Motion to Suppress (15 page)

"Maybe Peter La Russa. I don’t know that Anthony Patterson had any other friends," Rossmoor said. He seemed more relaxed talking about Patterson. Paul pressed on.

"So what was it they were doing? You know, what kind of scam were they running?"

"You know, Paul, talking about that sort of thing might cause trouble for the club."

"I know. I’m not simpleminded," Paul said.

"Let me guess," Rossmoor said. "Let’s see, community college in California, army or marines, maybe finished up at UC. Career as a cop, left because you couldn’t get promoted. How did I do?"

"Born and raised in California. Harvard undergrad. Northeastern for my M.S. and then the Peace Corps. The cop part is right."

"College in Boston but a California boy. I knew some West Coast fellows at school. They didn’t much like Yale. They thought we were all snobs, but California snobbery is the worst. I should have known by the way you looked down your nose at the antiques," Rossmoor said. He was smiling, inviting Paul to join in. It was hard not to like him.

"Look," Paul said. "You tell me you have a thing for Misty, you want to help her. You’re privy to some information that might help her, about Patterson and Peter La Russa. Are you going to give it to me or not?"

Rossmoor got up and moved to the window, hands behind his back.

"Suppose the information might lead to the arrest of someone else and free her?" Paul said. "Which wins out, the corporate or the personal interest?"

"My turn," Rossmoor said. "I want to know if you can prove somebody else struck the second blow, the one that was fatal."

"Where’d you hear about that, Mr. Rossmoor?"

"Steve. Of course we obtained the police reports."

"Help me out here, Steve."

Rossmoor fell silent. He finally said, "It doesn’t seem relevant, but I’m willing to give you the general outlines of a problem the club had with Anthony Patterson, on condition you don’t talk to the press, look into it quietly, and keep it all confidential unless something important to your client does turn up."

"Fair enough."

"Patterson knew his job, I’ll say that. For the first year or so he did really well. Knew how to peg the bad guys, knew where to lay the blame and how hard to come down to keep the peace."

"Would you describe him as violent?"

"You’re an ex-cop; so was he. Would you describe yourself as violent? He manipulated violence like an expert, the same way he could use any other kind of weapon. If he blew, it was a calculated blow."

"What changed after a year?"

"Purely speculating, his marriage started to sour. After that, aside from his hobby of controlling his wife, he devoted most of his attention to pursuing easy money. He could be quite persuasive and attractive when he wanted to be. I admit he had me fooled at first. Anyway, he and La Russa brought in a card counter, a really brilliant blackjack player who’s on the Gaming Association’s blacklist."

"Hey, I didn’t last thirty seconds out there before you knew me."

"They put him in a wig and glasses and he played only at a table La Russa supervised. He played big money. That set off the alarm bells, but Patterson shut them off. The counter won about twenty thousand, as near as we can tell, before I got into it and watched Anthony protecting La Russa, who was protecting the counter."

"I got the internal report at the beginning of April. Patterson was due to be fired, but Misty called him in sick on the twenty-seventh and twenty-eighth, Friday and Saturday. He was off Sunday. Then he was found on Monday. La Russa we weren’t sure about until this week. The final word on him is coming in tomorrow. He’s already retained an attorney from Carson City. Considering everything, we’ll probably just let him go quietly."

"What happens to the counter?"

"If we see him again, we run him out. It’s a gray area legally, so we probably wouldn’t try to prosecute."

"Do you report this kind of information to the Nevada Gaming Commission?"

"Not if we can keep the lid on it," Rossmoor said. "And I’ve been instructed to do that."

"You’re taking a risk."

"I’m not as conservative as I look."

"I don’t suppose you stopped by to check in with Misty or Anthony on Anthony’s last night."

"No. I wasn’t there. Ask Misty."

"Where were you?"

"In bed, here at Prize’s that night. We’re working on some new security for the parking lot and I got hung up. We’ve been having some problems with cars being vandalized. And we prefer happy customers."

