Jackpot

Chapter 47

McCarren International Airport in Las Vegas had a special area reserved for private planes. It was one of the busiest areas of the airport, with hundreds of private planes and jets landing at all hours of the day and night. Many of these planes had wealthy gamblers coming to town for a few days of fun, and a long line of chauffeur-driven limousines sent by the casinos were parked just outside the gates, waiting to whisk these gamblers away. Governor Smoltz’s private jet landed at seven-thirty in the morning with Valentine, his son, and Bill Higgins on board. As the three men disembarked onto the windy tarmac, Valentine’s cell phone rang. Caller ID said Mabel. He told Gerry and Bill that he’d meet them inside the terminal, and moved into the shade before answering the call.

“How’s it going?” he said by way of greeting.

“I just met with Mira,” Mabel replied. “You’re not going to believe what she told me.”

“Try me.”

“Mira is convinced that all seven GCB agents are involved in a massive conspiracy. Mira said it was apparent from the downturn of the triangularis — that’s the muscle that depresses the corner of the lips — that they were involved. Tony, it was so amazing. The moment she pointed it out to me, I could see it! Their mouths had a distasteful look, like they’d just bitten into a sour piece of fruit.”

Valentine felt something drop in the pit of his stomach. His earlier suspicion that Bill was holding back was taking on new meaning. Something had happened to those seven agents that had turned them into crooks. Their jobs, or something related to their jobs, had pushed them to the dark side.

“I need to run,” he said. “Thanks for doing this.”

“One more thing,” Mabel said. “I looked at these seven agents’ files again. They all report directly to your friend Bill Higgins. It occurred to me that they may not be the only people involved in this conspiracy.”

“Come again?”

“Your friend Bill. I checked him out as well.”

“How did you do that?”

“I pulled up his photograph on my cell phone, and showed it to Mira. It wasn’t a good photo, but Mira was able to read Bill’s face.”

Valentine felt an icy finger run down the length of his spine. Was Bill involved? It was a jump he’d been unwilling to make. He’d known Bill for twenty-five years, and considered him more than just a friend. But it was possible. When it came to money, just about anything was possible.

“And?”

“She said that Bill was filled with dark secrets.”

Valentine found himself nodding. Bill did have his secrets. He’d been sent away from the Navajo reservation by his parents at an early age, something he’d never gotten over. Valentine guessed there were plenty of things hidden beneath Bill’s calm exterior, and said, “Did she think Bill was involved?”

“Mira said it was possible. She said you should be very careful.”

“Will do. Talk to you later.”

Valentine went inside the terminal and found his garment bag waiting for him in the baggage claim. His son was at the car rental counter, getting them a set of wheels. He tapped Gerry on the shoulder and said, “Where’s Bill?”

“He went outside to make a call. He said the reception was better out there.”

Valentine frowned. Bill always seemed to walk away when he needed to make a call. It hadn’t seemed suspicious before, but now it did. He walked outside the terminal and found Bill standing in a remote spot, talking on his cell. He looked at his friend in the bright sunlight, and tried to see what Mira had seen. Bill finished his call.

“That was Sheriff Bolden of the Metro Las Vegas Police Department,” Bill said. “His men tracked down the Asian through Garrow’s cell phone. His name’s Xing Han Wong, and he’s holed up at the Cordova motel on Fremont Street. The police are parked in the room next to Xing’s, listening to his phone calls. Xing talked to Bronco a couple of hours ago. They’re going to meet up this afternoon, and do the exchange. I told Bolden we wanted to be there when the bust went down.”

Valentine studied Bill’s face as he spoke. It was hard to tell what he was thinking. “You’re going to let the police arrest him?”

“Yes. Is that a problem?”

“Bronco stabbed a guard at the Reno jail yesterday. You know how the Vegas cops treat people who attack cops. They shoot them.”

“I’m not going to shed any tears if Bronco gets killed.”

If Bronco got taken down by the Vegas cops, they’d never hear him say who the crooked gaming agent was. And since they didn’t have any real proof that a gaming agent had stolen jackpots, the scam would get swept under the rug, just like every other bad thing that happened in this town.

Bill pulled out his car keys. “My car is parked in the lot. Follow me once you get your rental.”

Now Bill was ordering him around. His friend had forgotten that this was his investigation. Or maybe it had never been his investigation at all.

“Will do,” Valentine said.

“What did Mabel say?” Gerry asked when they were on the road.

Valentine clutched the wheel of his rental. He was driving down Las Vegas Boulevard into the heart of the strip, the lanes filled with lunatic drivers. Bill’s silver Volvo was a hundred feet ahead with its government-issued plates.

“Mira looked at the photos. She thinks all seven agents are involved in the scam.”

“What? Jeesus.”

“It gets worse.”

“How can it get worse?”

“Bill might be involved, too.”

Gerry fell back in his seat. It was rare for his son to be at a loss for words. This was one of those special occasions.

“I want to get to the bottom of this. It’s going to mean us going rogue, and sticking our noses where they don’t belong. You up for it?”

His son swallowed hard and nodded.

“Good. Hold on.”

They had reached the intersection with Harmon Avenue. The palatial Aladdin Resort and Casino was on their right, the majestic water fountains of the Bellagio on their left. Valentine jammed on his brakes and spun the wheel, taking the corner on two wheels. Within seconds they were heading away from the strip, and had lost Bill.

He drove down several side roads, keeping his eye on his mirror. When he decided that Bill hadn’t followed them, he returned to the strip, and drove to the Acropolis Hotel & Casino. The Acropolis was an old-time joint and a monument to debauchery, with statues of naked women everywhere you looked. The old ad campaign that had touted Las Vegas as a family destination had never mentioned the place.

He drove up the snaking front entrance and braked at the valet stand. “Here’s the deal. I want you to talk with Nick Nicocropolis, the owner of this dump. Nick and I go back a long way. Nick knows all the dirt about this town. Ask Nick what might have caused seven gaming agents to go dirty, and start ripping off the casinos.”

“Where are you going?” his son asked.

“To have a talk with Lucy Price. Lucy was approached several years ago by a man who got her to play a rigged slot machine. I’m sure he’s the gang’s ringleader.”

“Why do you say that?”

“That’s the way it works with gangs. The ringleader is the front man. In this case, he was recruiting claimers while the others rigged the laptops the field agents used. If I can get Lucy to pick his photo out, we can pull in the ringleader, and grill him. Chances are, he’ll give up the rest of them.”

“Pop, she tore your heart out the last time. Let me go talk to her.”

Gerry was right. His last meeting with Lucy had ripped him apart. But a part of him had to see her again, no matter how painful that might be. He patted his son’s arm. “This one’s mine. I’ll be back in a couple hours. Say hi to Nick for me.”

His son got out, and Valentine peeled out of the valet stand.

Chapter 48

Valentine drove to the Jean Correctional Facility with the snapshot of Lucy Price that he kept in his wallet stuck on the steering wheel. She reminded him a lot of his late wife. Same height, same hair color, and a killer smile.

