Done, Valentine hit the Enter button. Creep File would now take Fontaine's profile and compare it against every hustler in the database. Those who matched Fontaine's description in four or more categories would be pulled up in a separate file.
Within seconds, the program was done. Valentine scrolled through the matches and counted forty-eight profiles. Fontaine was finally going to get his mask ripped off. It was about time, for Valentine had come to the realization that if he didn't make this guy, he would never get to the bottom of what was going on here.
For the next hour, he read each profile while sipping on a Diet Coke. Thirty-six of the hustlers were serving time or deceased. Of the remaining twelve, he omitted nine because of age and one who'd had a sex change. That left two hustlers: Johnny Lonn and Frank "Bones" Garcia. Valentine knew each man well.
He jumped back and forth between their profiles, which included mug shots from recent arrests. Johnny and Bones were both Italian, were both world-class card counters, and they bore strong physical resemblances to Fontaine. Each man had also run with a gang and knew the ins and outs of orchestrating a major rip-off.
But with each man, there was a problem. In 1993, Johnny had lost his right thumb in a freak car accident; Bones had recently contracted a rare skin condition that had rendered him completely hairless. Neither man could be Fontaine. His hand slapped the dining-room table in frustration.
Pushing his chair back, Valentine went to the suite's picture window and stared down. Like an ugly woman without any makeup, the Strip was all warts and moles in the harsh daylight, and he watched a line of traffic slither snakelike past the hotel. Fontaine's cocky play was his calling card, and Valentine felt certain that he belonged to that elite club responsible not only for ruining casinos but also for fixing major sporting events, even bankrupting a small country or two. Fontaine was somebody special and had gone to a lot of trouble to keep his identity secret.
Calling room service, Valentine ordered a hamburger and a bucket of ice, then sat back down at the dining-room table. The computer had gone to sleep, and he impatiently tapped the Shift key with his finger. Finally, the screen lit up and he scrolled to page one of Creep File.
His eyes fell on the profile of Devon Ames, a Philadelphia-based dice scooter of some renown. Valentine began to read, determined to miss nothing. Like a bloodhound, he was going to sniff Fontaine out, even if meant reading all five thousand profiles in his computer, one at a time.
10
What do you mean, you're dropping charges?" Sammy Mann bellowed, his face a few inches from Pete Longo's.
"You heard me," the chubby lieutenant replied, parking his butt on his trashed desk and firing up a Marlboro. It was Saturday afternoon, and he wanted to watch some college football; the last thing he needed to hear was this shriveled-up old hustler telling him how to run his investigation. "I'm dropping charges. If you were smart, you'd hire Nola Briggs back ASAP."
"Are you crazy?" Sammy howled. "She ripped us off!"
"That's debatable. Look, Sammy, her defense attorney, the one and only Felix Underman, had Nola take a polygraph test a few hours ago. The man who administered the test is an ex-detective and a pal of mine. He was kind enough to messenger over a transcript of her questioning. Care to hear it?"
"I sure as hell would," Sammy said, making the springs sag on the lumpy couch in Longo's rat-hole office. Wily, who sat on the other end, rose a few inches.
"He asked her fifty questions," Longo said, flipping through the typed transcript. "I'll just share the juicy stuff with you gentlemen. Here's one. 'Miss Briggs, before he walked into your casino and sat down at your table, had you ever met a gambler named Frank Fontaine before?' Answer: 'No, it was the first time I ever saw him.'"
Longo looked up into their faces. "The polygraph says she's telling the truth. Here's some more. Question: 'Do you know what it means to flash?' Answer: 'Yes. It means that the dealer is illegally flashing her hole card to a player.' Question: 'Were you flashing your hole card to Frank Fontaine when he was sitting at your table?' Answer: 'No, I did not flash my hole card to Frank Fontaine.' Question: 'Have you ever flashed a hole card to a player?' Answer: 'I'm sure I have, but never intentionally.' Question: 'Was Frank Fontaine sitting in such a manner that he would have been able to glimpse your hole card?' Answer: 'No, he was upright. You have to drop your head on the table to glimpse a dealer's hole card. He wasn't doing that.' Question: 'Did you signal Frank Fontaine in any fashion?' Answer: 'No, I did not.' Question: 'Did Frank Fontaine solicit you in any way before this incident took place?' Answer: 'No, he did not.'"
Longo put the transcript down and gazed tiredly at his two guests. "Her answers are all reading true. I'm sorry to spoil your party, but I've got to let her walk."
"Maybe she took speed and got her heart racing before she took the test," Wily suggested, a worried look distorting his blunt features. "Maybe everything she's saying is actually a lie."
Longo shook his head wearily. "The examiner took her pulse before and after the test was administered. Seventy beats a minute before, eighty-two after. That's within the normal range that the heart rate jumps when someone's strapped to a polygraph."
"You're saying she's telling the truth," Sammy said, his face deadpan. "You're saying we're screwed."
"I don't know if you're screwed or not," Longo said, glancing impatiently at his watch. "I do know that the guy who administered this test worked for Metro LVPD for eleven years and is the same guy we use when we want a second opinion. He's the best."
"Nick's going to kill us," Sammy said. He glanced sideways at Wily, who was nervously scratching a stain on his necktie. "He'll fire us for making him look bad. We're fucked."
"Don't let her go, Pete," Wily begged, standing up to plead their case before the chubby lieutenant. "If she walks, we get the blame. We'll never be able to work in Las Vegas again. I got a wife and two kids; Sammy's ready for retirement. You can't make us walk the plank."
Longo held his palm up like he was directing traffic. "Guys, stop-you're killing me. Evidence is evidence, and you don't have any. I gotta drop the charges."
"You can't," Wily insisted.
"Hey," Longo said, "you should be thanking me. And so should Nick."
"Thanking you for what?"
"If I drop charges and get you guys to say you're sorry, Nola says she won't sue for false arrest and slander. That lets you boys off the hook."
"She's threatening to sue us?"
"She sure is. Seems she's got a pretty good case. After all, we arrested her on the basis of evidence you gave us, and that makes Nick liable."
"You're shitting me," Wily said.
"No, I'm not. If she can prove that Nick had it out for her and you two were following Nick's orders…" Longo shook his head sadly. "I hate to think of the consequences."
It was Sammy's turn to stand up. Every time he got together with Longo, the lieutenant made him feel two feet tall. He was always shaking them down for fight tickets and comps and an occasional suite so he could hire a college-age hooker to give him a blow job or entertain his girlfriend of the month. Whoever said gangsters no longer ran in Las Vegas had never been worked over by this lowlife two-bit mutt. It was the experience of a lifetime.
Digging into his pocket, Sammy begrudgingly extracted a Ticket Master envelope. It contained a seat for Tuesday night's Evander Holyfield heavyweight title fight at Caesars, third row center. Scalpers were getting five grand and more for seats this good. He handed it to Longo.