Authors: Erica Spindler
Tags: #Contemporary Women, #General, #Romance, #Suspense, #Thrillers, #Fiction
Justice for Sara (18 page)
Wednesday, June 12
12:40
P.M.
His dad may not have seen the need to check out Danny Sullivan’s story, but Luke sure as hell did. He tightened his fingers on the steering wheel. He was still stunned over his dad’s refusal to admit he was wrong. That in a rush to judgment, he’d pegged Kat as Sara McCall’s killer and hadn’t looked any further. He had prejudiced the case from the get-go.
Luke sighed. It was ironic that the one thing his dad wanted from his son was respect, and it was the one thing he’d always had. Until now. The past was over and done. Unchangeable. But to not own up to your mistakes after the fact? That wasn’t the man he’d thought his father to be.
A sign indicated Dale Graham’s Hoops Center lay a mile up ahead. Minutes later, he turned into the center’s drive, parking next to the only other vehicle in the lot, a Lexus sedan.
Dale Graham had parlayed his four years playing for LSU into a damn good life. Nice home, solid business, endorsements, respect. He’d never made the pros, but that hadn’t mattered. Louisianians loved their sports, idolized their teams and never forgot their heroes. And Graham had been one of those.
Luke climbed out of his vehicle and took in the building. Basically a warehouse with a fancy facade. Nice land out here in North Covington, rolling hills, lots of trees.
He crossed the gravel lot. Graham was expecting him and appeared at the double glass doors. “Sergeant Tanner?”
“Good afternoon,” Luke said when he reached him. “Thanks for seeing me.”
They shook hands. Graham showed him in. “Let’s go to my office.”
Luke followed him, taking it all in. It was a first-class facility. High-tech. Tricked out. All the bells and whistles. “Impressive.”
“Thank you. Here we are.”
The office wasn’t more than serviceable. Luke suspected Graham didn’t spend that much time in it. One wall was covered with framed photos, many of them from Graham’s days playing ball. The others appeared to be of some of his students.
On his desk sat a framed photo of his family. Two kids, pretty wife. Blond. Luke shifted his gaze to Graham’s. “Tell me about the Hoops Center.”
“We give kids the competitive edge they need to play junior high and high school ball.”
“Junior high? High school?”
“It seems crazy, I know, but the competition around here is fierce. Especially for a basketball slot. Any given school only has eleven to thirteen spots. That’s it. It’s not unusual for hundreds to try out. Some kids have the natural ability. We help develop those God-given gifts. Those kids have a chance to play college ball.”
“And everybody else?” Luke asked.
“Those are the kids who just love the game. They just want to play. We teach them the skills that make up for what God didn’t give them.”
“Slick. Wish you were around when I was a kid.”
“You played ball?”
“Football. Made the LSU team, but screwed it up.”
“Too much partying and not enough studying?” When Luke nodded, Graham grinned. “We couldn’t have helped with that.”
Luke laughed. “Good old-fashioned rebellion.”
“You wanted to talk to me about Danny Sullivan?”
“Yes. How do you two know each other?”
“Oh, man, we go way back.” He smiled. “We’re both local boys. Played on the same school teams, both studied P.E. at LSU. Good guy.”
“Ten years ago, you offered him the opportunity to partner with you in this venture, is that correct?”
“He asked for the opportunity.”
“Come again.”
“We were friends. I talked about it. He asked.” Graham lifted a shoulder. “I gave him first shot to come up with the cash.”
“How much?”
“Seventy-five grand.”
“That’s a lot of money for a high school P.E. teacher to come up with.”
“Not if you’re married to a McCall.”
“Or engaged to one.”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Sara McCall was murdered. And I found another partner.”
“Wow, that’s cold.”
“It was business, Sergeant. And with Sara out of the picture, he wasn’t going to come up with the cash.”
“And you had other interested parties.”
“Exactly.”
“When did you tell him you were moving on?”
“Shortly after. He took it hard. Begged me for more time. I considered it, but—” Graham shifted his gaze, expression uncomfortable.
“But what?”
He hesitated. “He’s a good guy and I’d known him for ages. But I had concerns.”
“About?”
Again, he hesitated. “He likes the casinos a little too much.”
