“She’s worth the drive and the vacation time.”
It was a true answer but it was one he didn’t want to hear.
Therefore Walker moved. Pushing away from the Snake, he shifted to open the door, again making a point that was hard to miss.
Peña didn’t miss it but Peña also wasn’t done.
“Win those wheels at a game?” he asked and Walker slid his eyes to him as he opened the door and started to move around it in order to the fold into the car. Peña knew he didn’t have a lot of time and kept going. “Know you got the talent not to f**k around. Been years but circles in Dallas still talk about you. Wouldn’t sit a game without at least a twenty-five K buy-in.”
Walker kept moving.
Peña kept talking. “Makes a man wonder why, you drive a Snake, you sit only high stakes games, yet over a three day weekend you’d haul your ass in a f**kin’ car across three states to sit a game with four men who, all together, couldn’t offer up five K much less twenty-five each.”
Walker stopped, straightened and turned inside the door.
And he did this because Peña had just shown how deep he’d dug.
Walker gave him his attention but nothing more.
“If just for the f**k of it, why didn’t you fly?” Peña asked. “You had the cake. Here to LA and back again, sit a table and kill a man… that’s a lot to fit in in three days.”
Walker didn’t respond.
Peña wasn’t looking for a response. Peña was happy to deliver a monologue.
“Though you take a flight, they got records. You sit your ass in a car, no one knows.” He paused; Walker gave him nothing so he kept going. “Couldn’t see why it was for the f**k of it either. You don’t care the company you keep at a game, that’s true enough, but they at least have to bring something to the table.”
Walker kept silent.
Peña pressed on. “You sit with men who got tens of thousands of cash and collateral on the line, you walk away a winner, a big winner, every time. Then you sit with men who got shit, who are not known to sit a game of cards, total amateurs, you lose huge? How’s that happen?”
Walker didn’t move or say a word.
Peña kept going. “Lose so huge, it pisses you off. You, a seasoned player, a seasoned player who had to walk away down from some tables somewhere along the line. You knew the score. Never an incident but you lose to some scumbag drug dealer in LA, you get so pissed, you track his ass down, shoot him four times and a part-construction worker, part-mechanic smart enough to get himself a Snake is dumb enough to leave his prints at the scene. How’s that happen?”
Walker turned fully to him and crossed his arms on his chest.
Peña held his gaze.
Then he took a step forward and said quietly, “Got a source says some preliminary witness statements were buried. You know that?”
He didn’t. He had no idea. That would have been big, huge, years ago.
Now it didn’t matter.
Therefore, he still didn’t speak.
“Conflicting accounts on a variety of things. Your description, the amount you lost at the game, time line. Seems the witnesses hadn’t been thoroughly briefed,” Peña dropped that bomb, gave a bit of it away, paused for a reaction then when he didn’t get one, he pressed on. “Got their stories straight in the end, though.”
Fuck him. Fuck him. Under six weeks and Peña got further than Tate. A lot further.
Walker made no reply.
Peña didn’t need it. “Two of those men who sat that table with you were CIs to a Detective Chet Palmer, LAPD.”
Walker said nothing.
Peña continued. “And Detective Chet Palmer works in a different precinct but still, he’s godfather to Gene Fuller’s daughter.” He held Walker’s eyes and kept talking quietly. “You gettin’ the connection I’m givin’ to you?”