discard pile, then dealt another card faceup. “This is called the ‘turn’ card.”
An ace of hearts. A murmur went up among the men. Wesley studied the players’ “tells,” the body language and betting techniques that told a more experienced player what the person was holding as surely as if the cards were transparent. The big guy on the far left was holding crap—probably a ten and a deuce, but he wasn’t going to fold and look bad to the other guys. The guy next to him was grinning like a fool after the turn card, so he probably had a pocket ace to make it two of a kind. Beginners thought that aces beat everything else, no matter what.
The third guy also had nothing, else he wouldn’t be gnawing on his nails and staring at the community cards as if he could will them to change. The fourth guy, though—he had something because he was holding his cards close to his chest as if they were winning lottery tickets. Wesley guessed he had pocket queens and was looking at three of a kind, which so far was “the nuts”—the best hand in the game.
“Here comes the river card,” he said, and dealt a nine of clubs—not much good to anyone, he guessed, although the bidding was brisk. The aces guy was all in with his six wooden buttons and a jeans rivet. Pretty soon, everyone was all in, and Wesley asked, “Whad’ya have?”
The first guy turned over his ten of spades and four of clubs and took some ribbing from the other guys. The grinning aces guy turned over his ace of diamonds and seven of spades, giving him the expected pair of aces. The third guy cursed his mother and tossed in his jack of diamonds and six of spades, then stomped away as if they had been playing for real money instead of sewing notions. The last guy turned over his pocket queens to the cheers of the men behind him, and raked all the raggedy buttons toward him triumphantly.
While Wesley was shuffling for another hand, the cell door buzzed and slid open and he was being summoned again. “Your lawyer’s here,” the guard informed him.
Wesley handed off the deck of cards, stood and allowed himself to be handcuffed again, then followed the man to a room where Liz Fischer waited, tapping the toe of her pointy high-heeled shoe. She was a tall, athletic blonde in her mid-forties, a real looker who seemed to be in perpetual motion. Wesley recognized her from newspaper photos of his father’s case, although her hair was shorter and she looked a little leaner.
“Hello, Wesley.”
Her voice, for sure, was familiar—throaty and abrupt. He’d had more than one wet dream lately with that voice looping in his head. “Hello, Mrs. Fischer.”
She smiled at his politeness. “I’m not married, so it’s Ms.—in fact, call me Liz. How nice to finally put a face to the voice. I just wish it were under different circumstances.”
When she sat down at the table, the scent of her cologne reached him—not a feminine, floral scent, but something earthy and strong that she might have gotten out of her lover’s medicine cabinet this morning. Which could also explain the oversize white dress shirt she wore with her prim suit.
She clicked open her briefcase. “So, you got caught. I told you to be careful.”
He splayed his hands. “I slipped up, but everything’s fine.”
She frowned. “The optimism of youth. Do you realize that you’re facing jail time and a hefty fine?”
A vision of Leg Warmers licking his lips flashed through Wesley’s mind. “How much jail time?”
“Probably less than six months, but it won’t look good on your permanent record. Now, tell me what happened.”
Wesley repeated the lie, that he had hacked into the courthouse records to clear his own traffic violations. “I’m really sorry,” he added.
The woman’s expression was bland. “You’re going to have to do a better acting job than that for the district attorney. And you’re telling me that this records break-in has nothing to do with your sudden interest in your father’s cold case?”
“That’s right.”
She studied him suspiciously. Wesley imagined himself through her experienced eyes: a skinny, know-it-all kid who’d grown up without parents and likely wouldn’t amount to much.
“You look like Randolph,” she said, surprising him with intense eye contact.
His cock jumped—damn, he was going to embarrass himself. He shifted in his chair. “That’s what my sister says when she talks about my father, which isn’t often.”
“Carlotta was bitter when your parents…left. Rightfully so. How is she?”
“Fine. A little upset with me at the moment.”
“I called her occasionally after…. afterward, and she always assured me everything was okay.” The woman looked remorseful. “I should have looked in on both of you more often.”
“We did okay,” Wesley said, trying not to sound too reassuring in case she was inclined to reduce her fee out of some sense of obligation. “But Carlotta doesn’t know that I’ve talked to you about my father’s case. It would only upset her.”
“She won’t hear it from me, but you know that I agree with her, Wesley. You should let sleeping dogs lie, and get on with your life. Your parents seem to have gotten on with theirs.”
Anger sparked in his stomach, but he didn’t want to alienate this woman. She was too valuable in his search for the truth. Plus, she was wearing a pink satin bra beneath the white shirt, and that was really hot. “Do you know where my father is?”
Liz Fischer’s expression hardened, giving the first hint of her age. “No, and if I did, I’d go straight to the police. Now, let’s get back to the matter at hand and see if I can get you out of here.”
After answering a few more questions and receiving a stern warning not to discuss his case with anyone, Wesley inhaled one last lungful of the woman’s cologne, then went back to the cell with his cuffed hands in front of him to hide his hard-on. One of these days, he’d be a rich, accomplished man, and women like Liz Fischer would look at him with respect. When he won the World Series of Poker. When he cleared his father’s name. He would be happy then, and everyone who meant something to him would be happy, too.
When he returned to the holding cell, a poker game was in full swing. He retreated to a corner to avoid Leg Warmers and to watch the interplay of the men and the game, nodding in satisfaction when he predicted hands correctly. He could do the odds in his head, but so could lots of card-players. He was good at poker because he was good at observing people, and he was willing to be patient for the payoff.
He would use the same skills to solve his father’s case. He had time.
Less than an hour later, thank goodness, he was escorted to a small courtroom for his bail hearing. He spotted Carlotta’s anxious face in the sparse gallery and gave her a thumbs-up that was somewhat hampered by his handcuffed wrists. Liz Fischer’s presence next to him was assuring—and alluring—but his pulse ratcheted higher as he listened to the charges against him: federal charges of computer intrusion and unlawful use of passwords. Two counts each. Federal.
This might be more serious than he thought.
Addressing the judge, his attorney tried to pass off his hacking as a childish prank that he deeply regretted. “I request that my client be released
