The Rivers Run Dry (22 page)

Mike Holland walked with extraordinary speed, particularly for a heavy guy, but I suspected he crossed the casino this way all the time, his job one brush fire after another. We turned down a hall, the white sheet linoleum squeaking under his rubber soles, and passed walls of black metal lockers. He stopped suddenly, pulling out the key ring again, unlocking a dead bolt on a steel door. The room was nothing more than a storage closet with metal racks of CDs in clear jewel cases. White labels taped to their spines gave the locations: Slots, Roulette, Restaurant, Bar 1, Bar 2 . . . I walked over, pulling out the CDs.

“They start over at the first of the month?” I asked.

Holland's hand remained on the doorknob. He offered a weak sigh. “Somebody reviews this stuff daily, but they keep it here for thirty days in case something comes up.”

“These say ‘September.'” I picked up a bundle of CDs. There were at least a dozen, rubber-banded together, set on the upper shelf above the October CDs.

Holland almost ran over. I showed him the bundle, but didn't let go.

“I guess—I guess they didn't erase those yet. Or—” He stopped.

“Or what?”

“Or they wanted to look at something again,” he said.

“That happen often?”

He shook his head. “Are you taking them?”

“Yes.”

I found a box in the corner of the room that held the white labels for the CDs and emptied it, stacking the labels neatly on the floor. Then I placed the CDs in the box, lining them up by date. Holland watched, waxing his suit flap. Finally, he said, “Guess you got lucky.”

I decided there was no point explaining my theory about luck to Mike Holland. Considering where he worked, he probably didn't believe in it either.

We walked back to Suggs's office, but in a different direction, the hallway appearing to be some kind of circle running under the casino. We arrived back at the management offices where a cadre of stern men was now gathered around the receptionist's desk. Gayle was talking, gesturing with her lovely hands.

Mike Holland opened the glass door.

I kept walking.

In Suggs's office, Jack had unplugged the computer and was wrapping the cord around the tower.

“Jail's too good for the guy,” he said. “The kiddie porn on here would turn Michael Jackson's stomach. You got the film?”

I lifted the box, and we walked down the hall. A tall scowling man stepped from the management offices.

“If Ernie Suggs did something illegal on his own time then we have nothing to do with it,” he said. “You put that stuff down right now.”

“The warrant's signed by a federal judge,” Jack said, trying to get past him. “Get out of my way.”

“What did you say to me?” The man stepped into Jack's path, baring his teeth.

It was one of those primal confrontations, where you can hear the fuse getting lit, hissing toward detonation. I wasn't about to let Jack ruin this search.

“Excuse me, sir,” I said. “We're looking into a very serious crime, one that involves innocent lives. You wouldn't want the public to think you were part of any heinous crime that Mr. Suggs might have committed, would you?” I stopped. “Pardon me, I forgot to ask your name.”

“Paul Wannamaker.”

I moved the box under my arm, taking out my card. “Mr. Wannamaker, I'm Raleigh Harmon, special agent. If you have any questions, that's my cell phone number. I'm available anytime.”

He stared at the card, the embossed gold-and-blue seal of the Federal Bureau of Investigation glittering under the ceiling lights. Then he reached into his wallet. Paul Wannamaker was vice president of management and operations.

I thanked him. And we left.

Outside, the afternoon light stung my eyes, the way it did after a matinee. Four p.m. and the parking lot was starting to fill. We loaded the back of the Jeep, the hard top locked in place, setting the CDs and computer tower beside the evidence bag containing Suggs's tennis shoes. I walked to the passenger door.

“Where is she?” Jack asked.

“Who?”

“Felicia,” he said.

I kept my face empty as we walked inside the casino. But a light flutter was dancing under my ribs, an elation that came whenever the elusive target suddenly became visible. Suggs was in custody, evidence was mounting, and we seemed several significant steps closer to figuring out what happened to Courtney VanAlstyne—but Jack wanted to see Felicia. Arguing with him would only waste more time. He was ready to bust management heads, a mood that enjoyed an argument.

I turned down the now familiar row of slots, Jack following, and saw Felicia at a machine pulling the lever. Her low-rise blue jeans were giving out at the seams, her T-shirt exposed the pale padded belly.

She took one look at Jack and said, “What does
he
want?”

I took a deep breath, letting my gaze gravitate toward the ceiling where dark glass domes watched our every move.

“Felicia, he came to see if you're all right.”

“Oh, I'm just great,” she sneered.

Jack grabbed her elbow, pulling her hand off the wand. “Knock it off, Felicia.”

She yanked her elbow back, then grabbed the wand with an ugly childish defiance.

“I didn't send you back in here, Felicia. You walked in. Don't blame me.”

“Blame you? For tearing my life into little pieces? Why would I blame you?”

I sighed, glancing down the aisle. The old woman from last time was here again, rolling tokens into the machine. Then I realized this woman had the same dull expression in her dark eyes, but her black hair was longer and the silver rings were different. The best odds in the house were that these sad circumstances were replicated throughout this casino. Forget blankets contaminated with small pox. Forget the Trail of Tears. Native Americans were being systematically wiped out by a profit-making scheme set up by their own tribes.

