William Bernhardt - Dark Eye

To his credit, Granger remained calm. “I don’t think Internal Affairs would agree.”

“O’Bannon can’t afford to replace a seasoned-”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Granger was a handsome man, which made him all the more difficult to bear. He had sandy hair and a sun-baked complexion. He wore a light stubble, which even I had to admit made him look damn sexy. How did men maintain a light stubble, anyway? At some point, don’t you have to shave or it turns into a beard? Do they make special razors with dullish blades for guys who look good with a little growth? “You’re a behaviorist. I’m a homicide specialist. It’s not that I’m replacing you. O’Bannon just needed someone he could depend on.”

“Go to hell.”

“And he can’t count on you any more than-” He stopped himself, the bastard. Apparently this line was too low even for him. “Than anyone could.”

“How the hell would you know?”

“I’ve seen what you’ve done to yourself. I’ve seen what you’ve turned into.”

“There have been some extenuating circumstances, you son of a bitch. I lost my husband!”

“And I lost my partner!” He lashed out, letting loose something I knew he’d been holding back a long time. “Did you forget that?”

Granger had been David’s last partner. Granger wasn’t around when he died, but in a way, I think that made it worse. Sometimes cops carry this “my partner-my life” routine too far-the influence of excessive episodes of T. J. Hooker. But David and Granger had been close. Granger had genuinely loved David. And admired him. I knew that. But it didn’t make me like him. How dare he fling the loss of my own husband in my face to score points, as if somehow he had more right to grieve than I did?

“I didn’t forget,” I said, pushing past him. “Where are my files?”

“You don’t have any. They’ve all been reassigned.”

I was reaching my limit. One more remark like that, and I knew I’d hit him. So much for my attempt to prove that I don’t have any more violent tendencies. “I’m talking to O’Bannon.”

“He’s at the crime scene. Likely to be there all morning.”

“What crime scene?”

Granger squinted slightly. “You have been out of touch, haven’t you?”

“Don’t play games with me, Granger. Tell me where he is!”

“No, that wouldn’t be prudent.”

I swore under my breath. Then I swore over my breath, several times. “You’re still sulking because I wouldn’t suck your dick that time at Gordy’s, aren’t you?”

“Jesus Christ, that was what? Ten years ago? Before you hooked up with David? I’d just met you.”

“Yeah, but you haven’t forgotten. Who was drunk that night?”

“I think you should go now, Susan.”

“I think you’re right. The smell in here is getting intense.” I bolted for the door. “Have fun playing detective, Granger. If you need any help-go fuck yourself.”

I slammed the door- my door-just for dramatic effect.

“How’d it go?” Lisa asked as I slid into the passenger seat.

“Fine. Swell.”

“No problems?”

“Nah. They were all very kind. Glad to see me. Granger and I embraced.”

“Granger?”

“Yeah. Who’da thought?” Well, if I couldn’t live the fantasy, I could at least make Lisa think I did. While she drove to the house where Rachel was staying, I used her cell phone to call Eleanor, one of the young girls in Dispatch. She was nice, I thought she liked me, and I also thought she was gullible enough to believe anything.

“Eleanor? Susan Pulaski. I’ve got some lab reports for O’Bannon. Is he still at the crime scene?”

“Yeah,” she answered. I heard a dozen other lines working in the background. “But I thought you-”

“He brought me back in. Said he needed my expertise on this one. So he’s still out there?”

“Far as I know.”

I noticed a light drizzle on the dashboard. “You think I should bring him a raincoat?”

“Nah. He’ll be inside the hotel.”

Getting warm. “And still working in that… that-what do they call it?”

“The Edgar Allan Poe Ballroom?”

“Right, right.” That would have to be the Transylvania. One of the newer “family” resorts on the Strip. “Dumb of me. I never paid much attention in English class. I was thinking of that other guy. Hawthorne.”

“No, it’s Poe.”

“Okay, thanks.” For more than you know.

Annabel Spencer gazed nervously at the mirror-paneled walls, the smoky glass ceiling, the translucent corbels. Cameras behind every one of them, she thought. She had read that the camera positions were changed regularly to prevent anyone from knowing for certain what the security people could and could not see. Men on metal catwalks hidden behind the ceiling peered down 24/7. There was no telling how many people were watching her right now. Did they know she wasn’t supposed to be here? How long would it take them to figure it out? And once they knew, what would they do to her?

As soon as she passed through the front doors of the casino, she knew her face was scanned by a computer running facial recognition software-developed at MIT, of course-which converted a fluid digital image of her face into mathematical data, translating facial landmarks into algorithms, then comparing the results to the millions of faces in a shared database. She didn’t know if anyone had her cheekbones on file yet. In this day and age, it was impossible to be certain. The latest hot cyber-rumor held that Big Brother was constantly scooping up people’s faces, taking them off Web sites and newspapers and airport security scanners. Today, almost anyone could be identified by an entity with the financial resources to pay for the data. Privacy was an illusion, or perhaps more accurately, a luxury that many big businesses could no longer afford. So the casino hard drives must be whirring away, she mused, trying to come up with a match, determining if she was a player or a patsy, a tourist or that most dreaded of all evils: a card counter.

Given the famous hatred of casinos for card counters, the minor detail that she was underage might seem negligible-although it would certainly give them a no-questions-asked excuse to bar her from the premises. Not that they needed one. They could expel anyone, and would, if they thought the player was too successful at the blackjack table. It hardly seemed fair-they only allowed people to play the game if they weren’t very good at it. Forget the signs saying the dealer rests on seventeen; the signs should read: SUCKERS ONLY.

Like many of her fellow students, Annabel considered herself a freedom fighter, not a card cheat. But she knew the casino would take a different view. Dark rumors circulated throughout the MIT campus about what happened to card counters in the back rooms of Vegas gambling emporiums. Since they were private property, they could ban anyone they wanted, and if you violated their ban, you could be charged with trespassing. But this was the town the mob built, after all, and casino bosses were known to employ means not sanctioned by law to convey the message that card counting was disfavored. She’d seen more than one MIT hotshot return to class on Monday morning looking as if he’d lost a fight with a tractor. And a few had disappeared altogether-never to return.

Trying to remain calm, Annabel strolled into the blackjack pit and scanned for an open seat. She was wearing her best DKNY Sex and the City black dress, and for an MIT math major, she looked pretty damn hot, if she did say so herself. Not that she wanted to attract attention-she just wanted to look as if she belonged there. Because everything depended on her having a successful night. Everything in the world.