Jack Lightfoot had him stumped.
The Fontainebleau had a fancy gift shop in the promenade. Valentine placed two I Love Miami decks of playing cards on the counter. A female cashier with a layer-cake haircut rang up the sale.
“Fifteen dollars and ninety-eight cents, please.”
“How much are they?”
“Seven-fifty apiece, plus tax.”
“That’s highway robbery,” he said.
She stuck a hand on her hip. “So just buy one.”
“But I need two.”
“Fifteen dollars and ninety-eight cents, please.”
He was fuming when he got back to his room. He hated getting ripped off, especially in a joint as pricey as this. Why not just have a giant at the front door who picked you up by the ankles and shook until your money fell out of your pockets?
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he turned on the TV. Lightfoot’s face filled the screen. He had seen plenty of blackjack cheats over the years, and none were capable of dealing eighty-four winning hands in a row. The random order of a shuffled deck of cards simply didn’t allow it. Which meant Lightfoot was using a cooler.
Two-deck coolers were hard to bring into a game, but it happened. Most likely, a confederate wearing an arm sling had sat down at Jack’s table. The confederate had switched the casino’s cards for the cooler residing in his sling. To shade the move, a third member of the gang had “turned” the pit boss by asking him a question.
For the cooler to work, Lightfoot needed to false shuffle. Mechanics used one of three false shuffles to get the money: the push-through, strip-out, and Zarrow. Each created a convincing illusion of the cards being mixed. But each also had a tell that a trained eye could detect.
Staring at the TV, Valentine mimicked Lightfoot’s shuffling with the cards he’d bought in the gift shop.
Lightfoot’s shuffles were slow and deliberate, the way they taught in dealer’s school. After a few minutes, it became apparent that when he telescoped the cards together, they were being honestly mixed. Which meant Valentine still didn’t know what Lightfoot was doing. And had wasted fifteen dollars and ninety-eight cents.
He killed the TV. The screen faded to black, a tiny white dot pulsating in its center. The elbow he’d used to crack the alligator had started to throb. He’d dreamed about that alligator last night and had a feeling he’d dream about him again. A real keeper.
The phone on the night table rang. He let voice mail pick up, then retrieved his message. It was Bill Higgins.
“Did you find Jack Lightfoot?” Bill asked when he called back.
“No,” Valentine said.
“Any idea where he went?”
Valentine hesitated. Pieces to this puzzle were missing, and he felt certain Bill was holding a couple of them. “I think he ran.”
“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 is cheating?”
“Then I’ll take up shuffleboard and start complaining about my hemorrhoids.”
She giggled into the phone. “Sorry, boss.”
He started to say good-bye, then remembered his manners.
“Thanks for chasing my friend down.”
“You think I could be a bona fide detective one day?”