Deadman's Bluff (13 page)

24

“S
o what?” Valentine asked. “What do you mean, ‘so what?’” Longo said.

“A chambermaid found my bloody shirt in the trash in my bathroom. So what?”

They sat in Longo’s cluttered office at Metro Las Vegas Police Department headquarters, a few blocks from Glitter Gulch. The door was open, and in the other detectives’ offices they could hear suspects lying their fool heads off.
Their
conversation felt normal, only Valentine was handcuffed to the arm of a chair. Lying on the messy desk was a tagged evidence bag containing his bloody shirt.

“It’s a solid piece of evidence—” Longo said.

“That I had a bloody nose.”

“—to you murdering those two guys.”

“You’re making a big leap, Pete.”

“I’m too old for that,” Longo said.

“What are you, fifty? That’s not old.”

Longo pushed himself back from his desk. He’d dropped a lot of weight in the past six months, and his face looked like a refugee’s. “Tell me what happened again.”

“Two guys barged into our room and attacked us,” Valentine said. “My nose got busted during the scuffle, and I bled all over myself.”

“Are you saying our forensics team won’t find any of those guys’ blood on this shirt?”

“I kneed one of them in the face. He may have bled on me. That’s not evidence to hold me for suspicion of murder, and you know it.”

“No one’s arguing that an altercation occurred in your suite,” Longo said. “But the fact is, you and Rufus Steele are still walking around, and those two guys are growing cold in the morgue. I have to treat this as evidence.”

“How long will it take your forensic people to examine the shirt?

“A day or two.”

Valentine tried to raise his hand to his face, and heard the handcuff’s chain rattle. The tournament would be over by then. Had someone set him up, just to take him out of the picture? There was a cold cup of coffee on the desk. He raised it to his lips with his free hand and took a slurp. Longo glanced up from his paperwork.

“Someone from the hotel called you and told you about the shirt, didn’t they?” Valentine asked.

“That’s right,” Longo said.

“They also told you I was in Celebrity’s poker room.”

“Right again.”

The cup was empty, and Valentine stared at grains. Before he’d taken the job, the hotel’s general manager, a stuffed suit named Mark Perrier, had threatened him with a lawsuit if Celebrity’s reputation was smeared by Jack Donovan’s murder investigation.

“Was it Mark Perrier, the general manager?”

Longo put his pencil down, trying not to act surprised. “Who told you that?”

“Believe it or not, I figured it out by myself,” Valentine said.

“You have a history with this guy?”

“He threatened me a week ago. Didn’t want me investigating his tournament. This was before Bill Higgins hired me.”

Longo gave him a thoughtful look. “You’re saying Perrier set you up.”

“I’m investigating a cheating scandal inside
his
hotel. Of course he set me up. Last night, I had you paraffin me for gunshot residue. I may have changed my shirt, but I hadn’t showered. Do you think I would have told you to give me the test if I’d shot those guys?”

Most cops didn’t like the kind of backward logic he was throwing at Longo. It made them go outside their comfort zones. Longo looked at the bagged shirt.

“I need to wait for the blood test,” he said.

“You mean you’re going to hold me,” Valentine said, exasperated.

“Afraid so.”

A woman’s voice came out of the black squawk box on the desk. Longo pressed a button on the box. “Hey Lydia, what’s up?”

“Bill Higgins, director of the Nevada Gaming—”

“I know who Higgins is,” he snapped. “Is he on the line? Tell him I’m busy and will call him back.”

“He’s standing next to my desk,” she said.

Longo clenched his teeth. “Send him in,” he said, and took his finger off the button.

Like most people who worked in law enforcement, Bill had a tough side. When he got angry, he tended to throw his considerable weight around. He was doing that now, and Longo was shrinking in his chair.

“How dare you arrest Tony without first calling me,” Bill said, leaning on Longo’s desk like he was going to do a push-up. “I got authorization from the goddamn governor to keep Tony on this job. You’re screwing with my investigation. If you don’t let Tony go right now, I’ll burn your ass so badly you won’t be able to sit down.”

