“Celebrity,” she said.

“Me too.”

A mile before town he got onto Highway 105, and ten minutes later pulled into Celebrity’s main entrance. Las Vegas casinos were designed like carnival attractions, the casino willing to say or do anything to get you inside its doors. Celebrity was no different. Its exterior looked like the entrance to Tarzan’s lair, with elephants and giraffes and other jungle beasts roaming the grounds, the animals kept in check by natural deterrents. A valet dressed like Jungle Jim hustled over to take his car.

Gloria started to get out, then turned to face him. “I’m going to need filler to run while I’m waiting for your case to break. Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated.”

“Filler?”

“Stories, human interest stuff.”

“I can make some introductions. I know a lot of the famous players.”

“Let’s talk later about it, okay?”

The words were slow to sink in. He’d been wondering what kind of impression he’d made on her, and guessed it was several notches above what he’d thought. She scribbled her cell phone number on the back of her business card, then stuck the card between his fingers. “Call me when it’s convenient,” she said.

He watched Gloria walk away, then got out of his rental and pulled his garment bag from the trunk. Every dark cloud had a silver lining. Hearing that Gerry was in Las Vegas was bad news, yet meeting Gloria was not. There was a bounce in his step as he went inside.

Celebrity’s lobby had an enormous atrium filled with screeching macaws and giant yellow-headed parrots. It was fun for about five minutes, which was how long he had to wait in line to get registered. After that, the panicked look on the birds’ faces started to bother him, and he stopped looking at them.

His room wasn’t clean, so he parked his garment bag with the concierge, and crossed the lobby to the casino. Like every joint in town, Celebrity’s casino offered the same money-losing games, except for one difference. They had built a huge card room designed exclusively to hold the World Poker Showdown. It was as long as a football field, and had plush carpeting and real crystal chandeliers. Considering that most poker players would rather drink out of a toilet than tip a cocktail waitress, Celebrity’s management had made a huge investment.

Two armed guards stood outside the card room. The WPS’s main prize was ten million in cash, and it was on display inside in a Plexiglas box. Each night, the money was put into a vault. As publicity gimmicks went, there was nothing like it.

A giant-screen TV showed the action inside, with thousands of men and women sitting at green baize tables. The game was Texas Hold ’Em and each player was dealt two face-down cards to start. After a round of betting, three communal cards, called the flop, were dealt face up in the center of the table, followed by another round of betting. Then two more cards, known as Fourth Street, or the turn, and Fifth Street, called the river, were dealt face up, with a round of betting after each card. The five cards in the center were common to all players, who used them with their hole cards to make the best hand.

He went to the registration desk and asked for Bill Higgins. A man behind the desk picked up a walkie-talkie and called inside. Bill emerged through the doors thirty seconds later, all out of breath. Bill was Navajo by birth, and had the demeanor of a statue. Not only was he the most powerful law enforcement officer in Nevada, he was the best law enforcement person Valentine had ever known.

“One of the dealers is passed out cold,” Bill said.

“Heart attack?”

“Could be. He keeled over during the middle of his deal.” He turned to the guards. “An ambulance will be here soon. Be prepared to clear a path for them.”

“Yes, sir,” they both said.

Bill opened the doors, and Valentine followed him in. The unconscious dealer was in the room’s center, being attended to by several other dealers. A crowd of gamblers stood off to one side, making wagers on whether or not the dealer was going to live. Valentine went over and told them to knock it off.

“You a cop?” a guy holding a fan of bills asked.

“How bad do you want to find out?” Valentine replied.

The parasites scattered. He joined Bill, and knelt down beside the dealer. One of the other dealers was shaking his head.

“He just had radiation treatment for cancer a few weeks ago,” the dealer said. “I guess he wasn’t as strong as he thought.”

“What’s his name?” Valentine asked.

“Ray Callahan.”

The name was vaguely familiar. Valentine gently slapped Callahan on the cheek.

“Hey Ray, rise and shine. Breakfast is on, and everyone’s waiting for you.”

Callahan slowly came around. He blinked hard, and for a brief moment was wide awake. He stared at Valentine with a glint of recognition, then went back under. Three EMS guys pushing a gurney rushed into the room. They got Callahan on a stretcher, then rolled him out.

A gambler across the room called out, “Is he still alive?”

Valentine spotted the guy who asked this, and shook his fist at him.

“I met with Gloria Curtis earlier and got her under control,” Valentine said when he and Bill were in the coffee shop. “She’s willing to play ball.”

“You going to give her an exclusive if you find anything?” Bill asked, blowing the steam off his drink.

“I didn’t have a choice. Look, I need to level with you about something.”

Valentine took out his wallet, and removed the playing card Jack Donovan had given Gerry. Bill stared at the card, then turned it over and stared at it some more.

“This is from this casino, isn’t it?” Bill said.

“That’s right. It turned up in a murder investigation in Atlantic City. The victim gave the card to my son before he died. He claimed he could beat any poker game in the world. Trouble is, we can’t find anything wrong with the card.”

Bill dropped the playing card on the table. “Was this person credible?”

“He was a scammer. He and my son were childhood friends.”

“So the tournament is being cheated.”

“Yes. The problem is, I have no idea how. I’d suggest you start checking every deck of cards before and after it’s used. Especially those at Skip DeMarco’s table.”

Bill made a face. “So DeMarco ischeating.”

“That’s where the evidence is pointing.”

“But he’s legally blind. How could he be reading the cards?”

Valentine had thought about it during his flight out that morning, and had come to the conclusion that DeMarco, like many sight-impaired people, must have an elevated sense of hearing that compensated for his lack of sight. If someone at the table were reading the backs of the cards—such as the dealer—they could signal DeMarco by the way they breathed. Hustlers called this The Sniff and often used it to pass information.

“I think someone’s reading them for him,” Valentine said. “Start watching the dealers at DeMarco’s table.”

The waitress came and topped off their cups. As Valentine raised his to his lips, he stared at Bill. The look on his friend’s face said he was frustrated as hell. Despite his obnoxious behavior, Skip DeMarco was the darling of the tournament. Busting him for cheating was the last thing Bill wanted to do.

“Rufus Steele called me earlier,” Bill said. “He heard you were in town, and wants to talk to you. He’s staying in the hotel.”

Valentine put his cup down. Rufus’s interview with Gloria Curtis had bothered him. It was rare for a cheater to call another player a cheater. Rufus must have had good reason, and Valentine wanted to know what that reason was.

“Give me his room number,” Valentine said.