“Let’s try the blackjack table,” Mrs. Sinclair said, grabbing for Jake’s arm and pulling him down the aisle between the clanging slot machines.

A stern-looking elderly man, gray-haired and gray-faced, stepped into the aisle in front of her. He wore a dark suit and a weary expression.

“Mrs. Sinclair,” he said, his face stony. “You know we’re not allowed to let you play.”

She gave him a girlish smile. “Oh, just for a little bit. I won’t stay long.”

The man shook his head. “I’d lose my job, Mrs. Sinclair.”

“You’re the manager, aren’t you?” she wheedled. “You don’t have to tell anybody that I was here. I won’t tell on you.”

Looking past her to Jake, the manager asked, “And who is this gentleman?”

“He’s from the university. He works with my husband.”

“My name’s Jacob Ross,” Jake said, as if that explained anything.

From behind him, Jake heard a young woman’s voice say, “You’ll have to come with me, sir.”

Turning, he saw a uniformed police officer. She was short, roundish, looked like a Native American. The patch on the shoulder of her bulky windbreaker said VERNON POLICE DEPARTMENT. She had a two-way radio clipped on her belt and a wicked-looking automatic pistol holstered at her hip.

Her right hand hovered near the butt of her pistol as she stared unsmilingly at Jake.

Busted

BUSTED

The police officer led Jake and Mrs. Sinclair out of the casino, while the manager walked a few steps behind them.

“I’ll tell my husband about this,” Mrs. Sinclair threatened as the officer bundled her into a Vernon PD squad car.

“Yes, ma’am,” said the officer sweetly. “I’ll drive you home. You can phone him from there.” To Jake she called, “Please follow me in your car, sir. Unless you want to leave it here.”

Jake followed the squad car back through town to Mrs. Sinclair’s house. The policewoman got out of the squad car and walked to his Mustang. “Stay in your car, sir. Once I’ve got Mrs. Sinclair back inside her house, you’ll have to follow me to the station.”

Jake felt his brows hike. “Am I under arrest?”

“Nosir. Not exactly.”

Wondering what “not exactly” meant, Jake watched as the policewoman led Mrs. Sinclair up to her front door. The older woman was jabbering away, obviously complaining, but the police officer paid no attention, as far as Jake could see. The cop pushed on the bell, and the door was immediately opened by a blocky, middle-aged woman in a black housemaid’s outfit. Mrs. Sinclair went inside the house with her and the policewoman returned to her squad car.

As she opened the car door she called to Jake, “Just follow me, sir.”