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“He’d have it twice as successful than it is now,” I grumble. “With half as many idiots poisoning the bar.”
Bambi rolls her eyes and makes no effort at all to hide it. “When are you going to take credit for your own success?”
I toss back the rest of the tumbler’s contents and slam the glass down on a nearby table. “When I find that fucking ‘key witness’ and thank them myself for the opportunity.”
Because that’s what this all boils down to.
I have everything around me, this glittering empire of dreams and diamond dust, because some snot-nosed kid lied on the stand fifteen years ago.
I shake my head before I can sink into the usual storm of rage and angst over how it’s been so long and I still haven’t found her. “Give me the report,” I order.
Bambi sighs and pulls out her tablet and flips to a screen where the Main Floor layout is outlined in blue. Every machine is labeled according to its placement, with a running tracker of wins and losses indicating whether it’s “hot” or “cold” by the second. If a machine stays hot for too long, we’re alerted of a glitch so we can pull it, fix it, and minimize our losses.
And if it’s cold for too long…
“What’s our coldest?” I peer at the screen.
Bambi taps on a section next to the pit, and an enlarged window zeroes in on the machines. “Looks likeMedusa’s Wrath. Only two payouts in the last hour. This one on the end has been cold for…” She frowns. “Six hours. That’s odd. Want me to call in tech support?”
I shake my head. “Not yet. Funnel the wins to that machine and we’ll pull later. No one’s gonna touch something that icy.”
Bambi nods her agreement and makes the necessary adjustments. She funnels additional funds to the glitched-up machine.
With that settled, I start another circuit of the casino floor. I’m only vaguely aware of Bambi rattling off a To-Do list as we wander. Bambi’s intended praise still swirls in my head.
Tolya would be proud.
Would he, though? I have no idea how Tolya would have run things. He never got the chance to even try. Our old man was still around calling the shots and ruling with an iron fist when Tolya was arrested for a murder he never committed.
Everything hinged on the testimony of an eight-year-old little girl who swore she saw my brother gun down LVPD Detective Michael Little. To this day I can’t shake the feeling that someone, somehow, skewed the facts so my brother would never see the light of day. But I can’t put my finger on which one.
Fact: Michael Little was fatally shot inside a warehouse.
Fact: That warehouse, unfortunately, was owned by the Zakrevsky Corporation.
Fact: The key witnesswasthere.
Fact: Tolya was nowhere near the warehouse when it all went down.
Today’s failed appeal was to establish that last fact to an undeniable level. No fewer than eight witnesses prepared written and notarized testimonies to having either seen or been with Tolya that night, clear across the city and far away from the warehouse five miles east outside Vegas.
But Judge Cartwell simply stated that the little girl who “saw it all” held more validity than all those witnesses combined.
My fists clench. I need to get to my office before I punch something and start a scene wedon’twant splashed all over social media.
So I quicken my pace, Bambi close behind, her nose buried in whatever stats are rolling across her tablet screen.
My own stats are rolling in my head, alongside the list of facts that won’t let me sleep. The number of innocent men incarcerated in the state of Nevada. The number of innocent men who never get exonerated.
The odds of me ever finding that witness.
I step out of the pit and turn toward the wall where the elevator to my office is hidden behind a camouflage panel. I make a mental note to check on the Medusa’s Wrath slot machines?—
And then, suddenly, I’m doused in coffee and champagne.
5
CLARA
