“What’s he facing here?”
“Seven-to-ten.”
“Who explained the scam to you?”
“Special Agent Bill Higgins of the Nevada Gaming Control Board’s investigation unit. We talked over the phone. The GCB is loaning him as an expert witness to help us prosecute the dealer.”
Valentine was surprised. After New Jersey voters legalized casino gambling, the state had decided not to talk to anyone who’d ever worked in the Nevada gaming industry. While never publicly stated, the message was clear: New Jersey didn’t want Nevada’s organized crime families invading their little town by the shore. A great idea, except the mob had been in Atlantic City for as long as Valentine could remember.
“I thought Nevada was having nothing to do with us,” Valentine said.
“They’re making an exception with this case.” The phone on Banko’s desk lit up. Ignoring it, he went on. “Higgins is flying into town. I want you to meet him, see if you can learn some pointers.”
“What’s he like?”
“He’s full of himself. I’m sure you’ll get along fine.”
Valentine had always enjoyed a challenge, and decided that he’d like to meet Higgins. Then it dawned on him what his boss had just said.
“Am I working inside Resorts now?”
Banko leaned back in his chair and nodded. “That’s right. I’m putting you in charge of our new Casino Investigation Division. You’ll work inside the casino with the surveillance department to stop the casino from being swindled. You’ll get to pick another detective to work with you.”
Valentine felt the blood drain from his head. Fifteen years of busting his hump catching thieves and pimps and murderers and now he was being taken off the street. It wasn’t a demotion, it was a kick in the teeth, and he realized that Banko had finally found a way to pay him back for the orange hair crack. “What if I don’t want the job?” he said.
“This is a promotion, Tony. More pay, better hours—”
“I don’t want a desk job. I want to be where the action is.”
“You’ll see plenty of action inside the casino.”
A copy of that day’s Camden Union Register lay face-up on the desk. Valentine stabbed his finger at the headline. ATLANTIC CITY KILLER STILL AT LARGE. POLICE BAFFLED. “You’ve got three women raped and murdered in three weeks, no leads, and every woman on the island walking around scared for her life. Come on sarge, let me have this one. You know this is right up my alley.”
“No,” Banko said.
“The killer’s got to be local. I’ll use my contacts to track him down, make the department look good. What do you say?”
“I already put in the paperwork. I have reasons for wanting you inside the casino, Tony. You start tomorrow.”
“What if I say no?”
Banko eyed him cooly. “That would be a bad career move.”
Instead of driving home from work that night, Valentine drove to the Atlantic City Hospital to see Doyle. He drove a Pinto, which necessitated driving with one eye in the mirror. Right after he’d purchased the car, he’d learned that it had a minor defect. If a Pinto got rear-ended by another car, it would explode in a fiery nova. As a joke, Doyle had a special bumper sticker made for him which said KABOOM!
Valentine found Doyle in the basement doing physical therapy for his leg. Doyle’s therapist was a nurse who his partner had nick-named Hilda-Who-Never-Smiled. Hilda wore her hair pulled back in a steel bun, and was reminiscent of a villainess from a James Bond movie. She was monitoring Doyle’s pulse while he pedaled a stationary bike.
“Guess what? I nearly got her to laugh,” Doyle said.
“No, you didn’t,” Hilda said without humor.
“Well, you were thinking of laughing.”
“You have no idea what I’m thinking. Keep pedaling.”
Doyle winked at him. Taking the bait, Valentine said, “I know this is none of my business, but are you Polish?”
Hilda shot him an icy stare. “You’re right. That’s none of your business.”
“I know this funny Polish joke.”
“Spare me.”
“Don’t I get a shot?”
“You want a shot? Bend over, I’ll give you a shot.”
“Come on. I want to see if I can make you laugh.”
Her face was mirthless, and reminded Valentine of an old European painting. She tossed her clipboard onto a table. “I will do no such thing,” she said, and walked out. Doyle climbed down off the bike and grabbed his crutches.
“Let’s get something to drink,” he said.
The hospital’s cafeteria served coffee so strong it could have woken up a dead man. Sitting at a corner table in the back of the room, Valentine removed the chip cup Banko had lent him, and explained the ingenious scam while his partner played with the device. “They caught the dealer, huh?” Doyle said.
“By accident,” Valentine said. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know how you would catch a dealer using one. But I’m about to learn. I’m running the new Casino Investigation Division.”
“Banko’s taking you off the street?” Valentine nodded, and Doyle said, “But you’re the best detective on the force. You should fight it.”
Valentine shook his head. His partner had slid the cup back, and he put it into his pocket. “I talked it over with Lois, and she convinced me to take the job.”
“Not to second guess your wife, but why?”
He held up his bandaged hand. “She reminded me that I could have gotten killed last month. She also pointed out that I’ll be running my own show at Resorts.”
Doyle stared into the depths of his coffee. “Where does that leave us?”
“Well, like the Army poster says, I’m looking for a few good men. Actually, one good man. Banko said I could recruit a detective to work with me.”
Doyle lifted his gaze. “Afraid not.”
“You don’t want to work with me?”
“I got some bad news today. My leg is permanently messed up. Doctor said no more sparring in the gym, or playing handball. He doesn’t think I’ll be able to run again.”
“So, this will be perfect.”
“Don’t paint a silver lining on this, okay?”
“Come on, it will be fun. Hell, we’ll make it fun.”
“You want a gimp working with you?”
Valentine leaned across the cafeteria table and squeezed his partner’s arm. They’d known each other since they were kids, and had been through thick and thin. “This isn’t about chasing pimps in the middle of the night. People who cheat casinos are clever. It’s like a chess match. We have to use our brains, and outwit them.”
“I was never good at chess, and neither were you.”
“Then we’ll learn.”
Doyle got his crutches from the floor and stood up. He took a few uncertain steps toward the door before glancing over his shoulder. “Let me think about it,” he said.
They took the elevator to Doyle’s room. On the bedside table in his room was a photo of him as a child in a baby carriage. Doyle’s father had run a bingo parlor on the Boardwalk, and at closing time stuffed the day’s receipts into Doyle’s carriage, and wheeled him to the Marlborough-Blenheim Hotel, where the money was put in a vault.
“Who’d think to rip off a baby?” his father was fond of saying.
Doyle changed into pajamas and climbed into bed. Valentine pulled up a chair and leaned on the metal arm. “I ran the names in the Prince’s address book through the system. They’re all soldiers in the New York mafia.”
Doyle played with the motor on his bed until he was comfortable. “You said the dates in the address book went back eighteen months. It occurred to me that Resorts opened eighteen months ago. These mobsters are working the casino, aren’t they?”