“Leave me alone,” Felicia was saying. “Go ruin somebody else's life.”

“Can't you see I want to help you?” Jack was pleading now. “Can't you see that?”

Her eyes welled up, about to cry.

I couldn't watch anymore.

“Jack, I'm going to the bar near the poker pit,” I said. “Meet me there. Felicia, take his advice.”

Then I walked away, my elation gone, replaced by a heated frustration that burned through my heart as I walked through the poker pit, watching the jumpy men with their oily mannerisms at the green felt tables. In the bar, I found Stacee Warner coming on shift, tying the black pouch around her slim waist. She picked up her tray, chatting with the bartender until he nodded in my direction.

She turned, blanching.

“Don't worry. Your manager's not coming in tonight.”

“What?”

“Ernie's gone for a while,” I said. “So why don't you tell me about the game at Sea-Tac?”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Kermit Simms said the same thing, right before he decided to spill the truth. So let's try again. Do you ever work that game, as a favor to your manager? Or maybe a favor to Courtney? The tips must be incredible.”

She spun away, her small mouth twisted to utter a parting shot just as Jack came up behind her. They collided, her tray slicing the air, her stilettos slipping on the floor.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh!”

Jack reached out, catching her before she hit the ground. He lifted her as easy as a rag doll, holding her arm until she balanced herself. He barely flinched. But I saw an expression cross Stacee Warner's face, something I couldn't place at the moment.

“I have to work. I have to go. I have to—” She raced out of the bar.

Jack watched her go.

She stopped at the first table beyond the bar, where a startled man holding a round of cards looked up at her.

Jack said, “Who's she?”

“Courtney VanAlstyne's roommate.”

“Really?”

“I told you last night in the van. I said she worked here.”

He looked back at me. “You did?”

I nodded. Out on the floor, Stacee was having trouble writing down the drink orders at the table. She kept snapping her pen on the tray, scribbling in a flustered manner, shaking the pen for ink.

Jack was still watching her when he said, “You suspect her of something?”

“Suggs is her boss. I thought she might like to know he wouldn't be in today.”

He nodded absently, then glanced around the bar. His blue eyes filled with the habit of law enforcement, surveying every crowd for potential threats. But he appeared to come to the same conclusion I had: the barflies were a threat only to themselves.

“You ready?” he said.

We walked single file through the noise, the tense voices, the pulsating anticipation of loss and loneliness and greed. I climbed into the Jeep, and as we headed toward the Interstate, Jack checked his cell phone for voice mail. I stared out the window. I was getting used to driving in silence, even grateful for it.

chapter eighteen

D
inner that night was barley kugel drowned in miso sauce. “Nadine, this is simply delicious,” my aunt said. Pearls of barley surfed waves of whole wheat noodles, swimming in a sea the color and texture of rust. I drank another glass of water.

My mother smiled. “Raleigh, we've certainly missed you.”

“I think you're working too hard,” Aunt Charlotte said. “You're not even returning Claire's phone calls.”

I forked some sea goo. It tasted like ground vitamins. Under the table, Madame rested on my bare feet.

“Why don't you give Claire a call,” my aunt said doggedly. “Her feelings are really hurt.”

“Raleigh Ann,” my mother said, “are you being rude to your aunt's friend?”

Manners were paramount to Southerners, and I sometimes wondered if part of the reason was because after the War of Northern Aggression—as my grandmother called it—“rude” provided an excellent code word for “Yankee.” During Reconstruction, the word must have been particularly helpful as the fast-talking vanquishers ripped through the defeated Confederacy like dull scythes, brusque and bloated souls, carpetbaggers and selfrighteous utopians, all of whom prided themselves on never owning slaves, yet by their poor example made it clear they did not differ from the enemy they now vilified; human nature was human nature, and we all fall short.

“Claire takes it personally when you don't call her,” Aunt Charlotte persisted. “At least listen to what she's saying about that fire.”

“Fire?” My mother put down her fork.

“Claire's got this idea for Raleigh's case—” Suddenly, my aunt stopped. “Not that I have any idea what Raleigh's working on. I have no idea. None.”

Human nature was human nature: my aunt forgot her promise.

“Case?”
My mother turned to me. “You're working on a
case
?”

“No.”

She glanced at Aunt Charlotte. “You told me Claire's a clairvoyant. Why would she see fire in Raleigh's life?”

Aunt Charlotte stared at her plate.

“She means a legal case,” I said quickly. “Somebody's suing a manufacturing plant because of some . . . arsenic; they used arsenic. We're looking into it. Claire thinks there was a fire at the plant. That's all.”

My mother looked at me for a long moment. Then glanced at Aunt Charlotte. My aunt's doughy face appeared frozen, her eyes wide open, unblinking. It was an expression of pure bovine deceit. I might be a bad liar, but Charlotte Harmon was worse. Much worse.

“That's exactly what I'm talking about,” Aunt Charlotte said. “What Raleigh just said, that's the truth.”

My mother turned to me. “In any event, please do not insult your aunt's friend. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“People reveal themselves by their smallest gesture, Raleigh, and returning phone calls is one such a gesture.”