The lowlifes and miscreants in the other detectives’ offices had stopped talking, the only sound coming from the overhead air-conditioning. Longo pointed at the bagged shirt lying on the desk. “What about this?”

“So what?” Bill said, mimicking Valentine perfectly.

“It’s evidence,” Longo protested.

“It corroborates Tony’s story, but it doesn’t corrobo rate
your
story,” Bill said. “Why don’t you ask the hotel to show you the surveillance tapes from the stairwell, if you want to know who shot those two scumbags? There’s your evidence, Pete.”

“I already asked the hotel,” Longo said.

“And?”

“They said there isn’t a surveillance camera in the stairwell,” Longo said. “It’s optional under state law to have cameras in stairwells, and they didn’t do it.”

“Who told you that?” Bill asked.

Longo swallowed a rising lump in his throat. “Mark Perrier.”

“Perrier fed you that line of bullshit?”

“How do you know it’s bullshit?” Longo asked.

“Because any door leading off the main lobby of a casino, or its hotel, must have a working surveillance camera according to Nevada state law,” Bill said. “The stairwell where those two scumbags got plugged was right off the lobby. Celebrity couldn’t have gotten a license to operate its casino if there wasn’t a camera in there.”

“But why would Perrier lie?” Longo asked.

Bill finally did his push-up. He worked out religiously, and looked like he could do a hundred of them. “I don’t know, Pete, why don’t you ask him?”

Rubbing his wrist, Valentine walked out of Longo’s office and followed Bill past a warren of detective’s offices to the main reception area. In one office, a black pimp was getting processed by the detective who’d arrested him. The pimp wore flashy clothes and enough gold jewelry to open a pawn shop. Seeing Bill, he threw up his arms.

“I need you, man,” the pimp said.

Bill stopped in the open doorway. “What did you say to me?”

“I said I need you. You know, your services.”

Both of the pimp’s wrists were cuffed to his chair, a sure sign he was a threat. On the desk were his personal belongings, which included an enormous wad of cash and a handful of hundred-dollar black casino chips.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Bill asked.

The pimp glanced sideways at the detective who’d busted him, then looked at Bill. “I heard you chewing out that mother down the hall. You sound like you know your stuff. What’s your going rate?”

“You think I’m a lawyer?”

The pimp acted startled. “You’re not?”

Bill marched into the office. Grabbing the chips off the desk, he began peeling back the paper logo on each one. Valentine guessed Bill was looking for the microchip that casinos were required to put in chips over twenty dollars in value. The pimp’s chips didn’t have the microchips, and Bill shoved them into the arresting detective’s face.

“These are counterfeits,” Bill said. “Nail this ass-hole.”

Part III

Deadman’s Hand

25

L
ou Preston had struck gold.

The director of surveillance for Bally’s Atlantic City casino had contacted the island’s eleven other casinos, and persuaded them to search their digital databases for any blackjack players who’d recently beaten them and who’d been wearing New York Yankees baseball caps. The search had turned up forty-eight players, all of whom were between the ages of forty and sixty and of Italian descent. Casinos kept records on players who won a thousand dollars or more, and each of these players fell into that category.

As the casinos e-mailed pictures of the players to Preston, Lou projected them onto the wall of video monitors in Bally’s surveillance control room. Gerry, Eddie Davis, and Joey Marconi stood in front of the wall, drinking coffee the color of transmission fluid while watching a montage of sleaze take shape before them.

“These guys give Italians a bad name,” Marconi said.

Gerry sipped his drink, his eyes floating from face to face. The Mafia’s great strength was also its great weakness. The mob didn’t let in outsiders, and consequently there were no women, Asians, blacks, or Hispanics in their ranks. It was all mean-faced, middle-aged Italians with fifties haircuts who tended to stick out like sore thumbs.

He tossed his coffee cup into the trash. His father was always saying that people got what was coming to them. He’d never believed that, especially when it came to crime, but now had a feeling his father was right. George Scalzo was about to get what was coming to him.

He went to the master console where Preston sat. Lou had gotten the directors of surveillance of the other casinos to send him any notes they had on the men whose faces were on the monitors. Surveillance technicians kept copious notes during their shifts, and wrote down anything that was deemed unusual.

