A few college kids bustled by, wisecracking and slinging cocktails, jarring Mike from his thoughts. He fought to reacclimate himself to his surroundings. Gripping the handrail, he descended into the confusion of the casino floor. Blinking lights and sweaty faces seemed to assail him, but he kept to the edge of the room, putting one foot in front of the other, his gaze trained on the exit.
Which is why he didn’t see the shoulder until his face collided with it. Smooth calfskin leather jacket, black with a racing-red Ducati appliqué logo.
A hand pressed him away. ‘Watch where you’re going.’
From a distance the man would have looked much younger, but Mike was right up on top of him, so he could see the smoothness of the face lift and the too-black dyed hair – he had to be in his mid-sixties. He had perfect white teeth and the relaxed posture of a man secure of his place in the world. He’d given Mike no more than a cursory glance; he was focused on the high-stakes blackjack table across the way.
As were William and Dodge, standing just behind him.
Mike’s legs tensed, locking up, the muscle cramping. He tilted his head, hiding his face beneath the cap’s brim, and managed to turn away. The three men were clustered by the door leading back to the offices – the same door the cocktail waitress had emerged from earlier.
As Mike walked away, he heard the man in the leather jacket say, ‘Results, boys. Soon.’
And William’s raspy voice, like a fingernail down Mike’s spine, ‘We’ll have ’em, Boss Man.’
Still riled, Mike hurried through the employee parking lot, Shep following him at a pace.
‘As in customer-service Indian or many-moons Indian?’ Shep asked.
Mike spit, the sunflower-seed chaw hitting the asphalt with a wap. ‘Many moons.’
‘Like peace-pipe, Manhattan-for-a-handful-of-beads Indian?’
‘Yes, Shep. Like that.’
‘You?’
There, in the cherry front spot, was a Ducati to match the man’s riding jacket. Sleek and muscular, the motorcycle looked part fighter jet, part armored action figure. Mike crouched and read the lettering stenciled onto the bumper block. BRIAN MCAVOY, CEO.
Brian McAvoy.
Boss Man.
‘Where to next, Big Chief Squatting Cow?’ Shep said.
‘Rick Graham.’ Mike thought of the newspaper article inside describing the local hero from Granite Bay. ‘Let’s see if our boy’s listed.’
Chapter 48
The white bedding, in the silver moonglow thrown through the skylight, looked like a pan of frosting. The giant cabin-style house was done to a turn – gable windows, antler chandeliers, steep-pitch roof for more headroom here, on the second floor. The place was way too pricey for a cop’s salary, even if that cop was a state-level counterterrorist czar. The gated neighborhood, half an hour north of Sacramento, seemed more the domain of law-firm partners and vineyard owners.
A cold breeze blew through the open door letting out onto the unlit balcony. It riffled Rick Graham’s salt-and-pepper hair against the pillow, and then he gave off a sleepy grumble, his hand thumping around the nightstand for the lamp switch. It clicked, and he released a yelp.
Mike sat bedside in a rustic armchair, the.357 resting casually in his lap, the barrel pointing at Graham’s upper torso. Black leather gloves turned his hands invisible in the darkness.
‘Do you have any idea whose house-’ Recognition struck. Graham shoved himself up against the headboard. He was wearing flannel pajamas, perhaps in a nod to the decor, the top unbuttoned to reveal a swath of gray chest hair. ‘Lemme guess – you came back to fuck up my tires again.’
Mike tightened his grip ever so slightly on the revolver.
‘How’d you get past the gate?’ Graham’s hand continued a slow drift toward the pillow next to him. ‘This house has heavy security. This is all being recorded.’
Mike pointed at the camera mounted above the open door, angled at them both. ‘Digital save to the hard drive on the Dell in your study.’
Graham’s Adam’s apple jerked.
Mike said, ‘Your affiliation with Deer Creek seems to go back a ways.’
Graham made a quick move with his hand and came up with a.38 Special. It was aimed at Mike’s head before Mike’s gun could leave his thigh.
Graham’s lips stretched to one side, a half smile, and his thumb drew back the hammer.
Mike tipped his head toward Graham’s pajama top. ‘Your pocket.’
Holding the revolver steady, Graham moved his other hand across and tugged at the loose breast pocket. A metallic rattle. One of the brass-cased rounds tipped out onto the sheets, and Graham stared down at it helplessly.
Mike put a heel up on the edge of his chair, hefted the gun across his raised knee.
Graham swallowed again and lowered his hand, the unloaded weapon disappearing into the sheets. ‘If I tell you everything,’ he said, ‘you won’t kill me?’
Mike allowed a little nod.
‘Give me your word.’
‘You have my word.’
This seemed to relax Graham a degree or two. ‘If you know someone’s profile, you know as much about him as possible. I can read people from the data droppings they leave behind. And yours say you’re not a liar.’
Mike lifted the gun a little, Graham’s eyes widening to track its movement. ‘Not generally,’ Mike said.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Your affiliation with Deer Creek.’
Graham moistened his lips. ‘Me and Brian McAvoy go back to the beginning. He was a fresh-faced kid out of UNLV’s hotel-administration program. Family money, smarts to spare, and looking to use both. I was a young gun at Sac PD looking for advancement. We found each other useful. McAvoy funded an exploratory committee looking at expanding gaming outside of Vegas.’
‘He stumbled upon Sue Windbird.’
‘He stumbled upon a living, breathing lottery ticket. Tribes spend fortunes on legal petitions, lobbyists, lawyers, treaty experts, historians, genealogists – just to get what Sue Windbird already had.’
‘Which was what?’
‘You have no idea how big this is, do you?’ Graham chuckled, taking his time. He was stalling, sure, but it was clear how much he relished the tale as well. ‘The Bureau of Indian Affairs thought her tribe was already extinct. So in the seventies, Deer Creek slid right past all the tightened regulations for tribal acknowledgment. But just because a tribe has a surviving member, that doesn’t mean it retains all its tribal rights. Unless’ – his eyes gleamed with something like exhilaration – ‘the tribal territory was never abandoned. And guess what? During all those years when Deer Creek land was carved up and parceled out, ol’ Sue stayed hunkered down in her shitty cabin on a hundred acres of original designated reservation. A federally recognized tribe on sovereign land with one dying member left. Do you know what that means?’
‘Tell me.’
‘That land’ – Graham’s hands went wide – ‘that hundred acres constitutes a tiny sovereign nation in the middle of California. It is not beholden to the laws of the United States of America.’ He paused for effect. ‘We’re not just talking about having a monopoly on gambling when it’s illegal everywhere else in the state. We’re talking about no zoning laws, no federal regulations. Hell, short of the right to pursue felons, the U.S. has shaky criminal jurisdiction on tribal lands. And the best part? Every single dime of profit is a hundred-percent tax exempt.’
Mike thought of those picketers outside the casino: WHY ARE
‘And the location!’ Graham continued. ‘There’s a planned retirement community nine miles up the road – disposable-income heaven. You’re looking at seven thousand homes, one-point-eight people per lot. Those gomers might as well sign their Social Security checks directly over to Deer Creek.’