“It was pretty amazing. Jack let me examine the cards. I couldn’t find anything wrong with them. The clicks just seemed to come out of thin air.”

Ever since Jack had died, Gerry had wondered how the poker scam worked, and he put his elbows on the table and knocked his drink over. Gladwell grabbed the cup before too much of the liquid spilled out and righted it.

“Down, boy,” she said.

She wiped up the spill with a paper napkin. Gerry could see her and Jack hitting it off. Jack had liked strong women.

“Did he show you the secret?”

“I eventually pried it out of him,” she said, smiling at the memory. “There was a cigarette lighter sitting on the table. The lighter had a dosimeter hidden inside that Jack had stolen from the hospital.”

“What’s a dosimeter?”

“It’s a device used to detect X-rays or radiation. You see them in dentists’ offices. When Jack passed the cards over the lighter, the dosimeter picked up a signal from the card and sent it to a computer strapped around his waist. The computer read the signal then told me the card’s value in Morse code. Jack said he’d borrowed the technology from some Japanese company that used it in kids’ toys.”

A group of female nurses came up to the table and spoke to Gladwell while checking out Gerry. Gerry rose, and introduced himself as Gladwell’s old high school friend. The nurses chatted for another minute and left.

“You didn’t have to do that, but thanks anyway,” Gladwell said.

Gerry returned to his chair. “You’re leaving out the important part. How was the dosimeter reading the cards?”

Gladwell’s eyes fell to the dull tabletop. She seemed to be wrestling with her conscience, and a long moment passed before she spoke again. “That was the secret that Jack sold to George Scalzo. You could examine the cards, but nothing would show up. Jack made me promise not to tell. And so did Scalzo.”

Gerry thought back to what Yolanda had said over the phone earlier. The FBI had tailed Scalzo coming to the hospital. They’d seen him bring flowers to Gladwell, then go to the cafeteria with her and have breakfast together. As if reading his mind, Gladwell said, “I wasn’t on duty the night Jack died, and didn’t hear the news until the next day when I came in. Then Scalzo shows up with flowers, tells me how sorry he is that Jack’s dead. He knewI’d been having an affair with Jack, and over breakfast told me I needed to keep quiet, if I knew what was good for me.”

“So Scalzo threatened you.”

“He didn’t have to. If word got out about my affair with Jack, I’d lose my job, my nurse’s license, and probably my marriage. I had a sword hanging over my head, and Scalzo knew it.” She lifted her eyes. “There’s your friend again.”

Gerry glanced over his shoulder. Eddie Davis was siting on the other side of the room, peeling the plastic off a cafeteria sandwich. Gerry looked back at Gladwell.

“You’re scared, aren’t you?”

“I think the word is petrified,” she said.

“I can make this nightmare go away.”

“Right.”

“I’m being serious.”

“How can you make it go away?”

Gerry leaned forward, this time making sure no drinks were in striking range. “Tell me Jack’s secret, and you’ll never hear from me, the police, or George Scalzo again. That’s a promise.”

“How do I know you’ll keep this promise?”

His eyes scanned the cafeteria, and when he was certain no one was watching, he reached across the table and put his hand on her wrist. She did not resist his touch. “You and I share one thing in common. We both loved Jack. So when I tell you that on my friend’s grave I can fix this situation, you’ve got to believe me.”

Gladwell shuddered from an unseen chill. She drank what was left in her cup, grimacing again.

“All right,” she said.

40

Four o’clock in the morning, and Skip DeMarco lay awake in his king-sized hotel bed, his sightless eyes gazing at the ceiling. On the other side of the room, his laptop made a gurgling sound. Its screen saver was an underwater scene, complete with coral, bright tropical fish, and sound effects. Hours ago, he’d gone onto the Internet and found the Web site of the law firm where Christopher Charles Russo, the man claiming to be his father, worked. The site had a section with photographs of the firm’s lawyers. His laptop’s screen was sharp, and he’d planned to enter the section, click on Russo’s picture, then raise the laptop to his face, and take a look at the guy.

It hadn’t happened.

He’d gotten cold feet and slipped back into bed. He was twenty-six years old and had lived with his Uncle George for twenty-one of those years. But he still remembered the first five. The memory of his mother was particularly strong.

But he had no memories of his father. Not one. Maybe Russo wasn’t his father, and the story the woman had told him was a lie. Maybe Russo was a scammer, or a crackpot, or someone he’d beaten at cards looking to pay him back in the cruelest possible way.

DeMarco had spent hours lying in bed, weighing the possibilities. Finally he’d come to a decision. The only way he was going to know for sure was to look at the guy’s picture, and try to find a resemblance. That wasn’t so hard.

Only he couldn’t do it.

He was comfortable living with his Uncle George. The house they shared was huge, the third floor practically his. He had his own bedroom, private gym, music room, study, and a maid and cook downstairs willing to do his bidding. And his uncle was easy. DeMarco had brought girls up to his room and smoked dope and his uncle had never said a word. It was a sheltered existence, his uncle having convinced him that the real world was not for him. In the real world, he was a victim. At home, he was a king.

He shut his eyes and tried to sleep. He imagined he was at home, listening to music with the headphones on. It didn’t work, and in frustration he kicked off the sheets and sent them to the floor.

At four thirty, he climbed out of bed and shuffled across the room. Sitting down at his laptop, he made the screen saver disappear. He needed to be a man about this. He’d take a look at Russo’s picture, then decide what his next step should be. Simple as that.

He went to the law firm’s Web site, found the photo section, and scrolled through the players. It was a big firm, and according to the home page, specialized in legal representation for white-collar fraud. Big bucks, he guessed.

He stopped scrolling on Russo’s picture. It was small, and had a short biography beneath it. He dragged the mouse over Russo’s picture and clicked on it. The picture enlarged, filling the screen. DeMarco picked up the laptop with both hands. Holding the screen a few inches from his face, he stared hard. Russo looked to be in his late forties, with a heavy face, blunt nose, connected eyebrows, and an engaging smile. There was no family resemblance at all. None.

DeMarco felt something drop in his stomach, and he placed the laptop back on the desk. Russo was a fake, and so was the woman claiming to be his aunt. They were scammers, out to make a score.

“Go to hell,” he said to the screen.

He shrunk Russo’s picture back to its original size, then felt the tension trapped in his body escape. He’d stayed up half the night for nothing.

His eyelids suddenly felt heavy. He needed to get some sleep. The tournament was down to twenty-six players, and by tomorrow night, he expected to be sipping champagne with Uncle George, the title of world’s best poker player firmly his.

As he stared to turn off the laptop, he noticed Russo’s biography on the screen and lowered his face to have a look. Maybe when he got back home, he’d take Guido along with him and pay Russo a visit.

Christopher Charles Russo (nickname Skip)

Christopher Russo is a partner in Hamilton Pepper