During the drive, he called the warden on his cell phone, and requested that Lucy be brought to the visiting area in the main administration building. The warden had agreed, having remembered him from a few days ago. Valentine appreciated that. Just about every other law enforcement officer in Nevada had challenged him in the past few days, and it was nice not to run into another wall.

He checked in with the receptionist, then passed through a metal detector and made his way to the visiting area. Walking down a hallway, he stared through a window onto a yard, and saw several hundred women inmates talking and puffing on cigarettes. Three months ago, he’d talked Lucy into throwing herself upon the mercy of the court, and now tried to imagine her surviving here, with drug addicts and prostitutes and who knew what else. Had he made a mistake? He sure hoped not.

He sat in the visitor’s room and waited. The room smelled like a tobacco factory, and he found himself craving a smoke. He didn’t think he’d ever really kick the habit until they threw dirt on his face. After a few minutes, a bearded man wearing a navy sports jacket entered the room. His name tag said Dr. R. Bob Smith, III.

“I’m Dr. Bob Smith, the prison psychologist,” he said.

“Where’s Lucy?”

“She asked me to come instead.”

“Is that so. Where’s the warden?”

“Why do you want to see the warden?”

“Because I’m not talking to you.”

The good doctor acted surprised. He was a gentle-looking man, the kind of thoughtful person that Valentine had hoped the prison system would provide to help Lucy get her gambling problem sorted out. Smith said, “Can we first go to the employee cafeteria, and discuss this over a cup of coffee?”

“I didn’t come here to drink coffee. I’m conducting a criminal investigation. Were you aware of that?”

Smith brought his hand up and tugged nervously at his beard. “No, I wasn’t. Is Lucy in some kind of trouble?”

“She could be. She helped a cheater steal a slot machine jackpot a few years ago. She wrote me a letter about it. I need her to identify the cheater from a group of photos so we can apprehend him. If she refuses to help, I might have to haul her in.”

“You can haul her in for that?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Because there are dozens of women in here who’ve done the same thing.”

“What are you talking about?”

“They help cheaters,” Smith said. “I hear about it regularly during my counseling sessions. It’s goes on all the time.”

Valentine stared into Smith’s eyes. It sounded like a bunch of crap, only there was sincerity in Smith’s voice. Was this how Bronco lured innocent people into being claimers for him?

“I’ll take you up on that cup of coffee.”

The employee cafeteria was a rectangular room with six tables, a refrigerator and a Mr. Coffee machine with a glass jar for donations. Valentine poured two cups and dropped two dollars into the jar. They sat at a corner table, and shared a short silence.

“Have you ever studied the work of Charles Darwin?” Smith asked.

Valentine’s proper education had ended when he’d graduated from highschool.

“I think I was out sick that day.”

Smith blew the steam off his cup. “Darwin said that evolution relentlessly encouraged the survival of the fittest. If that’s true, human beings should be naturally selfish, and only care for themselves. Yet, the fact is, we are not a selfish species, per se. We interact with scores of individuals, sometimes hundreds or even thousands, and we cooperate with them.”

“We do?” Valentine said.

“Of course. We tip waiters in restaurants, give blood, drive on the correct side of the street, obey rules, and cooperate with people we’ll never see again. And we do it for a purely selfish reason. We want to survive.”

“You’ve lost me. How does that lead to survival?”

Smith put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Throughout human history, groups of cooperators have been more successful than groups of selfish individuals, and have driven the selfish individuals into extinction. Darwin believed that the desire for survival led to humans’ mutual aid and trust. He called it the evolution of cooperation.”

The coffee tasted like rocket fuel, and Valentine felt it kick his brain into another gear. “Let me see if I can guess where you’re taking this. You think Darwin’s evolution of cooperation is happening inside casinos. People like Lucy Price cooperate with cheaters because they want to beat the casinos, just like every other player. Lucy helps, even though she knows it’s wrong.”

“Wrong in a legal sense, but not in a cooperative one,” the doctor said. “Inside a casino, it’s us vs. them, and them is the casino.”

“If that were the case, lots of people would be helping cheaters.”

“They are. Lucy told me you work with the casinos. How often do players turn in other players for cheating, or stealing, or not playing by the rules?”

“Hardly ever,” Valentine conceded.

“But those things go on. The casino is the oppressor. The casino never loses. The players know this, and they hate it. As a result, players who see cheating either turn a blind eye, or become accomplices. Make sense?”

Valentine’s coffee suddenly didn’t taste so good. He’d assumed that people like Bo and Karen Farmer had been talked into becoming thieves by promises of lots of money. But Smith was saying that money was only a part of it. The Farmers had turned bad because it was human nature to fight something that was beating you silly.

“You still haven’t told me why Lucy won’t speak to me,” Valentine said.

“Lucy is afraid that by talking to you, she’ll regress,” Smith said. “She believes that by seeing you again, she’ll undo all therapy.”

“I need her help. Doesn’t she know that?”

“She knows, but she has to think about herself.”

Valentine drummed the table. Where was the evolution of cooperation that Smith had just spoken about? Valentine had helped Lucy plenty of times, even given her money when her situation had seemed hopeless. How could she now be so unwilling to help him? He didn’t like it. In fact, it made him mad as hell.

He’d been walking around with an envelope tucked under his arm since he’d entered the prison. Opening it, he laid the photographs of the seven suspected gaming agents on the table. Five men, two women. He removed the photos of the five men, and handed them to Smith.

“One of these five guys is the ringleader of a major casino scam. In the spirit of cooperation that you’re so fond of talking about, I want you to show these photographs to Lucy. Tell her it would be therapeutic for her to turn in a cheater.”

“That’s out of the question.”

“Do it anyway.”

“You can’t order me around.”

“I can’t?”

“No. I don’t work for you.”

Valentine leaned forward. “Your job is being paid for by casino dollars, just like every other employee in this prison. Think about it.”

Smith blinked as Valentine’s words registered in his brain. “Let me make sure I’ve got this straight. If I don’t cooperate, and get Lucy to look at these photographs, you’ll have me fired.”

“Not me. But maybe the people I’m working for.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“Call it whatever you want.”

“You realize Lucy will hate you for this.”

“That’s my cross to bear, not yours.”

Smith scooped the five photographs off the table and left the cafeteria. Valentine rose from the table, and bought a pack of cigarettes from the vending machine in the corner, pausing to read the Surgeon General’s warning stamped on the glass. Printed in bold letters, it said that smoking would eventually kill him.

He ripped open the pack and banged out a smoke. Sometimes, a person didn’t want to live forever. For those times, a cigarette was the perfect thing to stick in your mouth.

Smith returned fifteen minutes later. His face was flush. He angrily tossed the photographs into Valentine’s hands.

“It’s the guy on top,” the doctor said.

Valentine took another drag on his cigarette. An investigation was like running a race. Some were sprints, others marathons. The only thing they had in common was the finish line.

