Valentine put his binoculars and notebook back into the drawer. Bronco’s gang had murdered his brother-in-law Sal on the Atlantic City Boardwalk twenty years ago. Every other member of the gang was now in prison, and it was the last piece of unfinished business from his days in law enforcement.
“How can they let him skate?”
“Bronco’s claiming there’s a Nevada Gaming Control Board agent stealing jackpots from Nevada’s casinos,” Bill said. “If we don’t let Bronco go, he’s going to release the agent’s name to the media, and ruin our business.”
Valentine whistled into the phone. Bill had just described the casino business’s worst nightmare. If the public thought the people policing the casinos were crooks, they’d stop playing. Overnight, business would dry up, and the casinos would go under. No wonder Smoltz was sweating through his underwear.
“Is Bronco telling the truth?” Valentine asked.
“Not sure,” Bill said. “We want you to have a look, and tell us what you think.”
“Which would put Bronco’s fate in my hands.”
“That’s right.”
Dusk had settled, and Valentine saw his backyard pool into darkness. Perhaps this was God’s way of rewarding him for living a clean life, or maybe it was just dumb luck. Either way, he wasn’t going to pass it up.
“Tell Smoltz I’ll take the job,” he said.
The Internet was a beautiful thing. Five minutes later, Valentine was reading three reports that Bill Higgins had e-mailed him concerning Bronco Marchese.
He started with the official police report. According to a statement made by a newlywed named Karen Farmer, Bronco had rigged a million dollar jackpot on a slot machine at the Cal Neva Lodge, allowing Karen and her husband to claim the prize. The next day, while cutting up the winnings, Bronco and Bo had gotten into a fight, and Bronco had shot and killed Bo, then left.
Karen Farmer had called the police and confessed. While being questioned, she had recounted eating dinner with Bronco in Sacramento two nights before, and Bronco paying with a credit card. The waitress had mistakenly presented the card to her husband, and Karen had noticed a different name on the card. Frank Revel.
Using that single piece of information, the police had tracked Bronco to a motel in Reno, and arrested him. While searching Bronco’s car, they had discovered a box of disguises, weapons, a welding kit used to make keys, and a diary with detailed notes about ten slot machine jackpots stolen from Nevada casinos in the past three years.
The second report had been written by Fred Friendly, the director of the Nevada Gaming Control Board’s Electronic Systems Division. The GCB was required to keep records of every jackpot paid out in the state, and Friendly had examined the ten jackpot thefts recorded in Bronco’s diary, and discovered four similarities.
1) All ten rip-offs had occurred in small, out-of-the-way casinos, where surveillance was less stringent than the state’s larger casinos.
2) Each jackpot was for one million dollars.
3) Each machine was a refurbished electro-magnetic model. By law, refurbs were not allowed in casinos, but some casinos used them instead of buying new machines in an effort to cut costs.
4) Each rip-off had occurred during a shift change in the casino’s surveillance control room, when the techs were less likely to notice theft.
The third report was a transcript of a meeting that had taken place between Bill Higgins and Bronco’s attorney, a mob-connected reptile named Kyle Garrow.
Garrow: “Bronco wants to cut a deal.”
Higgins: “No deals.”
Garrow: “Bronco has information that could destroy the gambling business in Nevada.”
Higgins: “Give me a break.”
Garrow: “I’m dead serious.”
Higgins: “You’ve got two minutes. Talk.”
Garrow: “Three years ago, Bronco was casing a casino when he spotted someone stealing a jackpot. He introduced himself, and the two became friends.”
Higgins: “How touching.”
Garrow: “The other cheater was an agent with the Nevada Gaming Control Board.”
Higgins: “An agent in my department?”
Garrow: “That’s right. Want to extend that two minutes?”
Higgins: “Keep talking.”
Garrow: “Bronco and this agent entered into an arrangement. Bronco taught this agent how to play the game. You know, pick dead times to beat the eye-in-the-sky, that sort of thing.”
Higgins: “What did Bronco receive in return?”
Garrow: “The agent told Bronco where all the refurbs were in the state. The agent knew the exact location of every one.”
Higgins: “Does Bronco know how many jackpots this agent has stolen?”
Garrow: “Hundreds. Maybe more.”
Higgins: “That’s (expletive deleted) and you know it.”
Garrow: “No, it’s not. The agent is stealing jackpots under ten grand so he doesn’t have to report them to the IRS. He’s flying under the radar.”
Higgins: “Keep talking.”
Garrow: “Bronco says your agent has developed a unique method of corrupting slot machines. I’m not talking old machines, either.”
Higgins: “Is this agent stealing jackpots himself?”
Garrow: “No. He’s using claimers.”
Higgins: “Different claimers for each jackpot?”
Garrow: “Yes. He recruits them.”
Higgins: “Let me get this straight. He’s corrupted hundreds of people to claim the money?”
Garrow: “That’s right.”
Higgins: “That’s (expletive deleted) and you know it.”
Garrow: “No, it’s not. Bronco taught him how to do it. Look at Bo and Karen Farmer. Neither has a criminal record, yet Bronco got them to help him rip off the Cal Neva.”
Higgins: “How does Bronco do that?”
Garrow: “I honestly don’t know.”
Higgins: “And Bronco is willing to give this agent up, provided we let him go.”
Garrow: “That’s the deal. Take it, or leave it.”
Valentine shut down his computer, and watched the screen become an iridescent blue dot. What Garrow was claiming was pure bull. Modern slot machines couldn’t be corrupted into paying off jackpots. They were sophisticated computers that had more anti-theft safeguards than most banks. At the heart of these computers were random number generator chips, called RNGs, which cycled hundreds of numbers per second, and selected jackpots. They were impossible to corrupt.
His stomach growled. The day he’d lost his wife, he’d stopped eating right. Yolanda was good about feeding him, but he tried not to make himself a regular at Gerry’s table. His son and his wife needed their space.
He decided on hot dogs, and was boiling water on the stove when he spied a note stuck to the refrigerator. It was from Mabel, informing him she’d left pot roast and mashed potatoes in the fridge. He tried to remember the last time he’d eaten homemade pot roast. It seemed like a hundred years ago.
He heated the food in the microwave, then ate with the sports section spread before him. Something was bothering him, and his eyes would not focus on the page.
Picking up his plate, he returned to his study.
Sitting at his computer, he retrieved the transcript of Bill and Garrow’s meeting. His brain had always been good at finding things that didn’t make sense, and turning those things inside-out. He stared at the screen.
Higgins: “Let me get this straight. He’s corrupted hundreds of people to claim the money.”
Garrow: “That’s right.”
Higgins: “That’s (expletive deleted) and you know it.”
It sounded familiar. Opening his desk drawer, he removed a stack of letters, and sorted through them. Lucy Price had written him weekly since going to prison nine months ago. Although he’d accepted that a relationship between them wouldn’t work, he still cared deeply about her. He found the letter he was looking for, and stared at Lucy’s flowing script.