Sucker bet - James Swain [26]
“From what?”
“Jack Lightfoot was cheating the Micanopys at blackjack.”
Bill breathed heavily into the phone. “You’re sure about this.”
“Positive.”
Valentine’s leg had fallen asleep from sitting on the floor. Standing, he jerked open the sliding glass door and went onto the balcony. The sun was spitting a thousand flecks of gold off the ocean. He stretched and felt the feeling return to his leg.
“Did the Micanopys let you talk to any of his friends?” Bill asked.
“I’m not a cop anymore, Bill.”
A prop plane passed over the hotel, and Valentine clapped his hand over his cell phone. Tied to the plane’s tail was a red and white banner: CLUB HEDO—SOUTH BEACH’S PREMIER MEN’S CLUB. When the plane was gone, he took his hand away.
“You’re sure he was cheating,” Bill said.
Valentine heard a loud racket on Bill’s end. It sounded like someone vacuuming the carpet. Then the noise disappeared.
Going to the edge of the balcony, he leaned over the railing. The prop plane had passed the last hotel on the beach and was heading toward Key Biscayne. He sucked in his breath, the deception hitting him like a punch in the stomach.
Bill was on Miami Beach.
11
Valentine pulled back from the railing, still staring at the prop plane. As a rule, people in law enforcement did not lie to each other the way they lied to practically everyone else. What made it was worse was that Bill had been doing it for days. Walking inside, he shut the sliding glass door, then told Bill he needed to run.
“Thanks for the help,” his friend said.
Valentine hung up, then dialed his house.
“Grift Sense,” his neighbor answered.
“Do you sell wrapping paper?”
“That’s the first time I’ve heard that today.”
“I need you to help me find someone,” he said. “You near the computer?”
“I’m looking at the big blue screen at this very moment.”
“I need to find a guy staying at a hotel on Miami Beach. I realize that’s a tall order, but I know two things that should make it easier. The hotel is south of the Fontainebleau, which puts it in South Beach. It’s big, and not one of your boutique joints.”
“Define big.”
“Over five stories.”
Mabel typed away. A minute later she cleared her throat. “I’m on a South Beach Web site on Yahoo. There’s a section with a map of hotels. By clicking the mouse on a hotel, a page comes up with pictures and information and the hotel’s phone number. What did you say your friend’s name was?”
“Bill Higgins.” Then he remembered something. Bill had visited Atlantic City once, and Valentine had been unable to locate him. Later Bill had told him that he checked into hotels under an alias, just in case someone in the lobby recognized him and had a score to settle. Out of curiosity Valentine had asked Bill his alias, then stored it away.
“Or Jason Black,” he added.
“This all sounds very mysterious,” Mabel said. “Would you like me to call these hotels and find Higgins or Black?”
“You’re a mind reader,” he said.
Thirty minutes later, Mabel hit pay dirt.
“Your friend is staying at the Loews under Jason Black,” she said. “I would have called you sooner, but Jacques called. He finished doing the inventory of his employees’ lockers like you suggested.”
“Did he tell you what he found?”
“Yes.”
A notepad and pen were next to the phone. Valentine picked up both. “Go ahead.”
“Shoe polish, hair gel, combs, brushes, a mustache trimmer, mouthwash, breath mints, aftershave, hair tonic, toothpaste, deodorant, a clothes iron, a small sewing kit, a newspaper, a picture of a dealer’s girlfriend in the buff, and a chocolate bar.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes. Jacques didn’t think any of it was significant. I told him you’d be the judge of that, and he got a little testy. So I said, ‘If Tony can’t figure out how you’re being cheated, you’ll get your money back.’ Jacques said, ‘I will hold you to that,’ and hung up. Well, did I feel terrible. You were grumpy this morning when we spoke. I should never have told Jacques what you said.”
“Mabel.”
“Yes, Tony.”
“I’m not wrong about this.”
“But what if you can’t figure out how the employee