He stared down at the photo. It was Fred Friendly, the head of ESD.

Chapter 49

Gerry stood inside the lobby of the Acropolis feeling like he’d entered a 1970’s sitcom. The carpeting was an ugly burnt orange color that he hadn’t seen since his grandparent’s house, the walls covered in dark smokey mirrors. Statues of half-dressed women with huge breasts were stuck in every corner, and appeared to be someone’s idea of art. It reminded him of the movie Casino without the beautiful people.

He entered the casino. It was also a time warp, and was designed like a wheel. A person could not walk through the main floor without passing through that wheel, and hopefully, stopping at a table and wagering a few dollars.

He went searching for the house phones. Before he could find them, a hulking security guard approached him.

“Your name Valentine?”

“That’s me.”

The guard pointed to the elevators. “You have a phone call.”

It had to be his father. Who else knew he was here? He thanked the guard, and went to the elevators where the house phones were located. He picked up a phone.

“Hey.”

“Hey?” an unfamiliar voice replied. “What kind of greeting is that?”

Not his father, but someone with the same attitude.

“Okay,” Gerry said, “Hey, you.”

The man snorted at him. “Where’d you go to charm school?”

“Sing-Sing prison.”

“You’re hysterical. You come into my casino and don’t say hello?”

“Who is this?” Gerry asked.

“Nick Nicocropolis, you pin head. I’m in the penthouse. Come on up.”

Gerry hung up with a grin on his face. Nick was the hard-headed little Greek who owned the Acropolis. Gerry guessed Nick had seen him in the casino, and mistaken him for his father. He’d heard stories about Nick for years — Nick had been married eight glorious times, all to Vegas knockouts — and had always wanted to meet him. He stepped into an elevator, and pressed the penthouse button. The buttons were made of see-through plastic, and featured silhouettes of naked women in provocative poses.

“That’s just beautiful,” Gerry said.

The penthouse was a major disappointment. Nick’s sexual prowess was legendary, and Gerry had expected Nick’s digs to be a living testimonial to his conquests. Instead, his office was a clone of Fortune 50 °CEO’s digs, and as sterile as a hospital emergency room. Gerry was bummed.

Nick was something of a disappointment as well. He was a smallish Greek with a perfectly round pot-belly, bushy eyebrows, bushy hair, and other small bushes of hair sprouting from different parts of his body. As Gerry entered the office, Nick jumped out of his chair, and came around the desk to greet him.

“Holy shit, you’re not Tony,” the little Greek said.

“Gerry Valentine. I’m Tony’s son. Nice to meet you.”

“Nicky!” a woman’s voice crackled over the intercom on the desk.

Nick froze in his spot and hunched his shoulders. “Yes, honey.”

“Promise me you won’t swear again,” she purred.

“I promise, dear.” Smiling sheepishly, Nick lowered his voice. “That’s my wife Wanda. She works in the adjacent office.”

Gerry grinned. Talk about a short leash, he thought. As if reading his thoughts, Nick said, “It’s not what you think.”

“What’s not what I think?” Gerry asked.

“The office isn’t bugged.”

Nick was a client, and one of the few casino owners in the world who his father implicitly trusted. Gerry couldn’t make fun of him, only he couldn’t stop grinning.

“Stop laughing,” the little Greek scolded.

“Sorry.”

“Wanda’s developed a sixth sense to my swearing. It started right after she got pregnant. Every time I swear, she breaks out in hives, and chews me out.”

“Wow.”

“Shut up,” Nick told him.

Nick offered Gerry a seat, then settled into a leather chair behind the desk that made him look several inches taller than he really was.

“Your dad in town with you?” Nick asked.

“Yeah. He’s on a case.”

“I like your old man, even if he is from New Jersey.”

“Thanks.”

“Tell him to call me when he’s done. I’ll treat you boys to dinner in The Wanda Room. It’s our new steakhouse. You should see the waitresses.”

“Something else, huh?”

“They’ll poke your eyes out.”

Gerry smiled to himself. Nick was a dinosaur. Yet he’d managed to survive longer than any other casino boss in Las Vegas. There was a reason for that.

“I need to ask you a question,” Gerry said. “My father says that you know everything that’s going on in this town.”

Nick kissed the end of an unlit cigar. “Correct.”

“This in confidence.”

“Won’t leave this room.”

“What happened in the past three years that would make seven Nevada Gaming Control Board’s top agents turn into thieves?”

Nick’s eyes narrowed, and Gerry almost thought he heard the gears shifting in the little Greek’s head. He tossed his cigar down, made a face that said he wasn’t happy.

“That’s a loaded question, kid.”

“Something did happen,” Gerry said.

“Lots of crap happens in this town. Most of it gets buried in the desert.”

“My father would be indebted to you if you’d tell me what it is,” Gerry said. Then added, “And, so would I.”

Nick pushed himself out of his chair and crossed the room to the mini bar. He fixed two Scotches on the rocks and gave one to his guest. Gerry hadn’t had a drink before noon in forever, but this was Vegas, and the rules were different here.

They clinked glasses, and then Nick told him a story.

According to Nick, only two things mattered in Las Vegas. Sex, and money. Everything else was just camouflage.

The story Nick told him was about money. Lots of it. And it did not have a happy ending. It had started three years ago in a casino called Diamond Dave’s.

Diamond Dave’s was what locals called a sawdust joint, its clientele consisting of tour bus gamblers and locals. Dave’s shouldn’t have been making much money, yet it was. In fact, it was making more than many of its bigger rivals in town.

A routine audit by the Gaming Commission had uncovered a serious problem. The games at Diamond Dave’s were raking in the cash. The hold, which was the amount of money the casino kept, was double what it was supposed to be. The Gaming Commission had smelled a rat, and asked the Gaming Control Board to investigate.

The GCB had raided Diamond Dave’s, and shut it down. They’d brought in their experts, and carefully examined each game. What they’d found had shocked them. On every blackjack table the dealing shoes were missing high cards, making it impossible for the players to win. On the craps tables, the dice were shaved so only certain combinations would come up. At the roulette tables, the wheels were magnetized so management could make the ball stop wherever they choose. The slot machines were also rigged so players hardly won; even the lowly Keno game was fixed.

The casino’s manager was hauled off to jail, and soon confessed. His owner was losing money, and had ordered the casino manager to rig the games. Under pressure from the police, the casino manager agreed to testify against his employer, and was released on bail. Three days later, he was found in his car with two bullets in the back of his head.

Gerry sat on the edge of his chair, hanging on every word. He’d heard stories about casinos cheating their customers, but never anything on a scope like this.

“What happened then?” he asked.

Nick swirled the cubes in his drink. “That’s when things got interesting.”

Chapter 50

At eleven-thirty, Bronco took the elevator downstairs and gave the claim check for his car to the hotel valet. Minutes later he was driving south on Las Vegas Boulevard. It was a sunny day, the desert colors so vivid that they hurt his eyes. He’d always loved the fact that Las Vegas was in the desert. The town was like a mirage that did nothing but rip off suckers, and it was fitting that nothing grew here.