"Alone?"

"Yes, alone."

"Any witnesses at all who can place you here?" Paul persisted.

"Security," Rossmoor said. "They videotape the hallway outside the penthouse."

"You must be in love," Paul said.

"What do you mean?"

"They videotape the hallway...." Paul repeated.

"What are you getting at?"

"I assume they don’t just videotape the hallway, but they watch the tapes later?"

"It’s something I’m so accustomed to, I don’t think about it."

"He knew about you and his wife," Paul said.

Rossmoor was a professional. He smiled and blew it off. "That’s not ... that wasn’t Patterson’s area. Chances are another guard would see those tapes and wouldn’t think a thing about them. Meanwhile, hate to say it, Paul, but I have another appointment."

"Sure," Paul said. "Just a couple more questions. Do you drive a motorcycle?" He didn’t expect a positive answer. A Bentley, yes.

"I’ve got a nice Harley, but I haven’t been out on it since last summer," Rossmoor said. "It’s about time to grease it up, now that the ice is gone, not that I get your drift here."

"Idle curiosity." Paul rose. "Any chance I could have a look at your internal reports about Anthony?" he said.

"It would be difficult. I’ll think about it. Are you in town long?"

"If I’m not around," Paul said, "you can always talk to Nina."

"I didn’t mean that. Play tennis, Paul? I’m always looking for a good game."

"I was thinking you were probably a swimmer," Paul said.

"Always on duty, I see. I swim, but I don’t swim on Thursday nights. Nice to meet you, Paul."

Paul walked past him. "Just one last thing," he said. "Got the name of the counter?"

"Al Otis. He lives in a trailer park in Sparks, we understand. His wife is Sharon Otis, once Patterson."

"What do you mean?" Paul said.

"Anthony Patterson’s ex-wife," Rossmoor said. "For what it’s worth." As the door closed, Paul watched Steve Rossmoor head for the bar and pour himself a very stiff one.

Back at Caesar’s, where he was staying, Paul went down to the club and worked out on the Nautilus equipment, then swam laps. The recreation area was almost deserted. They must be losing money, he thought, between the off-season and the recession. He rode up the tower elevator to the seventh floor, where his room was, and got into the hot tub with his phone.

This time Nina answered on the third ring.

Paul told her most of what he had.

"You’ve been busy," she said when he was finished.

"It’s always like that when you start looking into people’s lives," Paul said. "We’re much more complicated than we think."

"So in early March Misty was seeing Tom Clarke and Stephen Rossmoor at the same time. Carrying on two affairs after marrying a jealous husband."

"I don’t know how heavy she was with Rossmoor, but there’s definitely something there. As for her husband, she was blind if she didn’t think he was keeping a very close eye on her behavior. Rossmoor’s an idiot too. In one breath he tells me about the security cameras on his door, and in the next he tells me he doesn’t think Anthony knew about him and Misty."

"Does she really believe he never knew or does she just want to believe it? My biggest problem with this client has to be understanding her. Do you think she was looking for punishment?"

"Who knows why women sleep around?" Paul said. "All I know is, it hardly ever seems to be out of simple lust."

"Let me assure you, it happens. Anyway, if he did know, you’ve got to assume he would be upset."

"Not the type to forget, by all reports."

"By the way, she had him buried by a funeral parlor in Placerville today. A few people from Prize’s came. A relative in Philadelphia sent a wreath. He died before he got his revenge on his fickle wife."

"I thought I’d go to Sparks tomorrow, talk to the Otises," Paul said.

"Okay, you do that."

"Want to come along?"

A pause, then Nina said, "Okay. Misty’s parents are definitely posting the bond for her. She gets out tomorrow. She says she needs to spend a day or two by herself at the Lucky Chip before I take her to see Bruno."

"Makes sense. See you tomorrow morning, then."

"Yeah. Al and Sharon Otis. This couple I have to meet," Nina said.

