John Miller - Smoke and Mirrors

“In that middle drawer. He never got around to it.”

Brad opened the dresser drawer and handed a paper bag heavy with banded stacks of currency to Scotoni.

“Where did you win this?”

“Gold Strike, Horse Shoe, Regency, and the Roundtable.”

“Which was the last place?”

“I only played the Roundtable today. The others were over the last two days.”

“With all the casinos in Reno and Vegas, why’d you come here?”

“I wanted to see Graceland,” Scotoni said, too quickly.

“You an Elvis fan?” Brad asked.

“Sure.”

“Young and skinny or old and fat?”

“Sorry?”

“‘Hound Dog’ or ‘Burning Love’ Elvis-era music?” Brad went on.

“‘Burning Love,’” Scotoni said. “I like that one.”

“That’s old fat Elvis,” Brad mused. “Deputy Bishop will take you to the hospital to get you checked out. You’ll need another room.”

“Does it have to be at this motel?”

“No. Just make sure we know where you are. Don’t leave town unless you clear it with me. And if I were you, I’d take that bag to the bank and get a cashier’s check,” Brad suggested.

“Why? I didn’t do anything.”

“Large sums of cash can attract attention. I don’t want to see you where Beals is,” Brad told him firmly. “We’ll have someone watch over you until you get to the bank.”

“Why?”

“Just in case this dead fellow had friends he was going to share your winnings with. We want you to leave our county a winner,” Brad said. “And it would be best all the way around if you didn’t ever come back here.”

“You don’t have to sweat that one,” the young man said.

After Brad cleared the room, Winter said, “Close-up skills. These doors lock when they close. Scotoni said Beals closed it when he came in. The guy who came in picked the lock.”

“Maybe Beals left it cracked open so a partner could come in behind him,” Brad suggested.

“I doubt that. The guy cut Beals’s throat. Then he left the toothpick, took the gun, and slipped off without looking for the cash, because either he didn’t know about it, or it wasn’t part of his plan. He knew Scotoni would call the cops.”

“Maybe the toothpick was Beals’s,” Brad said.

“I think the guy who killed him left it to make an obvious connection between Beals and Sherry Adams.” Winter was convinced that Styer had done this and he could read the message loud and clear: We’ll always have New Orleans.

“Why did the killer want Beals found fast? Usually it’s the opposite.”

“The killer knew I’d come here, and he wanted to make the connection obvious to me.”

“I wish he’d just leave notes,” Brad said. “His address and phone number.”

“You knew this Beals guy. How?” Winter asked.

“He was a deputy who went to work for the Roundtable casino after I won the election. Most people in the department seemed glad he was gone.”

“Why?”

“He was the kind of smartass who sets people against each other for his own entertainment. He made inappropriate comments to female deputies. There were lots of complaints about him. After the election, he told me a casino had offered him a better job and I told him to take the offer. Truth was, I didn’t want troublemakers around undermining me.”

“Maybe the casino sent Beals to get the money back,” Winter suggested.

“Maybe Beals targeted the kid because he won and took it in cash. No legit casino would send Beals here to get their money back. Winners draw in losers. If someone cheats, they call us to arrest them. They ask counters to leave.”

“But it’s possible that someone at the casino did send him after Scotoni to teach him a lesson.”

“Casinos don’t operate that way because it would result in the loss of their gaming license and criminal charges. There’s too much at stake. Losing future millions over some chump change is stupid.”

“It isn’t chump change to a guy like Beals,” Winter said.

Brad slipped on surgical gloves, knelt, and gently rolled Beals’s body sideways. He retrieved a leather badge case from the corpse’s back pocket and flipped it open to reveal a Tunica County deputy sheriff badge and the ID. “Bastard kept his star.” Beals’s coat pockets yielded a large folding knife, a loaded.380 magazine, a cell phone, and three red toothpicks.

“We can see who he’s been talking to,” Brad said. He looked at the numbers Beals had called. “Last call was made about an hour ago. Just a number, no name listed.”

“My question is, if this is Styer’s work, how did he pick Beals out, and why Beals?” Winter said, realizing too late that he’d slipped up. “I wonder if my guy has a connection to the Roundtable or to Beals personally.”

“Styer is your guy’s name?”

“Yes, that’s his name. Let’s keep it to ourselves.”

Winter figured that the casino was the direction Styer wanted him to head in. For the present, like it or not, all he could do was dance to the psychopath’s tune.

Daylight was fading when Brad parked in the lot outside the Roundtable casino. The facade made the casino look more like a theme park for kids than a gambling hall for adults.

“You don’t know what this Styer looks like?” Brad said, shaking his head.

“Paulus Styer never looks the same way twice,” Winter said.

“You going to tell me any more about him than his name?”

“He’s the most dangerous son of a bitch I’ve ever encountered.”

“That much I sort of picked up on.”

“It pretty much sums him up and it’s the most important thing to never lose sight of.” Winter frowned and looked out at the casino.

Despite the medieval theme, instead of the court jester outfits Brad said the doormen wore under the previous ownership, they now sported tuxedo jackets and red cummerbunds with matching bow ties. The Roundtable’s owners had left only as much of the old place’s ambience as was financially practical. Winter read a sign in the foyer that said CASH YOUR PAYCHECK HERE AND RECEIVE A $20.0 °CREDIT TOWARD ANY GAME! He figured, with a rueful sigh, that it should have read WHY PAY YOUR RENT OR BUY GROCERIES WHEN YOU CAN GIVE US THE MONEY!

The absence of windows, clocks, or any other indicators of time in a casino was a clear sign that the owners didn’t want their clients to play according to nature’s schedules. Winter remembered that he had once read that the denial of passing time was just one of a hundred tricks casinos employed to keep gamblers seated until their pockets were empty. The use of magnetic cards not only tracked the customers’ game preferences, and their wins and losses, but also stored their cash by way of Visa cards, so they had no sense of losing actual money. The more a patron gambled, the more perks they were entitled to receive. The house rigged things so nobody left the place of dream fulfillment empty-handed. Lesser gamblers got cheap liquor, free soft drinks, key chains, and mugs, while the big-fish gamblers were rewarded with free flights in and out, meals, rounds of golf, lodging, companionship, and tickets for big-name performers, all compliments of the house.

A casino’s decor, chairs, music, and lighting were all carefully designed to make the customers feel safe and comfortable. Casinos were big supporters of the scientific community, and employed psychologists to increase their edge against the poor schmucks who wandered in through the doors-who were, in the end, hardly more than sheep lining up to be shorn.

Winter mulled all this over as Brad said, “Albert White is head of security, formerly deputy chief of police in West Memphis. His main job is to keep order and running interference for the casino. With the security cameras trained on the lot, and the internal security communication system, we won’t have to look for him. Either he or one of his men usually meets me on the way in.”