The Instant Replay was five miles from the hotel. He pulled into the gas station across the street and got out of his car. There was a phone booth beside the station, and he made sure the phone was working, then went inside the tiny convenience store, and talked the clerk at the register into giving him a rubber band and some scotch tape.

Back outside, he got into the booth, took out his wallet, and removed twenty single dollar bills and a single hundred. He wrapped the hundred around the wad of singles, secured it with the rubber band, and used the scotch tape to attach it beneath the pay phone. Then, he dialed the phone’s number into his own cell phone.

When he was done, Bronco glanced across the street at the Instant Replay’s parking lot. No cars had come in since he’d arrived, and he guessed Carmichael was still at the hotel with his son.

Bronco drove around until he found a boarded-up Mexican restaurant a block away. Behind the restaurant was a dusty lot. He parked beside the building, got out and popped the trunk, and removed the interior liner which covered the car’s spare tire. In the tire’s spot was an aluminum briefcase, which he removed, then slammed the trunk shut.

The restaurant had been closed a long time, its windows boarded with plywood. He removed his shoes and socks, and climbed onto the roof of the car clutching the briefcase. He placed the briefcase onto the restaurant’s roof, then used both hands to hoist himself up.

The restaurant’s roof was flat and covered with broken glass, and Bronco guessed it was a meeting place for kids to drink beer. The nearby buildings were also one-story, and he didn’t think anyone was going to see him if he kept low. Sitting cross-legged on the roof, he popped the briefcase, and removed the telescopic lens, barrel, and stock of the Sauer 202 “varmint” hunting rifle. He took his time assembling the weapon.

At ten minutes of twelve, Bronco raised his rifle, and began to take note of the cars entering the Instant Replay’s parking lot through the cross hairs of its telescopic lens. It was a busy place, and he saw a variety of different people pull into the lot, and go inside.

At noon, a black Mercedes with tinted windows came into the lot. The driver’s door sprung open, and a man wearing lots of gold chains hopped out and hurried inside. He looked like a two-bit hustler, and Bronco guessed this was Joey Carmichael.

Bronco carefully put his rifle onto the roof. Opening his cell phone, he got the Instant Replay’s phone number from information, and called the number. A few moments later was talking to a girl who sounded sixteen. He asked for Carmichael.

“Anybody here named Carmichael?” she called into the bar.

Someone said yes, and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Guess who,” Bronco said.

“Tommy Pico? Where are you?”

“I’m nearby. There’s a pay phone across the street at the gas station,” Bronco said. “I’ll call you there in a minute.”

“What the hell are you trying to pull?”

“I wanted to make sure you came by yourself. You can never be too careful.”

“Don’t screw with me, Pico. I’m warning you.”

“Goodbye.”

Bronco killed the connection. He retrieved the pay phone’s number from his cell phone’s memory bank, and hit Send. Hearing the call go through, he placed the phone down on the roof, then picked up his rifle, and stared through the telescopic lens at the Instant Replay’s front door.

Carmichael came out of the restaurant a few moments later. He could have shot him right then, only he’d learned that it was damn hard to hit a moving target, especially at this range. Carmichael crossed the street and entered the phone booth. He looked around suspiciously, then snatched up the receiver. Bronco picked up his cell phone, and stuck it into the crook of his neck.

“Hello?” Carmichael said suspiciously.

“Hey,” Bronco said.

“This better not be a trick.”

“No tricks. I want to ask you something before I give you the money.”

“You’re pushing it, Pico.”

“Who else did you tell about me?”

“Why? Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

“I didn’t tell a soul. I didn’t think anyone would care. Now, where’s the money?”

“Reach beneath the phone. I left a present for you.”

Through the lenses, he watched Carmichael stick his hand underneath the pay phone, and tear away the wad of money. Carmichael was no fool, and he pulled off the rubber band, and saw the deception.

“You lousy bastard,” he said.

“See yah.”

He squeezed the trigger, then felt the rifle’s sharp recoil. The plexiglass wall of the phone booth exploded into a thousand tiny pieces. The bullet had blown off the front plate of the machine, causing hundreds of coins to spill out. Carmichael spun around, and started to run, his body covered in broken glass.

He took aim and fired again. Carmichael had reached the curb. His body twisted violently as a giant blood stain appeared in the center of his shirt. He halted momentarily, then somehow found the strength to start walking across the street toward his car in the restaurant lot. In the middle of the street he stopped, and fell to his knees.

Carmichael looked up into the cloudless sky. The bills were still clutched in his hands. His fingers opened, and they fell and were picked up by the wind. He pitched forward and lay motionless on the pavement.

Bronco lowered the rifle. Served the bastard right.

“Daddy!”

Bronco felt his heart start to race. The voice had come from the vicinity of the restaurant. He lifted the rifle, and found the child through the lenses. A boy of maybe ten, with cute blond bangs and an iPhone dangling around his neck. He had jumped out of the Mercedes, and was running toward his father’s lifeless body.

“Daddy! Daddy!”

The boy knelt down and tried to gather his father in his arms. He started to scream, his youthful wail ripping into Bronco’s very soul.

What have I done? Bronco thought.

Bronco thought he was going to be sick. He jumped off the roof and tossed the rifle into the trunk of his Lexus. Normally, he would have cleaned up after himself, and made sure nothing was left behind that might lead the police to him. But those were the farthest thoughts from his mind. All he could think about was the boy, and the fact that he’d just seen his old man die. He drove back to the Mandalay Bay hearing police sirens going in the opposite direction, filling the air with panic.

He walked into the Mandalay Bay five minutes later, still feeling sick. He needed to lie down, and headed for the bank of elevators to go upstairs to his room. A brightly colored parrot in a cage in the lobby screeched at him. Someone said, “Mr. Pico?” and he went to the concierge desk where an attractive young woman stood.

“What’s up.”

She held a ticket in her hand. “The Loopers are playing in the House of Blues tonight. Front row ticket, compliments of the house.”

He waved her off. The image of the kid holding his dead father in his arms was stuck in his head like a bad dream. He couldn’t get rid of it, no matter how hard he tried. He went to the elevators and pulled out his room key. Across the way were a bank of glittering slot machines with yellow police tape stretched across several of the machines. A bellman walked by, and he stopped him.

“What’s wrong with those slot machines?”

“A group of gaming agents shut them down,” the bellman explained.

“Any idea why?”

“I guess they’re not working right. Have a nice day.”

Bronco went over to check the slot machines out. The manufacturer’s plate was usually found on the left side. Kneeling, he stuck his head between two of the machines, and read the plate. It was made by Universal. Then he checked out the others. They were made by Universal as well.

Shit.

Going upstairs to his suite, he sat on the couch, and stared into space. The slot machine scam was worthless now that the police knew about it. He could only hope that Xing hadn’t heard, and that he’d be able to make the exchange before they found out.