14

WHEN PAUL CAME down the next morning he found a message from Nina saying she would be a few minutes late, and a sealed envelope at the reception desk. Rossmoor had sent the internal report on Patterson to him by messenger. Apparently even his temporary digs at Caesar’s had been noted.

In the casino coffee shop, nicked cup in hand, he scanned its pages. He found it refreshingly grammatical.

Anthony Patterson, as chief of Security at Prize’s, had responsibility for spotting professional "casers," the blackjack card counters. The Reno and Tahoe clubs traded their information in monthly memos, complete with photos of the card counters taken from the glass ceiling while they played.

The casinos did nothing to stop the occasional weekend big winner, who they realized had useful publicity value, but vigorously fought the real pros that tried to confuse their spotters with camouflage. Besides changing clothing and facial hair, professionals called upon innocent-looking accomplices and played each club for only a short period of time, jumping from table to table with the shuffle. The best card counters jumped from Vegas to the Bahamas to Atlantic City, and stayed away from northern Nevada, where the rules on doubling and surrender hurt the player’s odds.

Semipros tended to be locals who showed up at the same clubs over and over until convinced by repeatedly being eighty-sixed out the door that the time had come to move on or retire. Although it was not strictly illegal anywhere, very few people had the combination of big stakes, chutzpah, and concentration to make much money counting cards. All the clubs took precautions.

The report listed Albert B. Otis as a pro. According to the report, he was balding, but sometimes wore a toupee; about five six, but sometimes wore lifts, and had gray hair, but sometimes dyed it black or brown. Sometimes he wore glasses.

But there was one thing he always wore, a gold ring with a diamond-shaped onyx, and he twisted it while he waited for the cards to turn up. This mannerism had been discussed at a recent northern Nevada club managers’ meeting, where the decision was made that it wasn’t a cue for anyone else or a method of counting, just a useful affectation. One flash of that ring, and Al had been escorted out of the MGM Grand and the Luxor in Las Vegas and Harvey’s at Lake Tahoe.

For about a month before Anthony Patterson died, Al had been gambling at Prize’s without the pinky ring, undetected. The thick new reddish mustache and beat-up 49ers football jacket helped for a while, but eventually a dealer on the graveyard shift remembered Otis’s Southern accent and told the pit boss, Peter La Russa, who was supposed to tell Patterson in Security.

The same dealer noticed Otis an hour later, playing a twenty-five-dollar minimum at La Russa’s tables, black chips worth at least $2500 stacked in front of him. Patterson, on shift then, had to have seen him, so the dealer reported the incident directly to Stephen Rossmoor’s assistant.

The assistant didn’t touch Al, since what she really wanted to know was why Patterson was letting the man play. During one of his off-shifts she viewed the security videos for preceding days, which showed a ringless Al, in various hair colors and getups, winning thousands. He always left when Patterson’s shift was over.

So it was that on April 24, the watchers in the ceilings had turned their cameras on Anthony Patterson. The next night, the night before Patterson disappeared, Otis returned to play a table at Pit Four, one of Peter La Russa’s tables with fifty-dollar minimums. In three hours he was up $4750, a substantial but not too conspicuous profit.

Afterward, Al and Anthony Patterson met outside the front door to the club. They were followed to the parking lot, but the watcher was unable to overhear their conversation.

The report recommended that Patterson be terminated when he reported for his shift the next night, and that updated descriptions of both men be circulated among the clubs. La Russa was to be called in for questioning. For reasons not given, no report to the Nevada Gaming Commission was recommended.

Patterson failed to appear for his shift on Friday night. His wife called him in sick. Patterson’s wife also called the next night, Saturday, and reported Patterson would be out with back problems. Sunday night Patterson was off duty. The following day his body was discovered.

Once over Spooner Pass, Paul slowed down to negotiate the hairpin turns so that Nina could relax and marvel at the view of the high desert plateau to which they were descending. The road led through Nevada’s minuscule capitol, Carson City, with its fine courthouse and Victorian houses amidst the thrift shops and fast-food outlets.

