven o’clock appointment.”
The cleaning lady pointed across the street at the Holiday Inn. “Try the bar. Short blond lady. Fast talker.”
He thanked her and crossed the street. Dolores Parker was Ricky’s ex-wife. Her name had popped up in a newspaper article Valentine had found on the Internet. The article said she sold real estate, so he’d called the chamber of commerce and found out where. Making a phony appointment wasn’t entirely kosher, but neither was cheating a casino.
The bar, called the Beef & Brew, was just off the lobby. It was a dark, low-ceilinged room filled with loud people, the loudest of which, a spitfire blonde with inchlong fingernails, stood barefoot on a table while singing the Monkees’ “Last Train to Clarksville,” the lyrics drowned out by her unappreciative audience. When she was done, Valentine stepped forward and helped her down from the table.
“Thanks, mistah,” she slurred.
“Tony Valentine,” he said, offering his hand. “Your seven o’clock appointment.”
Her hand went up to her mouth, then she giggled, reached out, and pumped his hand hard. “Dolores Parker, nice to meet you. My friends call me Polly or P squared. Let me guess—your flight was delayed. Or was it the roads? They’re horrible this time of year. Well, the important part is you made it to Slippery Rock safe and sound. So how do you like our little oasis?”
“I like it,” he said.
“Well, good!” Slipping on her pumps, she grew three inches, the top of her perky little head reaching Valentine’s chin, and wrapping her arm in his, she let out a loud “See ya later, boys!” and hustled her client out into the cold and rainy night.
He followed Polly Parker to the north side of town. The drive had made him sleepy, and he rolled down his window and let the night air blow in his face. Slippery Rock was a pretty place, but he now remembered why he and Lois had decided against living in the mountains. It was cold six months of the year.
Polly drove her Acura into a cul-de-sac, the modest ranch houses sitting on heavily wooded lots, and he pulled his Honda up a sloping driveway and parked beside her. As he got out, he saw her window come down. She was on her cell phone, and he heard her say, “Hey, Kimberli, it’s Polly. I’m doing fine. Look, I’m showing a client from out of town the Muller place on Willard Court. I’ll call you when we’re done. Bye-bye.”
“Slippery Rock doesn’t have many rentals this time of year,” she said, fumbling with the keys. “Not that the house is bad, it’s just that for the same money, I can get you much better in the next town over.”
“Why don’t you just tell me what’s wrong with the place and get it out of the way?”
She hesitated, key in the door. “You sure?”
“I’m a big boy. I can take it.”
A noise came out of her mouth that sounded like a purr. Her bloodshot eyes betrayed how hammered she was, the tip of her tongue licking her finely shaped little teeth as she spoke. “Well, let’s see, the roof leaks and the basement floods when it rains and the carpets have a permanent damp smell you can’t get rid of and the street isn’t wired for cable so all you get is three channels and two of them are Billy Graham’s Evangelistic Association. And then there’s your neighbor, Hank Ridley. Ridley’s daddy once owned most of this county. Over time, he’d sold off parcels to pay for things he needed, like a new car or a kid’s education, and when he died, the last parcel was willed to Hank, who fancies himself an aging Beat Generation poet. Hank sits around all day and smokes pot and never cleans his place up so you can imagine—”
Valentine had a feeling she was going to give him the town’s entire history. Holding up his hand like a cop directing traffic, he said, “Why don’t you just show me the place?”
“Why, sure!” she said brightly.
Grabbing his arm, she barged inside.
Polly gave him the twenty-five-cent tour. By the time it was over he was almost feeling sorry for her. Seven- thirty on a Friday night and she didn’t have anything better to do than work him over. Several times, he’d tried to get her to open up and talk about herself. Only, Polly wasn’t going there, and by the end of the tour, he realized that he’d wasted her time, as well as his own. They were in the kitchen, and she filled two glasses with water and handed him one.
“So what did you say you did for a living?”
“I’m a retired cop,” he said.
“What brings you here?”
“I’m writing my memoirs. I needed a little peace and quiet.”
“From Florida?”
Her third degree was starting to wear on his nerves. He took out his wallet and let her see the snapshots he
