Linville looked like the kind of guy who’d pull off the highway and help you with a flat. Valentine explained the situation and Linville brought him inside, took him to the second floor, and led him through a warren of cubicles where the company technicians worked. Each technician sat in front of a blue-screened computer fielding requests sent from casinos with suspected card-counters.
They came to an empty cubicle, and Linville pointed at the chair and said, “This is where Monte sits. He handles the Acropolis, so I’m going to guess Wily brought your photograph to him. I just saw him a minute ago.”
Linville stood on his toes and looked over the tops of the cubicles for Monte, then shook his head. “He’s probably helping someone. Sunday mornings are rough. Sometimes we back each other up, especially when a casino is dealing with a team of counters.”
The clock on the wall said eleven twenty. Valentine could feel his opportunity slipping away. Linville sifted through a pile of papers on Monte’s desk and found the picture of Amin near the top of the stack, with a Post-it note attached to it.
“This your guy?” he asked.
Valentine nodded.
“You know how to use a scanner?” Linville asked.
Valentine nodded again. Moments later, he was sitting at Monte’s computer, getting a quick primer from Linville on how to navigate his way through FaceScan’s software program. It had many similarities to ACT, the database management system he used at home, and he quickly felt comfortable with it.
“Yell if you have trouble,” Linville said. “I’m right down the hall.”
Valentine ran Amin’s picture through the scanner, then downloaded it into the computer. For a guy who hated everything electronic, he’d gotten adept at using computers. He typed in the necessary commands and leaned back in Monte’s chair as FaceScan searched its database of card-counters for a match.
The technicians were a noisy bunch, and he listened to them talking to each other. There was a lot of cursing, and it didn’t surprise him. He’d done a lot of cursing on Sunday morning back when he was a cop. Every casino had downtimes in their surveillance department when not enough technicians were working. Most of these downtimes occurred on Sunday mornings.
A message appeared on the screen.
No match found for your selection.
He scratched the stubble on his chin. Bill had said Amin was a known counter. FaceScan had every known counter in the world. It didn’t make sense. He ran Amin’s photo through the program again, and got the same message.
“Huh,” he said.
He found Linville helping a technician on the other side of the room. A minute later, Linville was standing over him, staring at the computer screen.
“You’re sure he’s a known counter?”
“According to the GCB he is.”
“Anything else on his record?”
“He’s murdered five people.”
Linville exited FaceScan’s database and brought up another program. It required him to submit a password, and he typed his name backward, then hit ENTER. On the screen appeared the home page for the FBI. He navigated through the site until he finally reached the bureau’s search engine.
“FaceScan and the FBI share a lot of information,” he explained. “They use our database, and we occasionally use theirs. The guy you’re looking for should be in their database. If not, he’s the invisible man.”
Linville left. Valentine went through the process of scanning Amin’s picture again, then asked the bureau’s search engine to compare it to its database of known criminals. A box came up on the screen with a message.
Be patient. This could take a minute or two.
Leave it to a government agency to tell someone to be patient. He left the cubicle in search of coffee. His lack of sleep was catching up with him, and he felt on the verge of dropping on the nearest couch.
He found a coffee machine in the employee lounge. Thankfully, it took dollar bills. He bought a double espresso and felt his eyelids flutter the moment he sucked it down. Caffeine put his brain into another gear, and he walked back to Monte’s cubicle with a spring in his step.
The screen was flashing. The FBI’s search engine had made a match. He sat in Monte’s chair. He was finally going to learn something about the son-of-a-bitch who’d kidnapped his son. He clicked the mouse on the button on the screen. A message appeared.
This is a restricted area. Please enter your password.
He typed Linville’s name backward, and hit ENTER. A page appeared on the screen. It was an FBI MOST WANTED poster. In the center of the poster was the same photo he was carrying around in his pocket. Next to it a SPECIAL ALERT had been posted at 2:00, Eastern Standard Time. That was only twenty minutes ago.
He quickly read the alert and felt a jolt to his nervous system as strong as the double espresso. The FBI had determined that Amin was a terrorist, and planning a major attack somewhere near Las Vegas.
41
Valentine got in his rental, took Sahara to I-15, and headed south toward Bill Higgins’s house. He did seventy most of the way, his eyes peeled on the empty highway. The sickening sensation he’d felt reading the FBI’s poster would not go away.
He needed a comforting voice to talk to, and decided to call Mabel. When she didn’t answer her house line, he tried her cell.
“I’m at St. Joe’s with Yolanda,” his neighbor said.
He nearly swerved off the highway. “She okay?”
“She went into contractions ten minutes ago. The doctor is here, and he’s concerned she’s going into labor too soon. She’s not due for another three weeks.”
Valentine pulled onto the shoulder, threw the rental into park, and shut his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he said, “But she’s okay so far?”
“So far, yes,” Mabel said. “The bad news is, she knows Gerry’s in a lot of trouble. She had a dream that told her so.”
“A dream?”
“I know, it’s goofy, but she’s convinced it’s a premonition.”
Valentine swallowed the rising lump in his throat. “It’s going to be okay,” he said.
“These people Gerry’s associated with are very bad, aren’t they?” his neighbor said.
“Everything’s going to be fine.”
“Oh, Tony, the evidence is right there. Gerry sent Yolanda a box of money, and he bought a gun with his credit card, and—”
“Did you hear what I said?” He realized he was shouting, and lowered his voice. “It’s all going to work out in the end. Please, trust me on this.”
“But, Tony—”
“Please, Mabel. Please.”
“Is that what you want me to tell Yolanda?”
He imagined Yolanda in labor, and the thoughts that were going through her mind. “Yes. That’s exactly what I want you to tell her.”
“Whatever you say,” his neighbor said.
Walking up the path to Bill’s house, he picked up the Sunday Las Vegas Review-Journal lying in the grass. The headline was about six UNLV baseball players accused of not attending classes. Beneath their pictures were the words TSK! TSK! TSK! Before he could ring the bell, Bill opened the door and took the paper from him.
“Must’ve been a slow news day,” he said.
They went to his study. Bill tossed the newspaper into the garbage, then rested his cane against the desk and took a chair. Valentine remained standing, his eyes vacantly staring at his friend’s face.
“So you know what’s going on,” Bill said.
“Yeah. Who told you?”
“The FBI monitors whoever goes into the classified area of their site. They called Steve Linville at FaceScan and asked him why one of his employees was in there. Linville told them it was you.”