"Is this the most direct route to Sparks, Paul?"

"Sandy give you another hard time, Nina? Not that I don’t enjoy the pleasure of your company, but you are paying me to do this, so that, I assume, you can be doing something else."

"It’s true I don’t have time for this," she said, "but so much of this is new to me. I’m learning as we go."

That was the truth, but what Nina didn’t tell Paul was that she couldn’t help thinking he might have done a better job with the Tengstedts.

When they had gone about thirty miles farther, Reno appeared out of the dun-colored land surrounded by its desolate peaks. Past McCarran Airport, at the Sparks border, they found the trailer park on Kietzke Lane near the Hilton. The biggest casino in Reno, the Hilton was the only sky-scraper for miles, surrounded by flat ranch-style houses on minilots and the air-cooled malls that had replaced Main Street in most desert communities.

"Misty and Anthony were married in the basement at the old Bally’s. The Chapel o’ Love, for ninety dollars," Nina told him as they parked in front of the manager’s office just off Kietzke. "Her parents didn’t come." A girl was watering a puny flower bed nearby, and when nobody answered the bell, Nina asked her if she knew which trailer belonged to the Otises. She pointed down the row to the fourth.

Many mobile homes here, stuck to concrete pads and decorated with desert plants and lawn furniture under umbrellaed patios, had achieved an air of permanence. Al and Sharon’s trailer wobbled on blocks, huge tires propped against a makeshift concrete divider, still ready to roll at a moment’s notice if the spirit moved them. No flowers or shrubs marred the dirt of their lot. Instead three freshly waxed motorcycles and a 1967 blue Mustang convertible heated up in the sun next to a hibachi and folding chairs. Paul walked over to have a look at the bikes.

Al Otis answered their knock. He was short, and his hair, thick and red with a lot of gray, was tied back in a ponytail. A mustache shaded his face down to his chin, but his nose, cheeks, neck, and shoulders were burned a wicked scarlet. A baggy, sleeveless T-shirt sculpted folds over a museum-quality beer belly. Coconut suntan lotion competed with a liquid lunch in Nina’s sniff test, with alcohol coming out champ. "Come on in, people," he said.

Inside, the trailer was surprisingly roomy. A deer’s head, antlers tangling with a light fixture, adorned the far wall. A king-size water bed rocked invitingly beneath an Indian blanket. Underneath pervasive desert dust, the place had a tidy look and a homey feel.

"Have a drink," Al said, adjusting the temperature on the swamp cooler. "Scotch and soda is all I’ve got, but let me tell you, it’s good Scotch. Which one of you is the lawyer?"

"I’m the lawyer. Nina Reilly," Nina said, nodding at the bottle. "And this is Paul van Wagoner. Where’s Mrs. Otis today?"

"Who knows?" Al said vaguely, plunking the drinks down on a foldout table in the dining nook. "Sharon’s got better things to do. I can tell you whatever you want. Here’s to crime," he said, knocking back the entire glass. He got up from the edge of the bed again and fixed another one, not quite as lethal-looking.

When he was settled, Nina said, "We’re here to find out about you and Anthony Patterson, Mr. Otis."

"Call me Al. How come the police haven’t been over?"

"Unless you’ve told them, I don’t think they know about you and Sharon and Anthony," Nina said.

"To old friends," Otis said, sipping. "Can you believe this? The casinos are on my case heavy. I may have to go back to linoleum laying, like I did for twenty years, only now it’s mostly vinyl. I don’t think my knees can take it anymore."

"You’re lucky not to be in jail."

"I will say one thing for Prize’s—they haven’t dinged me for Gambling Code violations. Course, they’d have a tough time proving anything."

"Peter La Russa’s still working there," Nina said.

"Your information’s out-of-date. La Russa got fired last night."

"He called you?" Paul said. He had pulled out a folding chair, setting it up to give himself plenty of room, and he worked on a man-size Scotch.

