Lucky Stiff (6 page)

“Minimum bet is five dollars,” the dealer says. I hand him a couple of twenty-dollar bills and he gives me eight chips. “Do you know how to play?” he asks with world-weariness.

“I do.” And with the next five hands, I prove my claim, ending up twenty-five dollars richer. From the periphery of my vision, I see Whitehorse return to Hurley, and the two of them start talking. Part of me knows I should get up and join them, but I’m having too much fun. I lose on the next two hands, but then I split on a pair of aces, and score face cards on both.

Feeling flush with my winnings, I don’t notice Hurley and Whitehorse approaching me until Hurley taps me on the shoulder.

“Ready to go?” he asks. “Mr. Whitehorse has promised to fax us a list of employees with their contact information.”

“I’m on a winning streak here,” I say, placing another bet.

“That’s when you should quit, before you lose it all.”

I detect a hint of annoyance in Hurley’s tone; and when I lose the next hand, I decide to give in. I gather up my winnings and take my chips to the cash-in window, with Hurley and Whitehorse on my tail.

“You seemed to be enjoying yourself,” Whitehorse says as I’m stuffing my money in my purse. “How about a one-hundred-dollar voucher so you can come back and play on us?”

Feeling like I’ve hit the proverbial jackpot, I’m about to agree when Hurley speaks up.

“Thanks for the offer, but we can’t accept any gratuities. It might be construed as a conflict of interest.”

I realize Hurley is right and pout. Whitehorse shrugs and looks at me; his dark eyes are smoking. “Perhaps you’d like to come back sometime on your own dime, then. I’d love to show you around the place. Maybe even take you out to dinner?”

I’m flattered; but before I can answer, Hurley once again pipes up.

“I’m not sure that would be wise, at least until our investigation is over.”

“Then we’ll make dinner a part of the investigation,” Whitehorse counters, undeterred. “I’ll provide you with some insight into the overall operations of the casino, and do the same with any employees of interest. I’ll even arrange some interviews for you. That way you can consider it an official part of the investigation.” He looks at me and winks. “At least for now.”

I like Joe Whitehorse. He’s handsome, witty, affable, and the smoke signals in his eyes are hinting at a possible end to my sexual drought. “Thanks,” I say, smiling at him. “That would be nice.”

Hurley shifts uncomfortably, communicating his irritation. Then he says, “Fine. Where and when should we get together?”

Joe and I both turn to stare at him.

“Well, we’re a team,” Hurley says, pointing from me to himself. “And we’ve been issued an edict to oversee one another’s investigative efforts. So if you two are going to have dinner and discuss our investigation, I need to be there.”

“I see,” Joe says.

Hurley has clearly thrown down a gauntlet and I wait, curious to see if Joe will take the challenge. It’s my own personal game of cowboys and Indians—and I’m kind of liking it.

“Okay, then,” Joe says. “Why don’t you two plan on returning here tomorrow evening and I’ll bring the employee list and some files with me and go over them with you. We can meet at the restaurant next door. Does seven sound okay?”

“Seven will be fine,” Hurley says. His eyes are the color of cold steel and he’s wearing a smug smile, which irritates me.

We part company from Joe; on the way out to Hurley’s car, I fume. As soon as we’re settled inside, I let him have it.

“You don’t think you’re fooling anyone with that whole team speech, do you?”

“What do you mean?” he says, sounding all innocent. “It’s true.”

“I think you know damn well that Joe’s original purpose for the meal wasn’t to discuss the investigation.”

“That’s what he said,” Hurley says, shrugging.

“Because you cornered him into it.”

“If that wasn’t his intent, then what was?”

“He was asking me out on a date.”

“He was? I’m sorry. I didn’t pick up on that.”

“The hell you didn’t.”

