Chapter 8
Eight
Nassau
LaPorta slumped in his chair and moved the ice pack around his knee.
He grimaced. It was early morning in the police station, and he wanted a cup of coffee but couldn’t easily get up.
He cursed himself for not having more officers with him last night.
It was stupid to race out there alone—-which is what he’d done after reading the final pages of the notebook.
“Good morning, hero.”
Sampson was walking toward his desk.
“You all right?”
“I’ll be fine,” LaPorta said. “Eventually.”
Sampson smiled. “There’s sixty--four steps in that staircase. For an old man, you did pretty good getting to the top.”
“The people I was chasing were older than me.”
“Yeah, that’s sad.”
“Any news on our guy?”
Sampson shook his head. “Still in the hospital. Can’t move. Can’t speak.”
LaPorta had found Alfie Logan lying in the grass by an old shack near the fort, not far from the top of the staircase.
He was unconscious. The doctors at Princess Margaret Hospital said he’d suffered a stroke, just as Alfie had predicted in his notebook.
Every time he thought about that, it made LaPorta shiver.
“My officers found this,” Sampson said.
He handed over a crumpled envelope. LaPorta blinked at the handwritten words on the outside.
“For Detective LaPorta, to be read upon my death.”
“What the hell?” he mumbled.
“Yeah, Vincent,” Sampson said. “What the hell?”
LaPorta took a deep breath. He moved the ice pack off his knee.
“Aren’t you gonna read it?”
“Yeah, yeah. Give me a second.”
LaPorta held still, staring at the envelope, trying to absorb the tumultuous rush of the last two days, the arrest, the hours with Alfie, the crazy notebook reading, the dealer, the croupier, interrogating Mike Kurtz, and the two million dollars sent to the mysterious Gianna Rule, who, as of this morning, still could not be found.
He ripped open the envelope and flattened the handwritten contents on his desk. He recognized the paper from a familiar notebook.
Dear Vincent–-
I’m sorry to have to finish our conversation this way. By the time you read this, speech will not be an option. I pray this confession gets to you.
You will likely have spoken with Mike Kurtz by now, and if you are as good as I think, you will have learned about his plan to rig the roulette results. As you now know, he was not successful. Not in this
existence.
But in a previous one, he was. In fact, he won a great deal of money on two straight bets. He might have gotten away with it, except the croupier got nervous with all the chips Mike was accumulating and tried to switch the ball back. Security noticed. They approached, and Mike ran from the table.
They chased him to the parking lot. They saw him speed away in a rental car.
They pursued him in their van, weaving through traffic, until a half mile away, he spun out at a light and crashed into another vehicle, crushing the legs of the driver, an innocent casino employee who was heading into work.
I had to jump back in time to stop all of this.
For one thing, Mike is a louse, but Gianna once loved him, at least in a fashion.
I didn’t want her heart broken by him rotting in a Bahamian prison.
And, as he owns a part of her photography operation, his criminality would surely reflect on her business. She doesn’t deserve that.
But there is a second reason I went back, one you might be more interested in:
That employee, the one who had his legs crushed in Mike’s futile escape, was an important member of the casino security team. An American.
Detective Vincent LaPorta.
I didn’t want you to suffer that way.
?
This leaves only my part in the roulette scam to explain. After all that you have gone through on this case—-what you remember and what you cannot—-you deserve answers.
Here is what happened. Having seen what numbers Mike bet the first time around, I used one of my second chances to go back a day, then gathered all the money I could.
I went to the table just before Mike and his men were about to make their move.
Mike saw me and snapped, “What the hell are you doing here, Alfie?” That was good. I had him nervous.
Then I slapped my chips on the first number before his man could. I saw them looking at each other. Mike shook his head no and his man never made his bet.
I won, then immediately placed all my winnings on their second number. I could see Mike fuming. His guys were confused.
When I won again, he motioned them to walk away.
They departed—and so did Mike—having committed no crime but the phony ball. Given that, I am hoping you can be lenient, Vincent. After all, you have been spared years of pain and rehabilitation, even if you are unaware of it. One favor merits another, I hope.
Now, to the final bet. I told you that I did not cheat to win the two million dollars.
And I did not. I wanted no part of the chips I had amassed in stopping Mike, nearly $58,000.
So I impulsively pushed them all onto 28 black.
I chose that number because Gianna’s birthday is the second of August. I figured, why not?
It’s as good a way to lose as any other.
Except the number won.
I know. It’s crazy. The first thing in decades that I left to total chance, and it came up a jackpot.
There’s a lesson there, I think.
So I sent the money to Gianna. My final act of loyal assistance. I will be dead soon, and unable to help her anymore. If you contact my attorney, you will find that I left everything to her in my will anyhow.
With the exception of the two hundred thousand I sent to Africa.
And you’re probably not going to love this last part.
I found out Juma had sold Lallu for a high price to a recreation outfit in Zimbabwe. They were chaining her in a pen and making her give rides to tourists. It hurt my soul. That’s not a life.
So I bought her freedom. I arranged for her to be taken home to Kenya. Because I won’t be able to do this myself, I put your name on the paperwork.
Technically, Vincent, you now own an elephant.
At the bottom of this page is a confirmation number for two tickets to Zimbabwe.
First class. And full instructions. I know it’s asking a lot, but after all the time we spent together today (and I repeated many parts of our interrogation so I could get to know you better) I sense that deep down you are a good man, if a flawed one, like me.
And that you will help. Let Lallu die in freedom, as I wish to die myself.
I believe you’ll find a way.
I hope you continue to catch the bad guys, Vincent, and you find contentment. And love, if you are lucky. What I’ve learned—-after all this time—-is that love is indeed the only rational act.
And the only real lifesaver.
Unlike those ones you pop in your mouth.
Warmest regards,
Alfred “Alfie” Logan
?
Nine days later, LaPorta exited the hospital’s sliding doors and squinted against the sunlight.
It always felt strange to leave a building where someone had just died and suddenly be in sunshine, wind tickling your face.
Did the world forget us so quickly? Or did it never take much notice in the first place?
LaPorta never got to question Alfie further. His speech improved only enough for a few grunts. Then, two days ago, he developed sepsis. His weakened body couldn’t fight it off. He died just before sunrise.
LaPorta reached for his car keys and felt Alfie’s final letter in his pocket. He pulled it free and studied the last handwritten paragraphs. Then, as often happens after someone you know dies, he thought about his own mortality. His age. His health. His life.
And his wife.
He took out his phone and called her.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey.”
“It’s kind of early. Everything all right?”
“Yeah.” LaPorta sighed. “I’ve been thinking. You want to get away? Take a trip? Just the two of us?”
“Yes.” Her voice perked up. “Yes, Vince. I’d love that.”
“Good.”
“Do you have someplace in mind?”
He paused.
“How about Africa?”