"Could be," Otis said. "Now maybe you’d like to tell me where you heard all this good stuff."

"They have you on tape," Paul said. "The club knows all about the arrangement." His hands rested loosely on his legs, but his body looked alert.

The littler man reached over and plucked up a frayed deck of cards, looking more at ease, as if he felt not quite dressed without them. "My life," he said, "except for Sharon." He started to shuffle, his fingers and hands dancing the ballet.

"Nice ring," Nina said. "I like onyx."

"Yeah. I got it in Atlantic City. Lots of action in the clubs, but I like the country life. Give me the fresh air and the desert." He cleared a mountain of phlegm from his throat. "So what can I help you people with?"

Nina handed him Prize’s report. "I brought a present for you," she said. She and Paul sat back and finished their drinks while Al read.

"Christ," he mumbled a few times, then he looked up. "So it was my lucky ring. And I’m offended. I made a lot more than twenty grand," he said.

"What was Anthony’s cut?"

"Twenty percent. For doin’ nothin’."

"He kept you in the club," Paul said.

"Nothing was gonna keep me in that club much longer. They make you in a couple weeks, ’cause you win and everybody else loses. You attract attention." Al snickered.

"He did do one thing for you. He told you how the clubs made you," Nina said.

"He did do that for me." Al twisted the ring as he spoke.

"He wanted a bigger cut, though," Paul said.

"Hey, Anthony’s old lady has got some good talent defending her," Al said. "I know you didn’t hear that from Sharon. Okay, here’s an early birthday gift for you too. Patterson wanted fifty percent, greedy bastard. Excuse the expression. He wasn’t worth it. They were gonna catch us sooner or later."

"So how did you work it out with him?"

"I bet you’d love it if I told you we didn’t, but we did. In our own way. We were square when he went fishin’."

"Was your way to pay him some extra in coke? Because some was found in his house."

"Now, that’s a very personal question," Al said, smiling. "Here, let me get you a refill."

"Where were you and Sharon the night Anthony disappeared?" Nina asked. "The Thursday before he turned up dead. Night after your last party at Prize’s."

"Oh, yeah. Home. Right here, hugging my honey, watching a James Bond flick on the VCR."

"So what was your reaction when you heard? Who do you think murdered Anthony Patterson?" asked Nina.

"First off, if it was anybody, I would have thought it would be Misty’s toes put down permanent in the sand. I was truly amazed to hear Anthony was dead, because he was not a guy to let someone get the advantage. How that little babe put him out I don’t know, but no doubt she had her reasons."

"He pissed off a few people, didn’t he, Al? Including you."

He nodded agreement. "Right up to the end. You know, I was doing fine on my own. Now everybody’s interested in my personal business. Any chance the casino’s looking to charge me with conspiracy? What do you think? You’re a lawyer."

Nina shrugged noncommittally.

"Anyhow, tell me this. Why’d Misty cop to tapping Anthony in the first place? And what’s it got to do with me, huh? She pretty much wrote her own ticket to the pen. I’m nervous about all this attention I’m getting. Any kind of fame is a liability in my work. This kind is death."

He had a point.

"She has a problem," he went on, moving close, enveloping Nina in his fumes. "Because she cheats on her man. Now, that’s not right, a woman behaving that way, although you gotta feel sorry for her, ’cause she’s a looker, like my Sharon. She’s got too many opportunities. Want another one?"

He got up and poured them all some more Scotch. The sun shot a warm glancing ray through the window onto Nina’s hair. Al stared at it as if fascinated. Somewhere in back, a radio was playing a mournful country tune.

"How do you know about that, Al? Did Anthony tell you that?"

"He was always going on about it. I assumed he knew something. Maybe he didn’t. She didn’t make him feel real safe—bet on it." He laughed heartily.

"Did he say anything to you about his wife that last day you saw him?"

"Yeah. Said something to do with the advantages of the job. Said he was close to nailing her. We are not talking here about a happy man, I’m sorry to say."