If he didn’t get the Pai Gow scam, his cheating days were over. And then what was he going to do? Live a normal life? He didn’t know what that meant.

He went into the bathroom and washed his face, then stared into the mirror at the black hole that was his soul. He’d wanted to be normal once. Falling in love with Marie had done that to him, and having a kid. But it hadn’t lasted. His wife had gone to jail, and the court had thrown Mikey into a foster home. That was the extent of what he knew about the normal life. It didn’t last.

He needed the Pai Gow scam more than he’d realized. But what if Xing refused to hand it over? Then he’d have to take it, even if it meant killing him.

He went to the window, and stared down at the wave machine in the hotel pool. He’d never killed two men in one day, and supposed there was a first time for everything.

Chapter 51

Gerry walked out of the Acropolis into the blinding sunlight. He’d been inside the Acropolis less than an hour, yet had already lost track of the time. If casinos were good at anything, it was making a person forget the real world. He spotted his father parked next to the valet stand in the rental. He hopped into the passenger seat, and they peeled out with a rubbery squeal, and were soon heading north on the strip.

His father drove without speaking. There was a faraway look in his eyes, and Gerry assumed he’d retreated to that place that he went to when life got him down.

“Rough time at the prison?”

His father nodded. Lying on the seat was a snapshot of Lucy Price. The woman was a bad news buffet, yet his father still cared deeply for her. Gerry wasn’t surprised; his father hadn’t abandoned him, and he’d been screwing up his entire life.

“I’m sorry, Pop.”

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

They drove through the canyon of gigantic casinos that lined both sides of the strip. Gerry guessed they were going to meet up with Bill Higgins, who was with the police stake out team on Fremont Street in old downtown.

“Lucy identified the ringleader of the gang,” his father said, breaking the silence. “It’s Fred Friendly, the head of the Electronic Systems Division.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I am. Fred’s got twenty-five years on the clock, and is up for retirement in a few years. Why decide now to start stealing? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Yes, it does. Nick Nicocropolis told me.”

His father braked at a light. They had passed the Wynn and its sister property, Encore, and the strip had started to turn seedy. His father waited for him to continue.

“It isn’t pretty, Pop. Seems a casino in town called Diamond Dave’s got caught cheating their customers. Every single game in the joint was rigged. The Gaming Control Board shut the place down, and got the casino manager to confess. A few days later, the casino manager ended up with two bullets in his head.”

The light changed. His father pulled ahead, still staring at the busy road.

“Then a strange thing happened,” Gerry went on. “Diamond Dave, the owner of the casino, got hauled in. Dave claimed he didn’t know a thing, even though he was pocketing all the money. I’m talking millions, Pop. The GCB took his gaming license away, and shut the joint down. And that’s where the story ends.”

His father jerked his head sideways. “Say what?”

“They let him go. He’s in California now, selling real estate.”

“That’s impossible. He broke the god damn law. He’s also probably a murderer.”

“I know. I asked Nick how Diamond Dave got away with it. Nick said Diamond Dave had greased a lot of palms, and had friends in high places.”

“Nick wouldn’t tell you who sprung this crook?”

“No. I asked but he wouldn’t give it up.”

“And Nick thinks this is why Fred Friendly and the rest of his group went bad.”

“Yeah. Nick said the gaming agents that worked on the case were given counseling to make sure it didn’t affect their work. I remember seeing that in the files. Fred Friendly and the rest of ESD all took extended leaves three years ago.”

“I guess it didn’t work.”

“Guess not.”

The rental picked up speed. Gerry saw his old man talking to himself, trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. It was a lot of information to absorb, but that was what made his father the world heavyweight champ at catching cheaters and crooks. Several blocks later, his father punched the dashboard with his fist.

“Son-of-a-bitch.”

“You figured it out,” Gerry said.

“Damn right I did.”

His father pulled up a number on his cell phone. Gerry stole a glance, and saw that it was Bill Higgins he was calling. This was going to be good.

The call went through. His old man didn’t mince words.

“You and I need to talk,” his father barked into the phone.

They met up with Bill at a dive motel on Fremont Street. Fremont had once been a cool place to hang out, with a number of old casinos and funky restaurants. Those days were long gone, and today it was a human cesspool, the sidewalks filled with strung-out hookers, runaways, and street people who didn’t have two nickels to rub together.

Bill greeted them at the door. His necktie was pulled to one side, and he wore the haggard look of a man who hadn’t gotten enough sleep in the past few days. The stakeout team was in the room, and consisted of four members of the Metro Las Vegas Police Department. The team had placed sensitive eavesdropping equipment against the wall, and were listening to the activity of the room next door.

Valentine and his son entered, and Bill shut the door. Bill put his finger to his lips, and pulled them into a small kitchenette.

“You figure out which one of the agents is our crook?” Bill asked.

“They’re all crooks,” Valentine said.

Bill appeared too stunned to speak.

“The motive was Diamond Dave’s,” Valentine said.

Bill blinked. “Who told you about Diamond Dave’s?”

“It sure as hell wasn’t you.”

Bill ran his fingers through his thick head of hair. When he was a younger man, he’d worn his hair so it touched his collar, and impressed Valentine as a guy who marched to his own drummer. Time had obviously changed him. Bill looked at Gerry, who was leaning against the wall, then back at Valentine, who stood across from him.

“I’m sorry, Tony.”

“Explain,” Valentine said.

Bill tugged at his necktie like it was choking him. “The owner of Diamond Dave’s had money problems, and decided to rig the games in his casino to pay off his creditors. We caught him, and shut the place down. We hauled Diamond Dave into jail, and guess who the first person was he called with his one phone call.”

“Governor Smoltz,” Valentine said.

Bill blinked again. “Who told you that?”

“I figured it out. Smoltz takes care of his friends. Diamond Dave probably helped put him in office.”

“That’s right. Diamond Dave was one of his biggest fund raisers. Two days after we arrested Diamond Dave, his casino manager turns up dead. He was our only witness. I got a call from Smoltz a few hours later, telling me to let Diamond Dave walk. Smoltz claimed the scandal would hurt the town’s business, and he wanted me to put a lid on it. I was under orders not to talk.”

Valentine had been a cop once, and obeyed plenty of orders he hadn’t agreed with. Bill had done what he’d had to do. But it still didn’t make it right. He watched his friend jerk his necktie off, and stuff it into his pocket.

“Let me ask you a question,” Valentine said. “When Bronco first told you there was a crooked gaming agent stealing jackpots, did you think this was blow-back to what had happened at Diamond Dave’s?”

Valentine already knew the answer to the question, but had to ask it anyway. Bill had known, which was why Smoltz had gotten involved. How Bill answered was going to determine whether they remained friends.

“Yes,” Bill said.

“Did Smoltz?”

“Yes, he figured it out as well.”

