CHAPTER 31

LESTER waited patiently for Turner Atkins to be brought into the communal visitation room. He stared at the glass pane that would thankfully separate him from Atkins, and silently cursed himself for ever approaching that girl Devon. She was the one who’d gotten him mixed up with Turner Atkins in the first place. Had it not been for that one mistake he’d still be living in the lap of luxury, and Meredith would be showering him with undying gratitude for the new house—that he was now certain the Feds were going to confiscate.

He wondered if the ring was technologically capable of picking up Turner’s voice through the little holes that had been placed strategically in the glass. He’d like to believe it wouldn’t, but his better judgment told him differently. Then again, he’d better pray it worked just fine. Otherwise, he’d be back for another go around.

He perked up attentively as Atkins approached him wearing an orange jumpsuit and shackles.

“Lester,” Turner said.

“Mr. Atkins.”

“How’s it going?” Turner asked, knowing Perzinsky understood the nuances of his greeting.

“Good…good,” Lester said with a hint of uncertainty.

“So what’s the problem?”

“I think those two cops know the cards are being dealt to them.” Lester cleared his throat awkwardly.

“You think?” Turner’s response came with a poker-face.

“Yeah. They’ve been playing recklessly the last couple of days. It’s like they’re one-hundred percent certain their hands are going to win.” Lester did a poor job of hiding his exasperation that the pawns had somehow uncovered Turner’s ruse.

“Has anyone approached you?” Turner asked with slow caution.

“No!” Lester insisted with a quick shake of the head. “I’ve stayed away from the tables during tournament play…just like you told me.” Secretly, he hoped Atkins wouldn’t know any differently.

Turner sat in silence, and Lester’s nerves knotted in his gut. He hoped Atkins was not aware of his uneasy twitch—his leg bouncing up and down—hidden, luckily, underneath the counter.

Turner snickered softly. Thoughts rippled through his mind of Rio Laraquette driving herself nuts trying to figure out what was going on. If Turner knew anything—while his marks might know they were being set up—they weren’t aware of who was doing it or why. Of that, he was sure.

“What do you want me to do?” Lester asked, watchful. “Should I cease prearranging the matches?”

“No.” Turner rejected his request swiftly. “Keep feeding them winning hands. I want Laraquette and her boyfriend to end up competing at the final table. During the last few hands of the final match, I want the bottom to fall out from under them!” he added with hearty laughter.

“So you want to pull the rug out from under the cops?” Lester’s brow furrowed, as if he were trying to figure out what the significance of pulling the rug would bring.

Turner was more than willing to enlighten him. “While I admit that is an added bonus,” he said. “There’s really just one cop I’m targeting.”

“One?”

“The girl,” Turner said. “She’s the one I’m doing this for.”

“She yours?” Almost instantaneously Lester realized the brilliancy of his inquiry.

“She’s the cop that busted me.” Turner’s tone hardened and his face flustered.

“Oh...” Lester stretched out the word, processing that notion. When the true nature of Turner’s scheme hit him, he let out a soft chuckle. “So this is kind of like payback?”

“Well, yeah,” Turner said, as if there were no other option available to him. “I want her to know she can bust me and send me to jail all she wants. It’s not going to change anything.” He squared his shoulders as his anger toward Rio Laraquette threatened to hit overload. “It doesn’t matter if I’m in here or out there. I am the boss. I am in charge.” Turner leaned back in his chair and spread a sarcastic grin across his face. “My fixing this tournament will prove that.”

“But—” Lester’s curiosity persuaded him to live dangerously by probing further. “How’s she supposed to know it’s you?”

“She’s a smart little cookie.” Turner nodded. “She’ll figure it out.”

For a fleeting moment Lester thought he saw a hint of respect for the cop in Turner’s eyes.

“She just won’t be able to prove it.” Turner chuckled. “And since no one’s benefited more than her, it’ll discredit her when word gets out about the corrupt poker tournament.”

In the adjoining room off to the side of the visitor’s quarters, Eddie LaCall snatched the earbuds off his head. “Okay, that’s enough. Get Perzinsky out of there.”