Four hands later, his own over-confidence had hustled him out of the game in a humiliating collapse.

It had been an invaluable lesson for Tom. His game could survive almost anything but his own ego.

But here and now sound judgement told him the Pinball Kid was his only danger. If he had pocket kings, Tom was finished. And, annoyingly, the sunglasses kept Tom from looking into the Pinball Kid’s Hold ’Em soul and finding out.

All these thoughts flared in Tom’s neurons in bare seconds, and he hardly paused before going all in, pushing what was left of his chips across to join the pot. He knew it would see off anything but pocket kings.

The Pinball Kid hesitated. Then laughed.

Then called his bet.

*

Tom was annihilating his sorrows when the smoky-eyed blonde was suddenly beside him. ‘Bad luck,’ she said, her voice turning it into a teasing question as she gestured to the barman.

He looked over her head to where the Pinball Kid, Mr Ling and Corey Clump were the only three left at the table, almost hidden by the throng of players and watchers looking for vicarious thrills.

Pocket fucking kings.

He shrugged. ‘They say you’ve got to get lucky six times to win a tournament. I was up to four.’

‘You ever been all the way?’ she said, with a curious little smile.

He looked at her sharply. Was she coming on to him? Tom was tall, dark, but only borderline handsome, so he decided to err on the side of caution. ‘Cashed a few times.’

She nodded approvingly and looked towards the table. He took the opportunity to glance down at the back of her neck, where a small, curved wisp of hair had escaped her chignon, and now waved gently over her flawless skin in the oxygen-rich breeze being pumped through the club. Something about it thrilled him: he wanted to curl it around his finger and feel the silken softness run across his skin.

He blinked the idea away, and ran his hand up the back of his own neck, feeling the stubble there against his palm. A nervous tic – a tell all of his own – but one he made a monster effort to keep at bay at the poker table. The blonde was sexy as hell but she was with someone else. Poker was fraught enough without banging another player’s girl between hands.

His phone rang. ‘Shit.’ He fumbled it out of his pocket and looked at the number. ‘Excuse me.’

She raised a surprised eyebrow: most people who played cards devoutly had nothing better to do on a Sunday or, if they did, they were there to avoid doing it.

They both turned at the shout that greeted the demise of another player. The Pinball Kid stood up from the table and looked around for his girl.

She walked away from Tom without another glance.

*

Tom strode into the bright sunshine, the California heat a shock to his air-conditioned skin. ‘Yeah, Pete, what do you want?’

‘Hey! How’d you know it was me?’

Tom sighed. Unless it was about planes, Pete LaBello was a Luddite. He’d only just mastered faxes; cell phones were all Star Trek to him. ‘Your name comes up on the thing. What’s up?’

‘You at the Bicycle Club?’

Tom deferred answering his boss for the five seconds it took him to make it out of the parking lot and into the honesty zone.

‘No.’

‘Good. Go Team’s about to leave for LAX – got a 737 blade off on the ground. Thought you might like to be first on the scene as you’re right there.’

‘I’m not on the Go Team.’

Hesitation.

Embarrassment for sure.

Pity, maybe?

‘No. Munro’s leading.’

Tom let it go. He was still out in the cold, but this was a small indication that a thaw might be on its way. He’d have to swallow his pride and start from the ass-end up if he wanted to stay in his job. And – despite everything – Tom did want to stay in his job. It was the only damned thing he’d ever been any good at. Not just good. Damn good. A helluva lot better than Lenny Munro could ever dream of being.

‘Tom?’

‘I’m here.’

‘You got your flyaway with you, right?’

‘Always.’

‘Well, if you don’t mind doing the donkey work for Lenny …’

Pete tried to make it a joke but Tom couldn’t humour him – it was still too raw. Pete must’ve heard that in his silence because he went on, ‘Three dead. They’re engineers. I thought it’d suit you.’

Tom felt the unintentional sting of the words before he answered, ‘I owe you one.’

‘Nah!’

He could almost hear Pete wave away the debt with his generous Italian hands.

He hung up and stood in the unrelenting LA sun, frowning. Pete was kind but transparent.

They’re engineers.

Tom knew what his boss had been saying. That he wasn’t good with civilians.

*

Tom Patrick wasn’t good with civilians. That was why Pete LaBello hadn’t called him last night when a Jetstream 31 had gone down in Nevada with seven passengers on board – including a woman flying to see her oilman boyfriend with their six-year-old daughter along for the ride.

But engineers weren’t civilians, they were industry, so Tom’s investigative powers – which were held in some esteem throughout the National Transportation Safety Board, despite his recent history – would be invaluable. And unsullied by his second and more infamous characteristic: his monumental lack of tact.

Six months ago, Tom Patrick had been lead on a Learjet emergency landing during which a New York stockbroker got his neck snapped. At a press conference, in the full glare of the publicity that only the death of rich people brings, he had bluntly told the hysterical widow – who was demanding the pilot’s head – to ‘Hold your horses, ma’am.’ He’d already established, un officially, that her husband had not been wearing a seatbelt on touchdown due to a combination of bravado, belligerence and Bell’s whisky. And – breaking all NTSB protocols – he’d told her that right there and then. Live. On air.

He had been immediately suspended – and his replacement had taken another two months to make the same version of events a matter of official record. The hysterical widow – still stinging from her halogen humiliation – had tried her best to sue the department for a hundred million dollars. She’d lost, of course, but a rich and humiliated woman’s best is usually pretty damn good, and can take a lot of money to beat off. After three months, Tom was quietly reinstated by the back door – on probation and half-pay.