“Why didn’t you just focus your investigation on just the agents who’d been involved in shutting down Diamond Dave’s? Why throw such a wide net?”

“Because every agent working for the GCB knew about the scandal, and had been tainted by it,” Bill replied. “I had to look at everyone.”

Bill was being honest with him now. The dark secrets that Mira had told Mabel were hidden beneath the surface were finally coming out.

“What are you going to do now?” Valentine asked. “Or should I say, what’s Smoltz going to do? Let Fred Friendly and his gang skate?”

“Smoltz wants us to nail Bronco first, and muzzle him. Then we’ll haul in Friendly and the others.”

“Aren’t you afraid Friendly and his gang will go into the wind? They have to know that you’ve shut the Universal slot machines down.”

“I’m sure they do. But where are they going to go?” Bill said. “They all live here. Trust me, they’re going to be a lot easier to run down than Bronco.”

“I hope you’re right.”

One of the cops on the stakeout team appeared in the doorway.

“What’s up?” Bill said to him.

“The Asian just got a phone call,” the cop replied. “It’s Bronco. They’re setting up the meeting.”

“Thanks. I’ll be right in.”

The cop left, and Bill turned his attention back to Valentine.

“We done?”

“Done,” Valentine replied.

“I’m sorry I didn’t level with you Tony. I really am.”

“I’ll get over it.”

Bill nodded and went into the next room. Valentine started to follow, and saw Gerry motion for him to wait. His son went to the door and glanced into the next room, then came back and pulled his father into the corner.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Gerry said in a whisper.

“I’m never thinking what you’re thinking,” Valentine replied.

“If Bronco gets muzzled, only two people outside of Bill and Smoltz will know what’s going on. You and me.”

“So?”

“I sure hope we don’t end up with bullets in our heads.”

“Come on, Gerry, be serious.”

“I am, Pop. Think about it.”

Valentine did. And then it hit him. His son was right. In Vegas, it was all about the money, and the things they knew could permanently damage the way business was done. People had been killed in this town for less than that. A lot less.

“Guess we’d better watch each other’s backs,” Valentine said.

“Deal,” his son replied.

Chapter 52

Bronco was setting up the meeting with Xing, when there was a knock on his hotel room door. He said, “Hang on.” into his cell phone, and placed it down.

Going to the door, he stared through the peephole. A male uniformed hotel employee pushing a metal cart stood in the hallway.

Bronco opened the door. “What’s up?”

“Would you like your mini-bar restocked?”

“No thanks.”

He shut the door in the employee’s face. He’d had three visitors in the past hour. A maid wanting to turn down his bed, a maintenance man wanting to check the AC, and now this guy. It didn’t feel right, and he guessed the casino was getting antsy about him being in his room, and not downstairs gambling.

Or maybe it was something else. The police had probably figured out he was in town, and asked the hotels to check on any male guests who’d registered in the past twenty-four hours. Which meant that staying here was no longer safe.

He got back on the phone with Xing.

“You still there?”

“I’m here,” the Asian replied.

“Let’s do this now.”

“Come to my room in an hour.”

“Why not now?”

“Why? Are you in a rush?”

Xing was testing him. The Asian seemed to enjoy getting under his skin.

“No, I just want to get this over with.”

“One hour. The Cordova motel, room #24.”

“Got it.”

He folded his phone. If Xing knew that the slot machine scam was worthless, he hadn’t mentioned it. Hopefully, he hadn’t strayed far from his motel, and gone into any of the casinos on Fremont Street. If he did go into a casino, he was going to know, and then Bronco would have to kill him to get the Pai Gow secret.

Throwing his clothes into a suitcase, Bronco went downstairs and got his car from the valet. He still had not shaken the events of that morning, and his shirt was soaked with sweat. He pulled out of the hotel, and decided to cruise the strip.

He drove to the north end, turned around, and drove back. Back when he’d been married to Marie, he’d owned a convertible, and they’d often driven the strip with the top down, and looked at the tourists. He imagined Marie was sitting next to him, and heard her singing along with the radio. She’d always loved the slow stuff.

He came to Tropicana Avenue, and put his blinker on. The light changed, and his hands instinctively spun the wheel. He drove down Tropicana until he was in the desert. Up ahead, a road sign said Henderson, 10 miles. He was heading back to his house, and hadn’t even realized it.

He parked one street over from his house, and walked across a neighbor’s property to his own backyard. Yellow police tape was stretched across the back slider, telling him that his house had been turned into a crime scene investigation.

He stuck his head around a corner. No police cars were in the driveway or the street. He went to the front door, removed a key from a flower pot, and let himself in.

He wasn’t ready for the smell. Old cigarette smoke and spilled beer mixed with the house’s dead air. He considered opening up the windows and airing the place out, then realized he wasn’t coming back, so what was the point?

His next stop was the master bedroom. He instantly noted what things inside the room the cops had touched or moved. Nosy bastards.

Opening the closet door, he unzippered one of Marie’s clothing bags, and stuck his face into her dresses. Whenever he missed her so much that he felt like sticking a gun in his mouth, he’d gone and smelled her clothes. It was hard to explain how much he’d loved Marie; even he didn’t understand it. Or why he couldn’t get over her.

They’d met at a craps table at the MGM Grand. She’d been gambling with some friends. She was an innocent looking kid, real pretty, and Bronco had sensed she was someone he could work with.

The shooter had won. As the dealer paid the shooter off, he turned his back on Marie, and Bronco had added a stack of chips to Marie’s bet. He didn’t think the dealer would accuse her of cheating, because most dealers were suckers for pretty girls.

He’d been right. The dealer had paid Marie off without squawking. Marie had taken the money while staring at Bronco with her big blue eyes, like she couldn’t imagine anyone being so brazen. Bronco had stared right back. He’d never believed in love at first sight until he’d laid eyes on her.

Marie had taken her winnings and left the table. He’d followed her outside the casino, his palms sweating from the arrow that Cupid had shot in his ass. Marie walked to her car, then spun around. Taking her winnings from her purse, she threw half at Bronco’s feet.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” she said accusingly.

He’d stood there helplessly. She was a vision; dark hair, dancing eyes, with a small, full figure and a face that every Italian kid dreams about.

“We could have both gotten arrested,” she said.

Bronco realized what she was saying. She’d thought it out, and decided the risk was worth taking. That was why she’d thrown his half at him. She knew what she’d done was wrong.

“Let me buy you dinner,” he’d said.

He’d expected her to walk away, and out of his life forever. Only she’d hesitated. It was just enough for him to know.

Reaching down, he scooped the money off the pavement, and handed it back to her. It was the beginning of something, and they’d both known it.

On the night table was a framed photograph of Marie taken on their honeymoon. There was a slit in the cardboard backing of the frame. He slipped his fingers into the slit, and removed the photograph of Mikey he’d hidden there long ago. It was the only photo of Mikey he had, and Bronco counted all the freckles on his son’s face. Mikey had died a year after Marie, and nothing had ever been the same.