I cross my arms over my chest and pout, staring out my side window. Hurley’s jealousy is flattering, frustrating, and understandable. I can’t deny that I’m attracted to him, and I remember my own feelings of jealousy as I watched Candy Kane flirt with him. But I also know that, painful as it may be, I have to find a way to let go of my feelings for him and move on. Hopefully, the sexual tension between us will evolve into a strong friendship over time. But if that’s going to happen, I need to commit wholeheartedly to exploring other romantic relationships, and a dinner with Joe Whitehorse seems like a reasonable place to start.

“Look, Hurley,” I say with a sigh of resignation. “I think we need to agree that we are free to see and date other people. It’s going to be awkward at times, but I think it’s for the best. Don’t you?”

Part of me hopes he’ll disagree, because I’m not totally convinced myself that this is the best thing to do. Or, rather, that it’s the thing I want to do. But I realize it’s what I
have
to do.

“I suppose you’re right,” Hurley says, scowling. His acquiescence relieves me, but it also leaves a tiny hole in my heart.

We ride in stony silence for the rest of the trip home. Along the way, an idea hits me. I suspect it will make Hurley angry, but it makes perfect sense.

Half an hour later, Hurley drops me off at my place. “See you in the morning,” he grumbles.

I watch him drive off, saddened over the death of our romantic future but determined to move on. After letting Hoover out to do his business, I change into a flannel nightgown and toss a load of laundry into the machine in preparation for tomorrow’s plan. When I finally sink into bed sometime later, I drift off quickly. It’s a fitful night of sleep, and my dreams are filled with roulette wheels, blackjack tables, and a pair of lacy, lucky undies.

Chapter 5

The next morning dawns with the weathermen predicting a high of 56 degrees. This weirdly warm weather is highly unusual in Wisconsin, where many believe there are only two seasons: winter and road repair. Between the frost heaves and all the salting and sanding on our roads in the winter, spring often brings potholes big enough to swallow a car whole.

After a stop at the local coffeehouse—where I get stuck in line behind a woman who debates her coffee flavor decision as if it’s going to affect the fate of the world—I arrive at the police station at seven forty-five, a full half hour before the scheduled interview with Jack’s girlfriend, Catherine Albright. The day dispatcher, Stephanie, buzzes me through to the inner chambers and I make my way to the break room. Hurley is already there, seated at a table, reading the newspaper. He glances at me over the top of the paper and grunts, “Morning.”

I have not arrived empty-handed; fortunately, there is no one else in the break room, since I only brought enough for Hurley and me. I walk over and set the two cups of coffee I have on the table. After digging around in the cabinets, I find a plate and set out the two cinnamon rolls I bought along with the coffees. “A peace offering,” I say, smiling. “I even got the rolls with double frosting, the way you like.”

Hurley lowers the newspaper and rewards my efforts with a tired smile. “Thanks. I suppose I owe you an apology for last night.”

I shrug. “I suppose you do.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted. You were right to remind me that we’re a team.”

Hurley makes a big production out of folding up the newspaper, even though it’s only half the size of a normal city paper and all of ten pages long.

“Look,” I say, taking the seat across from him. I grab the smaller of the two cinnamon rolls, figuring that going for the small one justifies the fact that I’m eating it in the first place. “Things like last night are bound to happen while we work through this new relationship of ours. What do you say we put it behind us and move on, okay?”

“Fair enough.”

“So what’s your plan with Catherine this morning?”

Hurley details some of the highlights he plans to hit with Catherine. As I listen, I peel my cinnamon roll, eating one sweet, doughy layer at a time. Several times I stop to lick my fingers, but when I see how it distracts Hurley each time I do it, I stop.

Hurley takes huge bites out of his roll and talks as he chews in true heathen-man style. I want to be disgusted by his behavior, but I find myself transfixed, instead. When he ends up with a little blob of frosting on his upper lip, I briefly fantasize about what it would be like to lick it off. But that takes my mind into very dangerous territory, so I gesture for Hurley to wipe the blob away by stroking my own lip in the corresponding spot.