“Anything interesting?” Gerry asked.

“All of these guys refused Player’s Cards when they were offered to them,” Preston said. “That’s not normal.”

It was standard practice for casinos to offer gamblers Player’s Cards. The card entitled the person to receive complimentary meals and show tickets and even rooms if their business was strong enough.

“Guess they didn’t want to hand over their identification,” Gerry said.

“My thoughts exactly,” Preston said. “Forty-eight players, all refusing comps. What do you think the odds of that are?”

“Pretty astronomical,” Gerry said.

Preston picked up the gaffed Yankees cap lying on the console. There was a can of soda beside it, which he also picked up. “It’s one more piece of evidence that these players are part of a massive conspiracy to defraud Atlantic City’s casinos.”

“So let’s find out who they are, and arrest them.”

“I wish it was that easy.”

“What do you mean?”

Preston killed the can and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “The police don’t have a digital database like we do. It would take hundreds of hours for them to figure out who these guys are, maybe more.”

“Won’t they do that?”

Preston rubbed his face tiredly. “They would if they had the manpower. The island’s high crime rate isn’t going down anytime soon. The police won’t pull officers off the street to do photo matches.”

Gerry felt his spirits sink. Ruining Scalzo’s Atlantic City operation was the sweetest payback he could think of. He stared at a montage of faces on the video wall.

“I can find out who they are,” Gerry said.

Preston sat up straight in his chair. “You can?”

“Yeah. Ever heard of a guy named Vinny Fountain?”

“Vinny ‘the Sleazy Weasel’ Fountain? Sure.”

“I know him. Vinny’s rubbed elbows with mob guys his entire life. I’ll get their names from Vinny, and the police can find out where they live. My father told me that once the police know where a cheater lives, he’s history.”

“That’s true,” Preston said. “The cops will stake out the cheater’s house. When the cheater goes to a casino, the cops alert the casino, and the casino follows him around with surveillance cameras. Once he makes his move, they pounce.”

“So we’ll screw Scalzo’s gang that way,” Gerry said.

“Are you sure Vinny will help you?” Preston asked. “Generally speaking, hoods won’t rat out other hoods.”

Gerry and Vinny Fountain had nearly died in a warehouse on the outskirts of Las Vegas. Gerry’s father had rescued them, and Vinny owed Gerry’s father his life. Gerry had no problem calling in that marker.

“He’ll help,” Gerry said.

Harold’s House of Pancakes was an Atlantic City institution. Of the two hundred restaurants that had once flourished on the island’s north end, Harold’s was one of the last standing. It served greasy breakfast food all day, its signature egg dish called “the whore’s special” by locals. Marconi pulled into the parking lot, and grabbed a spot by the front door. Davis, who rode shotgun, turned to look at Gerry in back.

“I don’t like you going in there alone,” Davis said.

“You want to check the place out first?” Gerry asked. “Be my guest.”

Davis climbed out and went inside. The way he was moving, you wouldn’t know he’d gotten his back sliced open while dodging a bullet a few hours ago. It was the one characteristic about cops that Gerry had always admired. Davis reappeared moments later. “Your friend’s in a booth in the back.”

Gerry got out of the car, wondering how Davis had made Vinny. The answer became obvious as he entered the restaurant. The girls were out in force, and Vinny was the only male in the place. Prostitution was a part of Atlantic City’s culture, and had only gotten worse with the casinos. He slid into Vinny’s booth.

“That cop with you?” Vinny asked.

“My bodyguard, courtesy of my father,” Gerry said.

“Your old man still watches out for you, doesn’t he?”

Gerry nodded.

“That’s nice. My old man hardly talks to me any more. You said over the phone you wanted me to look at some photographs.”

Gerry removed an envelope from his jacket pocket, slid it across the table. “Some mobsters are running a blackjack scam in town. They’re working for our friend, George Scalzo. I was hoping you’d look at these photos, and see if you know any of them.”

Vinny took a cigarette out of the ashtray, and blew a monster cloud of smoke in the air. You weren’t supposed to smoke in Harold’s, but people did anyway.

Two hookers at the next table started hacking their lungs out. Vinny ignored them.