He slipped Mikey’s photograph back into the frame so it lay next to Marie. He hadn’t planned to touch anything in the room, but now realized that was impossible. He had to take some memento of Marie and the boy, and he slipped the photograph under his arm.

He left through the backdoor. Crossing the backyard, he saw a fluttering of curtains behind a neighbor’s window. He’d been spotted, and started to run. The ground was uneven and his foot landed in a hole. The photograph slipped from his grasp, and hit the ground.

He picked it up with a shudder. The glass frame had turned into a web of fractures. He felt a catch in his throat, his body humbled by the weakness of love. He was crying by the time he reached his car.

Chapter 53

Xing did not believe in taking chances.

He knew that the police were looking for Bronco. Bronco’s face was being shown regularly on the TV news shows, and there were only so many places a man could hide, especially in a city like Las Vegas. If Xing was going to meet with Bronco and do the exchange, he needed to be sure that Bronco wasn’t being tailed. Otherwise, he’d end up sharing a jail cell with him.

Xing’s motel was directly on Fremont Street. He could open the front door, and step right into the action. He started to do that now, and spotted a man standing by the curb, reading a newspaper. Something about the man’s body language felt wrong, and he silently shut the door.

Xing went to his room’s only window and tilted the blind with his finger. Outside, the man continued to read his paper. Xing couldn’t remember seeing anyone on Fremont Street reading a paper. Either they were talking on cell phones or walking around drunk. He studied the man. Muscular in build with a short haircut and conservative clothes. Everything about him screamed policeman. And if there was one cop, there were probably many more, all waiting for Bronco to appear before swooping in.

Time to run.

He went into the bathroom and shut the door. Put down the toilet cover and climbed onto it. The window above the toilet was wide enough for him to slither through. He stuck his head out to make sure no policemen were in the alley, then climbed through, and dropped to the ground. The alley was filled with overflowing garbage cans, and flies swarmed around him. He’d turned up his collar and walked onto Fremont Street.

The policeman with the newspaper was still outside his room. His back was to Xing, and Xing walked in the opposite direction, and became lost in the swarm of people.

The east end of Fremont Street was covered by a giant metal canopy which was transformed into a Star Wars-like special effects show every half hour. The show was called the Fremont Street Experience, and as Xing passed beneath the canopy, a booming voice came over the Public Address system, and announced that the next show would begin in exactly two minutes.

The street quickly filled with people. There were lots of uniformed cops, no doubt for security, but they put Xing on edge. He ducked into a souvenir shop, and bought a pair of shades and a baseball cap. He appraised his disguise in a mirror, and decided it wasn’t enough. From the racks he grabbed a black leather jacket. On its back was printed Jesus Wasn’t Born in Las Vegas Because They Couldn’t Find a Virgin. He took another look at himself in the mirror, and decided he looked like every other misfit he’d seen walking around. He paid for the items and headed outside.

A laser light show had started, with booming music and lots of explosions. He checked the time. Over an hour had passed since he’d last spoken to Bronco. Bronco had sounded eager to do the exchange, and he wondered what the holdup was.

Xing walked around and tried to act like every other tourist. A few minutes later, his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, and saw that it was Bronco.

“Yes?” he answered, having to shout over the music.

There was no one there. He wondered if the canopy was killing his connection, and started to walk to where the canopy ended. His phone vibrated again.

“Hello?”

Still nothing. He flipped the phone shut and continued to walk. Ten seconds later, his phone vibrated again. He was standing directly outside the Golden Nugget, one of the larger casinos on Fremont and one of the busiest. He tried again.

“Are you there?”

Xing felt the barrel of a gun being shoved into his back. He lowered the phone, and stared into the reflection in the glass windows of the Nugget. A man with a shaved hand stood behind him with a scowl on his face. A stocky Italian with eyes like black ice.

“Turn around. Do it slow,” Bronco whispered into his ear.

Xing obeyed. Bronco was holding a magazine in front of his chest, and had hidden his gun behind it. The idea that Bronco might shoot him right in the street was not far from Xing’s thoughts. Hadn’t he shot a man inside a casino?

“You set me up,” Bronco said. “There are cops all over your motel.”

“I just saw them myself,” Xing replied.

“Really. Why didn’t you warn me?”

“I was waiting for you to call.”

“You’re a liar.”

“I had no reason to set you up.”

Xing waited. He was not going to beg for his life. To do that would have meant losing face, and he would rather have died than let that happen.

“Do you have the Pai Gow secret?”

Xing felt himself relax. They were back on even terms. He nodded, and they edged over to the curb to do the exchange. Despite all the people on the street, it was the perfect hiding place, Xing thought. Everyone sees us, yet no one sees us.

“You go first,” Xing said.

“My pleasure,” Bronco replied.

Xing took out his wallet, and removed a piece of tissue paper. He carefully unfolded the tissue to reveal a small black object that resembled a miniature toothbrush. He had found this miniature toothbrush inside Kyle Garrow’s wallet in Reno when he robbed him in the strip club, yet had no idea what it was.

“Guess you don’t know what this is,” Bronco said.

Xing shook his head. Had he known, he’d be back in China by now.

“Its called an EPROM chip,” Bronco explained. “With it, you can rig any slot machine made by a company called Universal. Universal slot machines are all over the world, so you shouldn’t have any problem finding them in China.”

“How does it work?”

“Put the EPROM chip into a laptop computer, and run a diagnostic test on the Universal machine’s RNG chip. When the test is done, you must play three coins, two coins, and one coin, and you’ll win a jackpot. Got it?”

Xing repeated the instructions and saw Bronco nod.

“You’re all set. Now tell me the Pai Gow secret.”

The pair of Pai Gow dominos were resting in the breast pocket of Xing’s shirt. He handed them to Bronco, happy to be rid of something that he had no use for. Bronco still held the gun hidden beneath the magazine. With his free hand, he held the dominos up to the glaring overhead strobe lights.

“Tell me.”

“Red not black,” Xing said.

Bronco looked confused. He held the dominos at a different angle. Then, his face lit up. “Isn’t that beautiful. They’re made out of red plastic instead of black. The red’s so dark, you can’t tell the difference. Are all of them like this?”

All the dominos being used in American casinos were being manufactured at a plant in China. Whatever had been done to this pair, was true with them all.

“Yes. They’re all the same,” Xing said.

“Do you understand how this works?”

“No. My boss did not explain the scam to me.”

“Red plastic can be penetrated by an infra-red lens. With a special pair of glasses, I can see through these dominos, and know what the dealer has. You just made me a very rich man.”

Bronco patted Xing on the shoulder and started to smile. Suddenly, his scowl returned. Xing followed his gaze, and saw the manager of the motel where he was staying leading a group of policemen down the middle of Fremont Street. The manger was pointing at young men the same age as Xing, and the policeman were grabbing the men, and showing them to the manager, who kept shaking his head. Then, Xing saw the manager point directly at him.

“Run,” Xing said.

