Raising the Stakes

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Coyle.”

“It’s not flattery, it’s the absolute truth.”

Keir looked from his mother to Coyle. Dan was still smiling politely; Mary was looking her usual imperious self. No, he thought, as an impossible thought flashed through his head, no, never.

“So,” Dan said crisply, “you wanted the Carter file.” He glanced at Keir, then back to Mary. “The whole thing, right?”

“Yes. The whole thing. Give it to Keir, please.”

“Is there some kind of problem with the girl?”

“Just give him the file, Mr. Coyle.”

“Oh. Sure. Here you go, Keir.” Dan cleared his throat. “Is there a problem with the girl?”

“I don’t know yet.” Keir slid open the balcony door. “Not until after I see what’s in here. And if you don’t mind, Mother, I’d rather not broil while I take a look.”

Dan and Mary followed him inside. Keir went automatically to the one incongruously out of place piece of furniture in the elegant room, the big, overstuffed armchair that had been his father’s. His mother had refurnished the place after Ruarch O’Connell’s death. She hadn’t asked Keir’s approval but if she had, he’d have given it. He knew it was the only way she could put the loss behind her and begin to move on, but she’d never brought herself to dispose of the chair. Too many memories, she said, and Keir agreed. He’d spent a good part of his life watching his old man sit in that chair, his feet on the beaten-up hassock before it, reviewing the day’s events or thinking through a problem.

Keir opened the file.

The first page was the usual stuff. A photo of Dawn, looking solemn and maybe even nervous, but most people did when taking driver’s license and

ID photos. Her personal data followed. Name, date of birth, place of birth, social security number. Married? No. Children? None. Educational history? High school diploma. Work history. A list of jobs, dating back eight years. Had she ever been arrested? No. Had she ever been hospitalized for a mental illness? No.

He looked up. “This is all standard stuff. What am I supposed to be looking for?”

Dan and Mary looked at each other, then at him. A muscle jerked in Dan’s jaw. “You’ll know when you see it.”

Keir turned a page. This was the in-depth report, the one Dan always ran once the decision had been made to hire anyone who would have access to cash. Keir glanced at the first few lines, frowned, flipped back to the prior page…

“Hey,” he said, “what is this?” He looked up. His mother and Coyle were watching him with interest. “This says her name isn’t Carter. It’s Kitteridge.” He turned the pages again. “It says she wasn’t born in Phoenix, that her D.O.B. isn’t the one she gave…” He stood up. “What the hell is this, Coyle? When’d you discover the girl lied, and why is she still an employee here?”

“Take it easy, Keir.”

“Take it easy?” Keir slapped the file on the table. “The girl lied to get a job. A job in a licensed casino, for Christ’s sake. You’re supposed to keep that kind of thing from happening, and you tell me to take it—”

“I told Dan to bury this.”

He swung around and stared at his mother. She stared right back, head up, arms folded, her very posture making it clear she wasn’t about to back down from the confrontation. Keir reminded himself that this was his mother, that it was her heart that had suffered damage, not her brain, and that losing his temper wasn’t going to get him any answers. He took a deep breath, jammed his hands into his pockets and nodded.

“I see.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yeah, I do. For reasons known only to you, you made a unilateral decision, an arbitrary decision, to hire a woman whose entire application is a lie, to put the Song into a vulnerable legal position—”

“Why don’t you read all of it before you come to a conclusion?”

“If you really believe that pawing through glowing reports of how well she’s done here, or how much she’s liked, is going to change my mind—”

“For God’s sake, stop being so self-righteous! Read Dan’s handwritten notes at the very end.”

Jesus, he was having a tough time holding his temper. If he’d been alone with Coyle, he’d have let it blow sky-high. The ex-cop knew better than to let shit like this happen. Nobody ran a casino in Vegas in a vacuum. There were rules to follow, Gaming Commission rules, if you expected to hold on to your license. His mother damn well knew better, too. What was the matter with the two of them?

“Read it,” she said, and something in her voice made him pick up the file, open to the back of it and do as she’d asked.

Long minutes later, he lifted his head and stared at Mary. “Christ,” he said, his voice low and thick and filled with the kind of controlled masculine rage Dan Coyle recognized in a heartbeat.