Luke sat up a bit straighter. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“Just what it sounds like. He’s gotten himself in trouble a few times.”
Luke made a note. “That doesn’t sound like good partner material.”
“He was marrying McCall money. I wasn’t worried.”
“They weren’t engaged, were they?”
He shook his head. “But he had the ring. He said it was a sure thing.”
The only sure things in life were death and taxes. Betting on anything else as certain was a fool’s wager.
Graham must have been thinking the same thing, because his expression became pensive. “Poor guy. He’s never been the same.”
“Let’s back up a minute. Before Sara McCall’s murder, how did Danny seem?”
“About?”
“Life. His girlfriend, this business opportunity.”
“Happy. Excited and enthusiastic. Anxious, too.”
“Why?”
“He really wanted to make it work.”
“Did he seem desperate?”
Graham frowned. “No. Never.”
“And after her murder?”
“Brokenhearted. In shock.”
“That was a pretty big rock Danny bought her. How do you suppose he paid for it?”
“Don’t know. Financed it, maybe. Won big one night. She may have even bought it. I never asked.”
As far as he knew, nobody had
. Luke paused a moment, reviewing his notes. He lifted his gaze, met Graham’s. “Do you think Danny could have killed Sara?”
He stared at him a moment, obviously shocked by the question. “No,” he finally said. “Hell, no.”
“Why not?”
“He’s not that guy. He loved Sara. Besides”—he leaned forward slightly—“she was his ticket, you know?”
“His ticket?”
“To the good life. Work a little, play a lot.”
Luke stood. “Thank you, Mr. Graham. I appreciate you answering my questions.”
He followed him to his feet. “Anytime, Sergeant.”
“You talk to Danny much anymore?”
“We see each other from time to time. Like I said, he was never the same after Sara’s death. He got bitter.”
They exited the office. “Do you know, does he still like the casinos?”
“Oh yeah. I actually ran into him at Beau Rivage a couple months ago.”
“Beau Rivage? Nice place.”
“Danny always liked nice things.”
Graham walked him to the front of the facility. “Can I ask you something, Sergeant Tanner?”
“Sure.”
“Why all the questions about Sara McCall’s murder? I thought they caught her killer.”
“She was acquitted.”
He opened his mouth as if to say something more, then must have thought better of it, because he shut it again.
Luke crossed to his vehicle and climbed in, thinking of what Graham had said. Sara McCall had been Sullivan’s ticket to the good life. Little work, a lot of play.
But what if Sara McCall had said no? To the loan? The marriage? All of it? How would Sullivan had reacted to it all slipping away? Would he have been angry? Enraged? Enough to take a baseball bat and beat her to death?
Maybe so, Luke thought. The line between love and hate was razor thin. And just as sharp.
Wednesday, June 12
3:00
P.M.
Luke figured he had just cause for a search warrant of Sullivan’s home and vehicles. The judge figured otherwise. After being denied the request, Luke decided a drive over to the Mississippi Gulf Coast casinos was in order. He’d start with the Beau Rivage Resort and Casino in Biloxi, then, if need be, he’d move on from there. The casino manager, Tom Phillips, had agreed to meet with him.
The Gulf Coast had opened up to casino gambling in the 1990s, with local law restricting them to mobile marine vessels. The industry’s answer to that had been fixed floating barges. After Katrina’s complete devastation of the coast, that law had been changed.
Luke remembered the Mississippi Gulf Coast before gaming arrived. Sleepy. Picturesque. The poor man’s riviera it had been called. Casinos had changed all that, bringing glamour, headline shows and, most of all, money.
He preferred it before all the bright lights, though he suspected he was in the minority.
Luke used the hour’s drive to make calls. Caleb Green was first. The only news he had was bad news: they’d pulled several good prints from the gas can. The problem was none of them matched Danny Sullivan’s.
So much for nice and easy.
He dialed Kat next. “Hey,” he said when he got her voice mailbox. “I have some news. Call me back.”
Luke arrived at the resort. Thirty-two-story hotel, casino, championship golf course, high-end shopping and dining. He’d stayed here a few times when he’d come to catch a show. The first had been Willie Nelson, the second Cirque du Soleil.
