33. Everett

EVERETT

T he makeshift casino here at the Fletcher Hotel is admittedly a step up from the seedy hole in the ground that Jimmy Canelli is running.

No nude women, no slot machines, far less alcohol, but they’ve got the good stuff.

I lift the whiskey that’s gone warm in my hand. I’m not here to drink. I’m not even here to win big. I’m just here to glean whatever I can in hopes that something can shake loose the details about who’s really running this place. But so far, I’ve got nothing.

The influx of polished men and women ready to part with their money, the women in gold dresses all too eager to serve, the constant noise and energy of this place is starting to grate on me, but I keep myself in check.

I’m playing my part. Just another high roller with money to burn and time to waste. And as long as Lemon is next door, I’m not going anywhere.

I hate to say it, but wherever Lemon goes, trouble has been known to follow. And I don’t care how many ghosts come down from the other side to help her out, I don’t care how many weapons Noah arms himself with, at the end of the day I want to be on the front lines, doing what I can to keep her safe.

I’m between rounds at the poker table and stepped aside to let my wallet cool off. When the task force down at the sheriff’s station shuts this place down, I hope they offer me a refund.

Orson Wingate just so happens to be sitting across from me, leaning back in his seat while sipping a neat scotch. He looks a bit too comfortable for a man whose wife was murdered, but I’ve been at this long enough to know people hide their grief in strange ways. Or maybe he’s hiding something else.

The room buzzes with activity around us—loud music, laughter, the clink of chips—but my focus stays on the man before me.

“I’m sorry about your wife,” I say with as much sympathy as I can muster, and I mean it on the deepest level. No husband ever wants to know that pain. “From what I’ve heard, your wife seemed like the kind of woman who left an impression.”

Orson’s eyes flicker just for a second. “She was larger than life,” he says, lifting his drink my way. “That woman always knew how to command attention from a room, especially with the men in that room.” His smile falters. If that was a stab at humor, it seems to have backfired because I’d swear there was a glint of anger in his eyes.

“The best women do,” I say. “Again, I’m sorry. I can’t imagine the hole that this loss has left in your heart.”

“You have no idea.” He pulls out his phone. “But lucky for me, I’ve got good friends willing to make me feel better any way they can. Of course, I have my investments to keep me on my toes as well.”

“What kind of investments?”

“Real estate. Lots of it. Too much of it. Most of it is running at a loss. Thankfully, I’ve found a way to adapt.” He fiddles with his phone for a moment before lifting it to his ear. “Meet me outside. I think I’m ready for that alone time you promised.” He wags the phone my way. “Have a good night, sir.” He sets down his drink and drops a wad of cash next to it, and within seconds a woman in a gold gown scoops it up.

I watch as Orson straightens his suit jacket and nods to a couple of high rollers before he struts out of the casino as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. But there’s a tension in his shoulders, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think he has something to hide.

“Excuse me”—I say to the gold glittering waitress before she can dart off—“do you know who that man is?”

“Orson?” She inches her head back and laughs. “Everyone around here knows who Orson is.” She takes off and I shake my head.

He must be a high roller. A regular.

I swirl the whiskey one last time before setting the glass down as the gears in my mind start turning.

The man just lost his wife, and yet he seems far too composed. He looked comfortable here in the casino—too comfortable. Almost as if this is his second home.

I scan the room, my gaze settling on the plush carpets, the expensive decor, the polished way the entire establishment is run. This isn’t some slapdash illegal operation. It’s well-funded, organized, protected. Someone with money, someone who’s interested in making a lot more of it.

That’s not Francine.

A thought hits me.

It’s time to have a little chat with Noah.

We’re closer than we think.