“You trying to take Scalzo down?”

“I’m working on it,” Gerry said.

“You going to pay him back for what he did to us in Vegas?”

“Yeah, and for killing Jack Donovan.”

Vinny flashed a crooked smile. He was a skinny guy, with pocked skin and bad teeth. What set him apart was his ability to talk. Opening the envelope up, he said, “Walk up to the cash register, and see if it doesn’t send you down memory lane.”

“What am I looking for?”

Vinny laughed through a mouthful of smoke. “Our first scam together,” he said.

Gerry slid out of the booth and went up to the register. He kept his eyes to the floor, avoiding the working girls’ sideways glances. The first pretty girl he’d ever seen was a hooker trolling the Atlantic City Boardwalk. He’d been eight, and his mother had told him this was not the type of girl he wanted to know.

The cashier was a wizened old man with half-dead eyes. He had a tic in his neck that didn’t quit. It was the only way you could tell he was alive.

“Need something?” the cashier asked.

Gerry spotted the ultraviolet light sitting next to the register and nearly burst into laughter. He’d done a lot of dumb things as a teenager, and selling ultraviolet lights to every store owner on the island had been one of them.

“I need a menu,” Gerry said.

Gerry returned to the booth with a menu and a smile on his face.

“Pretty funny, huh?” Vinny said.

“We should tell the guy,” Gerry said.

“No, we shouldn’t,” Vinny said.

Back during their senior year in high school, Vinny had purchased several boxes of ultraviolet lights from a merchant on Canal Street in New York. Then he and Gerry had pooled their money together, which had amounted to eight hundred bucks, and Vinny had gone to the bank and exchanged it for eight new hundred-dollar bills.

Vinny had painted the hundred-dollar bills with ultraviolet paint, which when dry was invisible to the naked eye. Gerry’s job had been to go to different restaurants on the island, and spend the hundred-dollar bill on a meal. A few hours later, Vinny would come in, posing as a salesman. He’d tell the owner that a lot of counterfeit hundreds were floating around, and that the special light he was selling could detect them. He always offered to give a demonstration.

The owner would take the hundred-dollar bills from his register, and run them beneath the light. The doctored bill would light up like it was radioactive. Vinny would tell the owner that by federal law, he had to confiscate the counterfeit and turn it over to the FBI. He’d pretend to feel bad for the owner’s situation, and offer to sell him the ultraviolet light at cost, which he claimed was fifty bucks. The owner always said yes.

“That was some summer,” Gerry said.

“I bought a car,” Vinny said, pouring through the photographs.

“So did I.”

“Mine was nicer.”

A waitress took Gerry’s order. He asked for the whore’s special. She raised a disapproving eyebrow while tapping her pencil on her pad.

“You some kind of comedian?” she asked.

“He’s a native,” Vinny said.

“One whore’s special it is,” she said.

Vinny continued poring over the photographs. Like Gerry, he’d flunked out of college, but had plenty of street smarts and a good memory. Shaking his head, he slipped the photographs back into the envelope. “Don’t know them. They must be from off island. What’s the deal with the baseball caps?”

Gerry lowered his voice. “There’s a receiver and three LEDs sewn into the rim of the cap. The cards at the table are nail-nicked. A member of the gang reads the nicks, and knows what the dealer is holding. He electronically transmits the information to the guy wearing the cap.”

“Wow,” Vinny said. “You got the cap?”

Gerry hesitated. Vinny was, and always would be, a scammer. He didn’t want to be giving him any ideas, especially when it involved a case he was working on.

“It’s outside in the car,” Gerry said.

“Get it,” Vinny said.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“The detectives working the case are in the car.”

“So what? I’m trying to help you bury Scalzo, aren’t I?”

Gerry’s food arrived. Three eggs sunny-side up, a gristly piece of ham, and a mound of hash fries swimming in bubbling grease. The cook hadn’t lost his touch.

“How can you help me bury Scalzo if you can’t identify these guys?” Gerry asked.

Vinny lit a cigarette off the one he was smoking. He blew another cloud at the girls at the next table and got them coughing. “Easy. I’ll find out who made the cap.”