Tom Phillips had given him directions to his office. The gorgeous brunette manning his reception area looked more Vegas than Gulf Coast and he couldn’t help but notice her legs as she escorted him to Phillips’s office.
“Can I get you anything?” she asked.
“I’m good. Thanks.”
“C’mon in, Sergeant Tanner,” Phillips said, standing. “Have a seat.”
They shook hands. Luke wasn’t sure what to expect, but had secretly wondered if the man would be a Robert De Niro or Joe Pesci lookalike. No such luck. Instead, he was a pleasant-faced, gray-haired man in a really sharp-looking suit. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“You said you wanted to ask me a few questions about Danny Sullivan.”
“That’s right. He’s a casino patron?”
“Longtime patron. For as long as I’ve been manager here.”
“How long is that?”
“Since 2003. Stayed to oversee the rebuild after Katrina.”
“You’re made of tough stuff.”
“You have no idea.”
Something about the way he said it brought forth the Mafia, Joe Pesci image again. “What kind of gambler is Danny Sullivan?”
“Let’s put it this way, over the years he’s lost quite a lot of money with us.”
“And won a lot as well?”
“Enough to keep coming back.”
“But the house always has the advantage. Right?”
“We make no secret of that.”
“Does Sullivan have a problem?”
He steepled his fingers. “Could you be more specific?”
“With gambling. A problem. As in an addiction.”
“We in the industry don’t like that term, Sergeant. I prefer to say that it’s ceased to be fun for him.”
Phillips slid a pamphlet across the desk.
When the Fun Stops—Understanding Compulsive Gambling.
“What’s this?”
“A product of our compliance with the AGA code of conduct for responsible gaming.”
Danny Sullivan had issues.
“Do you remember when Sullivan was last in?”
“I remember clearly. April first.”
“And why so clearly?”
“It was April Fools’ Day and we had to eject him from the casino.”
“What happened?”
“He got into an argument with a blackjack dealer. Made a big scene. Accused the house of cheating him. Security escorted him out.”
“Is he welcome back?”
“Not anytime soon.”
Luke digested the information. “And the other casinos along the coast?”
“Nobody wants trouble.”
“Which means?”
“Currently, Mr. Sullivan is barred from all Gulf Coast gaming establishments. Like I said, nobody wants trouble.”
Luke lowered his gaze to his notebook, organizing his thoughts. “Did he ever threaten anyone here at the casino.”
“With physical violence?” Luke nodded and Phillips steepled his fingers in thought. “He’s gotten verbally abusive a few times. When he was losing. When he’s winning, however, he’s quite magnanimous.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“True.”
“Did you ever have to break his legs?”
His lips lifted into a small smile. “We don’t do that, Sergeant. You’ve seen too many movies.”
Luke smiled, though something in the man’s gaze made it clear that he would do whatever it took to protect the casino and its assets. Tom Phillips didn’t put up with bullshit. “I had to try.”
He glanced at his watch. A Rolex, Luke noted. The glance told him he was now on the clock.
“Just a few more questions. Can we go back in time now? To 2003?” Phillips agreed and Luke went on, “Do you recall anything about Sullivan from that time? Anything at all?”
“Actually, I do. He won big one night. Big, like forty thousand bucks. Sullivan was the type to keep playing.”
“That’s what the compulsive ones do?”
“Yes. Win and lose fortunes, some of them. At least, what a fortune would be for them.” Phillips paused. “But this night he stopped. It was late. Maybe two a.m. He enlisted my help in convincing the owner of the resort’s on-site jewelry store to come in and open up for him.”
Luke knew what was coming next:
He bought an engagement ring.
Phillips confirmed it. “He used every penny of his winnings. He was over the moon about it. Went around the casino showing it off. His excitement was sweet.”
Sweet, a rare occurrence in a casino, Luke suspected. Certainly memorable.
“He showed it to so many people, we gave him an escort out. We were afraid somebody might jump him.”
“Did he marry that girl?”
Phillips’s expression changed. “Not any girl. McCall Oil’s older daughter. But no, he didn’t. I’m sure you know how that story ended, Sergeant Tanner.” He stood. “I’m sorry, but I’m out of time.”
