James Patterson - Truth or Die

I stared at him blankly. “Okay, now in English,” I said.

“It means that for me to get an e-mail it has to be piggybacked on one I already sent. But I only set up the account yesterday. I haven’t sent an e-mail to anyone.”

No sooner did he say it than we both realized he was wrong. He had sent an e-mail to someone. From Lamont’s car.

“What’s it say?” I asked, watching him read.

Owen tossed me the phone so I could see for myself. It was more than an e-mail. It was hope.

Underneath a screen grab from one of the interrogation videos were a name and an address in Washington, DC. Georgetown, to be exact.

My partner always believed in what he was doing, McGeary added. I hope you do, too.

It doesn’t matter if you don’t know a door card from a river card or whether a full house beats a flush, anyone old enough to see the inside of a Las Vegas casino can walk right into the poker room at the Bellagio.

Walking into Bobby’s Room is a different story.

Bobby’s Room — named after Bobby Baldwin, the 1978 World Series of Poker champion — is the poker room inside the poker room at the Bellagio. It features two high-stakes tables that are completely walled off from the other forty some-odd tables, complete with a polished-looking host, a maître d’ of sorts, who stands guard at the door to make sure none of the riffraff ever make it in. Minimum buy-in is twenty grand. The games being played, however, almost always require a much bigger bankroll. Much bigger.

On the one hand, Bobby’s Room caters to a very privileged clientele. On the other hand, there remains a certain egalitarian element. Especially if that other hand is clutching a boatload of money. Better yet, a yachtload.

Truth is, almost any Tom, Dick, or Harry flashing a lot of cash is more than welcome to play in Bobby’s Room.

That goes for any Valerie, too.

Valerie Jensen, dressed in a leather Chanel skirt, a silk Valentino blouse, and a pair of red Christian Louboutin Lady Peeps, handed the host at the door a house marker for two hundred thousand dollars with the carefree ease of someone who had plenty more where that came from. The fact that she didn’t was the first lesson her father, a professional gambler, had taught her when she was a little girl back in Somers, New York.

Poker is a game of lies. If you want to tell the truth, go to confession...

“Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet Beverly Sands,” announced the host as he pulled out the lone empty chair at the table for Valerie. It was the “three seat,” three spots to the left of the dealer.

Valerie, aka Beverly Sands, sat down amid the polite nods from the other players. Save one, they were all pros. She looked around the table; she’d seen them numerous times before on TV, playing tournaments. And more times than not, they were winning those tournaments.

But as attractive as Valerie was — stunning, really — not a single pro allowed himself the slightest gawk or ogle. That would be a sign of weakness.

Never show weakness at the poker table.

That was the second lesson Valerie’s father had taught her. This one doubled as a life lesson, his mantra all during the battle with the lung cancer that ultimately took his life but never his spirit. Never show weakness... period.

“Two,” said the host, giving the dealer what would’ve been the peace sign anywhere else. In Bobby’s Room, it meant give the lady two hundred thousand dollars in chips, which was what the dealer promptly did after gathering up the pile of cards in front of him. A hand had just finished.

The game was No-Limit Texas Hold’em. Two cards facedown to each player, followed by five share cards in the middle. Best five from the seven wins. Simple as that.

Of course, if it were really that simple, there wouldn’t be nearly a thousand books out there dedicated to explaining how the game should be played.

Given the high stakes, there were no blinds to jump-start the betting. Instead, every player had a five-hundred-dollar ante. This meant Valerie wouldn’t have to wait for the dealer button to come around her way. She could be dealt in immediately.

With the speed of a robotic arm on a Detroit assembly line, the dealer placed the cards from the last hand in the automatic shuffler to his right and pulled out the second of the two decks used in the game. After a quick cut, he began to deal, giving Valerie a few seconds to look around the table again. Her father’s voice was so clear in her head, it was as if he were back from the grave, sitting right there next to her.

There’s a fish in every poker game. That’s the player who’s in way over his head. If you look around the table and can’t spot him, get the hell up immediately. Because you’re the fish.

Valerie smiled to herself. She wasn’t going anywhere.

Her fish was seated directly across the table in the eighth seat. He was the only other nonpro at the table, but everyone knew who he was. That’s just the way it is with multimillionaires. When you land in Vegas in your own Gulfstream G650, it’s tough to fly under the radar.

Shahid Al Dossari was a Saudi Arabian banker who was purportedly an advisor to the Saudi royal family, among other things. He was handsome, he was charismatic, and he was currently under investigation for money laundering by the US Government.

Including Special Agent Valerie Jensen.

“It’s your action, Ms. Sands,” said the dealer with a slight nod. The betting had been checked around to her.

Valerie reached for the sunglasses that had been resting in her blond hair, dropping them down across her blue eyes. Slowly, she lifted up her two hole cards on their edges, pulling them toward her across the felt as if she were giving the table a shave. Game on.

This one’s for you, Dad...

Valerie wasn’t sure when the exact moment would come. Only that it was coming.

It could take an hour. Maybe upward of three or four. Or maybe only twenty minutes, over and done lickety-split. The cards had to cooperate, of course. But so did Al Dossari. And so far, he was.

Educated in the States — Yale undergrad, Wharton MBA — Al Dossari was as Americanized as a Saudi could ever be. He loved Tennessee whiskey, New York Fashion Week, and shoot-’em-up Hollywood movies, but most of all, what he loved was women. He worshipped them. Never mind that they were treated like second-class citizens back in his homeland. That was there. He was here. America. Where women had all the power. Just so long as they were pretty.

While the pros at the table maintained their well-trained discipline, paying far more attention to the action in the middle of the table than to the eye candy seated at one end of it, Shahid Al Dossari was a man distracted. Never a good thing in a high-stakes poker game.

In fact, forty-five minutes after sitting down, Valerie was fairly convinced that the only reason he flat-called her raise from out of position was so he would have an excuse to introduce himself. Maybe even flirt a little.

The moment had come.

Valerie had raised the initial bet of twenty-five hundred dollars, making it ten thousand. Al Dossari called quickly, while the remaining players all folded, including the initial bettor.

That left just Valerie and Al Dossari in the hand. Heads-up action, as the saying goes.

The dealer promptly buried a card and proceeded to turn up three cards in front of him, otherwise known as the flop.

7♣ 9♥ 8♥

It wasn’t just any flop; it was an action flop. There were straight possibilities. Flush possibilities. In fact, with two cards still to come, there were very few hands that weren’t a possibility at this point.