Gaylord shouldered up beside him. “Guess that isn’t illegal either, huh?”
He shook his head. “It’s an advantage strategy that predicts the outcome without any outside assistance. The player mentally calculates the ball and wheel speed to estimate where the ball will drop from the ball track. Then, based upon bounce swing—”
“What’s that?”
“An estimate of how many pockets the ball will bounce after it falls. Each wheel is different. So is each dealer who spins the ball. Anyway, the player takes that into consideration and makes his prediction of which numbers are most likely to be winners.”
“How could Ricky Smith do that?” the sergeant said. “He’s not that smart.”
“Ricky didn’t. Another player did,” Valentine said. “That player checked out that wheel days or weeks before. He recorded hundreds of wheel spins and wrote down profiles of the different dealers.” He walked around the table and stood behind the roulette wheel. “That player stood here, did the math, and signaled to Ricky which numbers to bet on. Ricky then quickly bet those numbers.”
“You’ve seen this before?”
“Yeah. It only works if the player doing the predicting is sharp.” Valentine tapped the yellow pads on the table. “This guy.”
“You think that was Kessel’s role? He was real smart in school.”
“Then why did he steal the SATs?”
“Like I told you, he’s a weasel.”
Valentine already knew how the craps scam worked and did not bother to examine the table. Instead, he stood in the room’s center and scratched his chin. Nothing he had found was going to put anyone in jail—except the crossbow, and it was going to be hard to prove who put that in the kitchen.
“Hey, look at this.” Gaylord was standing on the side of the room beside the furnace. He’d found a door and had his fingers on the knob.
“Hold on,” Valentine said. He went upstairs and got the rope. They repeated the door-opening drill, but stood at an angle from the opening. This time, nothing came flying out. Gaylord went in and flipped on the light.
The room was unfinished, with walls made of packed dirt and an uneven concrete floor. In its center was a table that held two TV sets. A chair sat in front of the table, a remote on the seat. Valentine picked up the remote and pressed the power button. Both TVs instantly came to life. On one set was a commercial; on the other, a female newscaster talking sports. Valentine stared at them, not seeing any connection.
His eyes fell on the thirty-gallon garbage bag leaning against the wall. It was the same kind of bag he used at home, with a built-in tie at the mouth of the bag. He crossed the room and untied the top. Inside he saw a few thousand used scratch-off lottery tickets.
“All right,” he said under his breath.
“What?” Gaylord asked.
He extracted a handful of tickets. “Ricky won a fifty-thousand-dollar lottery jackpot, didn’t he?”
“Yeah, a few days ago. Let me guess. He found a winning ticket and figured out a way to cover over the circles.”
“There you go.”
“Ricky then gave the ticket to his friend, who worked at a convenience store,” Gaylord said, “and was planning to repurchase the ticket and then show everyone he’d won a jackpot. Only, he decided to let Roland Pew in on the action.”
“Why do you think he did that?” Valentine asked.
“They’re old buddies.”
Valentine slung the garbage bag over his shoulder. As he started to walk out of the room, he saw Gaylord standing in front of the twin TVs. A horse race was showing on both sets. It was the same race, only being run at different times, the horses at different portions of the muddy track.
“I’ve seen this channel before,” Gaylord said. “It’s on cable. It shows nothing but horse races and equestrian events. My teenage daughter loves it.”
Valentine watched the race end on one set, then watched it end on the other, all the while counting silently in his head. Seven seconds between endings.
“You know what this means?” Gaylord asked.
“It’s how you rig a horse race,” he said.
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?”