Luke followed him to his feet. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
Five minutes later, he was on the road. Time for round three with Sullivan. He phoned in. “Reni, it’s me. Contact Sullivan’s lawyer. Tell him we’re bringing his client back in for questioning. One hour.”
Danny Sullivan
2003
One month before the murder
Danny stepped into the casino, breathed it all in. The flashing colored lights, like a carnival midway for adults. The sounds, the clinking of coins dropping into metal trays, the whirl and snap of the one-armed bandits, the occasional whoop of joy and the hum of conversation. And the smells, cigarette smoke—casinos, one of last bastions of smoking in public places—old-lady perfume, cloyingly sweet or heavy with musk, and hope. The thing that drove them all.
Or desperation. Depending on the night.
He couldn’t stop himself.
But he shouldn’t have to. He won more than he lost. A lot more. He was a good strategist and the cards loved him. It’s how he planned to buy Sara’s ring. He’d already picked it out. It sat in the store’s display window, winking at him. Three full, sparkling carats. If you wanted a prize like Sara McCall, you had to pony up. She was worth it.
Maybe tonight would be the night. He’d win big enough to snag the stone, then the girl.
Danny frowned slightly at the whisper of doubt that wormed its way through him. What if she said no? What if she never understood this rush, the one that took him as he stepped up to the blackjack table? The high of winning?
He’d suggested bringing her several times. She’d shot the idea down. The last time, she had looked at him strangely.
Suspiciously. Like
he
had a problem.
He hadn’t liked that. Not one bit.
Her parents had been killed on their way home from the Gulf Coast casinos. Like that was the casinos’ fault. The gaming industry’s.
She’d change her mind, he assured himself. After they were married. After she saw how good he was at this. After he told her how he’d afforded the beautiful ring on her finger.
She would be proud of his skill. Awed by it. She might even grow to enjoy gambling as much as he did.
Danny made his way to the cashier’s cage. The woman, Angelle, recognized him and smiled. “Mr. Sullivan, it’s good to see you again.”
“Good to be back.” He took out his wallet, extracted the five crisp hundred-dollar bills he’d gotten at the bank that afternoon. Not his local branch. No, he’d gone into Covington. He hadn’t wanted to run into a neighbor or colleague. What he did in his free time was nobody’s business but his own.
She assembled his chips. “Good luck, Mr. Sullivan.”
Luck? Screw that. He had skill.
Instead of saying so, Danny slid her a twenty-dollar chip. “Thank you, Angelle. See you in a few.”
She did see him in a few. But not for the reason he had hoped. To buy more chips. And more chips. Danny didn’t get this. It wasn’t right.
Tonight, the cards didn’t love him.
In fact, it was almost as if they were plotting against him. He stayed on nineteen, dealer got twenty. He stayed on twenty, dealer pulled blackjack. He took a hit on fifteen and went bust. Hand after hand.
The more he lost, the more he drank. The angrier he got. And the more determined. This was
his
night. He was meant to win. He deserved it. He’d stayed away for a month.
He drained his available cash at the ATM. When that happened, he used his credit card.
Until it was declined.
Bleary-eyed, he gazed at Angelle. “That can’t be right. Try again.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Sullivan, but—”
“Try it the fuck again.”
He hadn’t meant to raise his voice that way. Or use that language. The booze, he thought. The cards. Not him.
Someone touched his arm. He turned. Tom, the casino manager. His buddy.
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
Angelle answered. “Mr. Sullivan’s card was declined.”
“A computer glitch,” he said, turning to Tom. “You know me, I’m good for it.”
Tom’s face puckered with regret. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sullivan. Casino policy.”
“That’s bullshit, Tom. And you know it.”
“We could offer you a room. No charge, of course.”
A room? What the fuck was he going to do with a room? How was he going to win his money back in a room?
Furious, he thought about asking Angelle for his tip back. All of them. How much had he given her over the past year? A couple grand, for sure.
Angelle wouldn’t meet his eyes. Embarrassing. Fucking embarrassing.
“I’m marrying Sara McCall, did you know that? McCall Oil. I’m going to have more money than God. You’ll be glad we’re friends.”
Tom’s expression shifted subtly. Respect. Understanding. He nodded at Angelle.
“Three hundred, Danny. Because we’re friends.”