At ten after eight, Stephanie buzzes over the intercom and informs us that our guest has arrived.
One point to Catherine for arriving early,
I think as I put a hatch mark in the “good” column of the mental tally sheet I’ll keep for each of today’s witnesses. I wait in the back hallway while Hurley goes up front to get her. Then I follow the two of them into the “interrogation room.”

Since the Sorenson PD’s interrogation room also does double duty as the station’s conference room, it doesn’t look anything like the dingy, sterile ones you see on TV shows. In fact, other than the two-way mirror—which is almost never used because the opposite side of it is in a large closet that is rumored to have been a regular trysting place for a very randy ex-cop and his stable of women—the only thing in the room that hints at its use for interrogation is the video camera mounted near the ceiling. The most intimidating thing in the room is the décor. The floor is covered with an industrial-strength plaid carpet in shades of “liver failure” yellow and “cyanotic” blue. The walls are a shade of green I’ve only seen in mental hospitals, and the furniture is basic IKEA. Four pieces of “art”—framed Wal-Mart pictures, which I’m pretty sure were bought for a buck and a half apiece—hang crookedly on the walls. Sitting on the floor at one end of the room is a three-foot-tall, irregularly shaped vase that is royal blue and looks like a Smurf on steroids. Rumor has it, the decorator for the room was the wife of the chief of police. Given some of the garish getups I’ve seen her in, I believe it.

Catherine Albright is a step or two above the chief’s wife. She’s a platinum blonde and her hair is perfectly coifed in a nice little chin bob tucked behind her ears. There is a shiny plastic look about it that makes me suspect she has sprayed it into rigid obedience and it wouldn’t move if she was standing in a tornado. Her ears are decked out with a pair of sparkly dangles bearing gems that I’m guessing, based on their size, are made of cubic zirconia. She is a short, thin woman who has a pinched face and a slightly snooty air about her. I’m pretty sure her coat, boots, and gloves are expensive designer duds and the clothes underneath are tailored and crisp. When she takes off her gloves, her nails are impeccable—each one long, perfectly shaped, and, perhaps appropriately, enameled in a blood-red hue. They appear to be professionally done. In contrast, her makeup is so heavily applied that it emphasizes the lines in her face rather than hiding them. The thick blue eye shadow clumped above her brown eyes screams “street whore.” The overall effect is that of a woman trying desperately to cling to her faded youth and a lifestyle of wealth and privilege. She is the quintessence of a pampered, high-maintenance woman. Given what we know about her last inheritance, I have to figure that Jack was a definite step-down for her moneywise. But it’s understandable. She might have been able to lure most men with her looks alone years ago, but at this stage of her life I’m guessing she’s forced to set her standards a little lower.

Hurley steers her toward a chair. Once there, Catherine puts her leather gloves on the table, slips her coat a little ways off her shoulders, and then poses, looking back with a coquettish tilt of her head as she waits for Hurley to help her out of the coat. It’s a calculated move—one, I’m betting, she has practiced and employed hundreds of times, no doubt successfully. So it’s all I can do not to smile when Hurley ignores the gesture and turns away.

Catherine pouts demurely and opts to shrug her coat back on before settling into her chair and placing her laced hands on the table. I take the seat across from her, giving me an open, unobstructed view. Though she looks calm overall, a nervous tic in her left eyelid belies the outward appearance.

Hurley takes a seat beside me and hits the button located under the table that starts the audio and video rolling. After brief introductions, he gets down to business.

“I understand you were dating Jack Allen. Is that right?”

Catherine nods slowly and looks genuinely grief-stricken. When she finally speaks, I’m surprised to hear a British accent.

“He was such a sweet man,” she says. “It’s a terrible thing that happened to him.” She hesitates, appearing lost in thought for a moment, before she adds, “I heard the fire was started by a burning cigarette. Is that true?”

Hurley nods, even though this theory isn’t right. But it’s the story we let out to the media, so for now we have to pretend it’s the truth.