They sat in the Range Rover in the dark, headlights off. Drayco looked over at Sarg. “You didn’t have to come along.”
“Just happened to be coming to town when I got your call. Dropped Elaine and a friend of hers off at the Ken Cen for one of those crappy musicals.”
Drayco grinned. “This from a man who likes polka?”
“It’s a cultural thing. With a small ‘c.’ You sure you got the right info from Gogo Cheng’s phone call at his studio?”
Drayco pulled out the mini-flashlight he always carried in his pocket and flicked it on for a few seconds to look at his notes. “This is the date and time he mentioned. The place is a bit of a guess. The coded words he used on his end of the conversation fit a boat supply joint, and there aren’t many of those around.”
“And the betting slips you saw are his tickets to the wide world of illegal sports betting.”
“Could be dangerous. Remember the task force that took down the multi-million dollar gambling op at the Eden Center a few years ago?”
“How could I forget? The Bureau was part of that one. Vietnamese gangs, as I recall. Don’t know which are worse around here, them or MS13.”
Drayco nodded at the back door. “Shall we go in?”
The cars lining the street around the boat supply building and the lights in the basement all but confirmed Drayco’s theory, as did the unsmiling face of the man covered in tattoos who answered the door. Drayco couldn’t tell if they were gang tattoos, but since this was a betting joint, he’d bet they were.
“You’re not invited to this party,” the man said, standing in the center of the doorway.
Drayco took advantage of his six-four height and got just close enough to tower over the man, his hands on his hips to show he wasn’t holding any weapons. “Looking for Gogo Cheng,” he said.
Tattoo Man’s fierce stance wavered a fraction. “You cops?”
“He owes me money,” Drayco replied. “And I need it. Now.”
The other man nodded. “Yeah, we hear that a lot. I’ll get him.”
Through the door, Drayco could see TV monitors tuned to sporting events around the world. Ice hockey and basketball in the U.S., tennis in Mexico, horse racing in Australia, cycling in New Zealand, cricket in New Delhi. The interactive computer betting consoles were another tip this was not an amateur set-up.
When Gogo arrived at the door, shock didn’t begin to describe the look on his face. He swallowed hard but said loud enough so Tattoo Man could hear, “I said I’d get you the money tomorrow. Couldn’t it wait?” and he stepped outside and closed the door.
Drayco nodded at Sarg’s car, and the trio climbed inside, Gogo and Drayco in the back, Sarg in the front. Drayco conducted a quick scan of Gogo’s body and clothing, but he didn’t appear to have any Eskrima weapons on him.
“It’s not what you think.” Gogo’s voice ordinarily had green forks that stabbed at Drayco, but tonight those forks had hard black edges.
“Then, what is it, sir?” Sarg’s own voice dripped with more sarcasm than usual.
Gogo’s words came out in a rush. “Years ago, my parents gave me a painting of Chinese calligraphy. Some Song Dynasty thing. Been in our family for generations. I took it for granted, didn’t realize its worth. Jerold Zamorra said he was having a big party and wondered if I would loan it to him. I said, sure, and didn’t think anything of it. Until he didn’t give it back.”
His hands, balled into fists, pounded the seat. “Found out later he’d sold it to pay for his goddamn gambling debts. And that it was worth over fifty grand. Then I decided to find the painting by tracking down the buyer.”
Drayco kept one eye on Gogo and another on a car parked near them until two people got in and left. “Do your parents know?”
“Hell no. That’s why I’ve got to find that painting first. Then I won’t have to tell them.”
“Why not go to the police?”
“The police would want to talk to my parents. Then they’d find out.”
Sarg spoke up from the driver’s seat. “When was this alleged party of Jerold’s?”
“About six months ago.”
“So, Mr. Cheng, you’re telling us you’re just here to find out if any of these delightful, upstanding gentlemen know who Jerold sold that painting to, is that right?”
“I’ve been coming a couple times a month. Betting a little here and there. Just enough to gain their trust. That’s all, I swear. I’m not rich, but I make enough from the studio and concerts.”
“Don’t forget Ashley’s money, Mr. Cheng.”
Gogo glared at Sarg’s profile. “How many times do I have to tell you people I don’t give a shit about her money? When I first started dating her, hell up until a few days ago, I thought she had less money than I do.”
Drayco waited for another car to empty its passengers into the building. “I take it this sport betting operation moves around—thus the meeting details over the phone at Kicks and Sticks?”
“That’s how you knew? Man, I thought you were psychic. Yeah, it moves every couple weeks.”
“Did you find what you were looking for—the name of the person who bought your painting?”
Gogo sat straighter in his seat. “Sorta. Some guy called Marchand. Faust Marchand. But that’s gotta be a fake name, right?”
Sarg wrote down the name in his notebook. “We’ll check out your story. In the meantime, I’d strongly suggest you stay away from this group.”
“Hell, if you can help me get back my painting, I’ll do anything you say.”
Drayco replied, “No promises, but we’ll see what we can do.” He added, “Does Ashley know about any of this?”
“Not the painting nor the gambling. I’d like it to stay that way.”
Drayco put a hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you go home and tackle some Bach. Always clears my head.”
Gogo took the hint and scrambled out the door. They watched as he went to his car, hopped in, and peeled away. Sarg put his index fingers to the sides of his head and said, “I have a feeling there’s going to be a raid on that outfit very soon. I must be psychic.”
Drayco switched out of the back seat into the front passenger side. “Then I hope Gogo takes our advice.”
Sarg grunted. “Jerold swiping, then selling, a painting worth fifty grand—I’ve seen wimpier motives for murder. And despite what he says, I don’t buy that whole ‘I didn’t know about Ashley’s inheritance’ bit.”
Drayco said, “Hmm,” as he drummed his fingers on the dashboard. “During my quick glance inside that joint, I didn’t see many women. But there were a few.”
“You’re thinking Maura was involved in part of this? The gambling, the painting, both?”
“Iago said she and Jerold were business partners in something, but I don’t know. Maybe I’m the one who’s being played.”
“Then they don’t know betting against a Drayco is the definition of insanity.” Sarg started up the engine. “What’s up with that name he got, this Faust Marchand guy?”
“It may be a fake name someone gave Gogo, as he suspected. ‘Marchand’ is French for dealer or broker. And Faust—well, I guess when you play dice with this guy, you make a deal with the devil.”