“It isn’t chump change to a guy like Beals,” Winter said.
Brad slipped on surgical gloves, knelt, and gently rolled Beals’s body sideways. He retrieved a leather badge case from the corpse’s back pocket and flipped it open to reveal a Tunica County deputy sheriff badge and the ID. “Bastard kept his star.” Beals’s coat pockets yielded a large folding knife, a loaded.380 magazine, a cell phone, and three red toothpicks.
“We can see who he’s been talking to,” Brad said. He looked at the numbers Beals had called. “Last call was made about an hour ago. Just a number, no name listed.”
“My question is, if this is Styer’s work, how did he pick Beals out, and why Beals?” Winter said, realizing too late that he’d slipped up. “I wonder if my guy has a connection to the Roundtable or to Beals personally.”
“Styer is your guy’s name?”
“Yes, that’s his name. Let’s keep it to ourselves.”
Winter figured that the casino was the direction Styer wanted him to head in. For the present, like it or not, all he could do was dance to the psychopath’s tune.
24
Daylight was fading when Brad parked in the lot outside the Roundtable casino. The facade made the casino look more like a theme park for kids than a gambling hall for adults.
“You don’t know what this Styer looks like?” Brad said, shaking his head.
“Paulus Styer never looks the same way twice,” Winter said.
“You going to tell me any more about him than his name?”
“He’s the most dangerous son of a bitch I’ve ever encountered.”
“That much I sort of picked up on.”
“It pretty much sums him up and it’s the most important thing to never lose sight of.” Winter frowned and looked out at the casino.
Despite the medieval theme, instead of the court jester outfits Brad said the doormen wore under the previous ownership, they now sported tuxedo jackets and red cummerbunds with matching bow ties. The Roundtable’s owners had left only as much of the old place’s ambience as was financially practical. Winter read a sign in the foyer that said CASH YOUR PAYCHECK HERE AND RECEIVE A $20.0 °CREDIT TOWARD ANY GAME! He figured, with a rueful sigh, that it should have read WHY PAY YOUR RENT OR BUY GROCERIES WHEN YOU CAN GIVE US THE MONEY!
The absence of windows, clocks, or any other indicators of time in a casino was a clear sign that the owners didn’t want their clients to play according to nature’s schedules. Winter remembered that he had once read that the denial of passing time was just one of a hundred tricks casinos employed to keep gamblers seated until their pockets were empty. The use of magnetic cards not only tracked the customers’ game preferences, and their wins and losses, but also stored their cash by way of Visa cards, so they had no sense of losing actual money. The more a patron gambled, the more perks they were entitled to receive. The house rigged things so nobody left the place of dream fulfillment empty-handed. Lesser gamblers got cheap liquor, free soft drinks, key chains, and mugs, while the big-fish gamblers were rewarded with free flights in and out, meals, rounds of golf, lodging, companionship, and tickets for big-name performers, all compliments of the house.
A casino’s decor, chairs, music, and lighting were all carefully designed to make the customers feel safe and comfortable. Casinos were big supporters of the scientific community, and employed psychologists to increase their edge against the poor schmucks who wandered in through the doors-who were, in the end, hardly more than sheep lining up to be shorn.
Winter mulled all this over as Brad said, “Albert White is head of security, formerly deputy chief of police in West Memphis. His main job is to keep order and running interference for the casino. With the security cameras trained on the lot, and the internal security communication system, we won’t have to look for him. Either he or one of his men usually meets me on the way in.”
Brad and Winter strolled through the entrance, passing among the legions of comers and goers. Smiles on the faces of the exiting gamers were as scarce as talking monkeys. Just inside, a large man wearing a tentlike suit, carrying a walkie-talkie, and wearing a modified crew cut made his way across the crowded lobby to intercept the two men.
“Sheriff Barnett, can I help you with something?” he asked. His pale blue eyes sparkled. He looked like a bloated razorback that had been dressed up in a cheap suit and taught to walk on his hind legs.
“I hope so,” Brad said. “Deputy Massey, this is Albert White, head of casino security.”
The man nodded in Winter’s direction, the motion compressing his chins. “Chief casino investigator,” he corrected, smiling artificially.
“We’ve got a situation that concerns an employee of this casino.”
“Which employee?” His small eyes blinked rapidly.
“Jack Beals.”
“He’s off tonight,” White said, nervously, Winter noted. He tapped the radio against his leg. “I can get you his home address and phone number from personnel.”
“I already know where he is.”
“What sort of situation are we talking about?” White asked, his eyes darting around the entrance area.
“Dead-on-the-floor-in-a-motel-room situation,” Brad said.
Winter saw surprise reflected in White’s eyes. “How’d he die?”
“Suddenly.”
“Heart attack?”
“Loss of blood. Somebody cut his throat from ear to ear,” Brad said.
“Who?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Brad said.
White shook his head and frowned. “We need to take this to my office. I can get you next-of-kin information from personnel.”
“I’d appreciate it,” Brad said. “We probably have it in our files, but yours are going to be more current.”
By law a gambling enterprise had to float in a Federal waterway so the gaming wasn’t technically on Mississippi soil. So the water it floated on had to be Mississippi River water and the casino had to be floated into place from the river.
So, although the casino’s gaming areas floated on massive pontoons to keep the structure suspended in a concrete pond, the room had no more sense of movement than you’d get standing in a chamber in the Great Pyramid. As Winter and Brad followed White through the middle of the casino, Winter scanned the crowd of busy gamblers for a man with any trace of familiarity. Styer would certainly have altered his appearance, but Winter might see something in the way he moved, or recognize his voice if he heard it. The only patron he saw with a toothpick in their mouth was a solidly built woman with fried blonde hair and garish makeup, seated at a slot machine, who would have looked perfectly at home elbowing her way around a roller derby track.
25
Albert White led Brad and Winter to the far end of the gaming floor and down a long hallway into a small and windowless office.
The only items of furniture in the office were an industrial steel desk, a legal pad, pen, and telephone on its surface, and three matching chairs. This was clearly a generic office, used only when necessary.
“When Beals was killed,” Brad said, “he was in the process of committing an armed assault on a patron of this casino. A man who won a great deal of money earlier this evening.”
“Armed assault?” White asked.
“He was in a motel room with a silenced handgun, in the process of drowning the young man in a bathtub.”
“So this alleged patron killed Beals?”
“I’m not alleging anything, Albert. He was here all right. The assault was interrupted by a third party, who cut Jack Beals’s throat. Beals used his old departmental badge to gain entry and informed the victim he was acting on behalf of the casino. Beals told him that the casino wanted their money back. By the casino, I assume he meant someone in management, and not the blackjack dealers’ union.”