Xing stepped off the curb, then felt his legs stop moving. His stomach was burning, and he placed his hand inside his leather jacket, came away with blood. He looked over his shoulder; Bronco had disappeared into the crowd.

Xing fell to his knees as the policeman swarmed around him. The noise went away, and the world grew still. The reality of what had happened was slow to sink in. Bronco had shot him in the back so he could get away, and save himself.

And I just made him a rich man, Xing thought.

Chapter 54

Everybody died differently. Valentine had learned that the hard way as a cop. He’d seen plenty of people pass on to the great craps game in the sky, and each departure was a little different and carried some signature of that person’s time here on earth.

The Asian with the bullet in his back died with a thin smile on his face. Valentine had gotten to him first, and had knelt down, and pulled the Asian’s head into his lap. Even though he didn’t know the guy from Adam, he thought it was the least he could do.

“Bronco’s getting away,” Gerry said, sounding panicked.

“Let the cops run him down,” Valentine said.

“But Pop—”

“He’s got a gun, Gerry. Stay here.”

His son reluctantly agreed. Valentine gazed down into the Asian’s face. He tried to remember the guy’s name? Was it Xing or Zing or Bling? He couldn’t recall. He looked like a decent enough sort, but most people did when they died, all the bad things they’d done seemed to seep out of them, and just the core remained, until that too was gone. The Asian’s eyes fluttered and his smile grew. What was that about?

“Anything I can do?” Valentine asked.

The Asian shook his head, and then he was no more.

One of the cops got a blanket from inside the Nugget, and laid it over the dead man’s body. Valentine stood up and crossed himself. Then he grabbed Gerry and went looking for Bill, who was handling the search for Bronco on Fremont Street. They’d caught a glimpse of their fugitive as he’d run away; he had disguised himself by shaving his head, and would not be hard to pick out of a crowd.

The Fremont Street Experience was still in full swing, with laser lights flashing across the steel canopy accompanied by blaring disco music that was a few seconds out of sync with the rest of the show. The Experience normally drew a good crowd, and today was no exception. Thousands of tourists were packed on the street, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with their plastic cups of beer and glazed expressions on their faces.

“Where did all these people come from?” Gerry asked.

“This is Vegas, Gerry.”

“I know, but this is unreal.”

They sifted their way through the throng. Soon they could barely move. Gerry was right — the crowd was huge, and seemed to be growing by the minute. There was no sign of Bill or his posse, although he could have been a few feet away, and Valentine wouldn’t have spotted him. They reached the end of the Experience where Fremont met Las Vegas Boulevard, and Valentine pulled his son out of the crowd to a secluded spot beneath a withered palm tree where a homeless man lay sleeping.

“Look at all those cars,” Gerry said.

Valentine followed his son’s gaze. The boulevard was jammed with vehicles, none of which were moving. An irate motorist honked their horn. Within seconds, everyone was making their displeasure known, the situation spiraling out of control.

“What do you think’s going on?” Gerry asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s ask someone.”

Gerry had a knack of being able to talk to complete strangers. He jogged over to one of the stuck vehicles, and struck up a conversation with the driver, a white-haired man traveling with his wife. The driver handed Gerry a sheet of paper, and Gerry thanked him and shook his hand. Then, his son jogged back.

“It’s some kind of promotion,” his son explained.

“Let me see.”

Gerry handed him the sheet of paper. It was an e-mail addressed to Harold and Lorraine Duffy, its sender THE LAS VEGAS CONVENTION & VISITOR’S BUREAU. The print was huge, and practically leapt off the page.

Valentine smelled a rat. A big, giant rat. Still holding the email, he crossed the street with his son and entered Fitzgeralds, one of the older casinos on Fremont Street. The joint was mobbed, and he had to push his way through the front doors.

He pushed his way to a bank of video poker machines. Every seat at every machine was taken, and there were lines of people standing behind each seat. He approached several of the people on line, and held the email in front of their faces.

“Did you get one of these emails?” Valentine asked.

The people on line said they had. He showed the email to the people in the seats, just to be sure. They’d all received the email as well.

The noise inside the casino was too loud to think. Valentine went back outside with his son, and stood beneath the withered palm tree. The homeless man was still sound asleep.

“Who do you think’s behind this email?” his son asked.

“Fred Friendly and his gang,” Valentine replied. “The convention and visitors bureau does email promotions to bring customers into town. Fred and his gang got their hands on the data bases, and sent this letter to them.”

“You think they’re trying to skip town, and this is their smokescreen?”

Valentine glanced at the email clutched in his hand. The letter hadn’t been written on a whim. Someone had spent time constructing it.

“I think it’s real,” Valentine said.

“You do?”

“Friendly and his gang have a score to settle with Governor Smoltz. I’m guessing they rigged a bunch of video poker machines to pay off jackpots, and planned to send out that e-mail if the law ever caught up to them. When they heard that Bill ordered the Universal slot machines taken out of commission, they put the plan into effect.”

Valentine’s cell phone was vibrating. It was Bill, and he answered it.

“Bronco’s gone,” Bill said.

“Forget Bronco,” Valentine said. “I’ve got some really bad news for you.”

Chapter 55

Bill was at the other end of Fremont Street. Normally, it would have taken two minutes for him to walk to the sidewalk outside of Fitzgerald’s casino where Valentine and Gerry were standing. Because of the crowds, it took ten minutes.

Bill looked frustrated and angry when he arrived. Bronco was in the wind, and their chances of now finding him were slim. Valentine didn’t think his news would make Bill feel any better, and showed him the email. Then, he explained what Friendly and his gang were up to. When he was finished, a wall of resolution rose in Bill’s face.

“That isn’t possible, Tony.”

“Why not?”

“Because I personally worked on a project to upgrade the security of every video poker machine in Nevada,” Bill said. “This is one game which can’t be scammed.”

“You’re sure about that.”

“Damn straight I am. I’d bet my paycheck on it.”

Gerry started coughing. It wasn’t a natural sounding cough, and Valentine quizzed him with a glance. “What’s the matter?”

“Bill’s wrong,” his son said. “Video poker machines can be scammed.”

“They can?”

In a quiet voice, Gerry said, “Yeah. I helped scam one.”

Valentine stared long and hard at his son. There was a streak of gray hair on the back of Gerry’s head, just like his own. They were alike in so many ways, yet there were times that he felt he hardly knew his son at all.

“Go on,” Valentine said.

“This was back when I was running the bar in Brooklyn. This guy came in one day, a client of mine.” He glanced at Bill. “I used to be a bookie.”

“So I’ve heard,” Bill said.

“Anyway, this guy owed me five grand from some football games he bet on. He had this thing about the Jets, and their quarterback was having a lousy year—”

“Get on with it,” Valentine said.

“Sorry. So, this guy offers me a deal. He says his kid brother, who’s a computer wiz, knows how to scam a video poker machine in Atlantic City. If I play the machine, I can win my five grand back. I told him I wanted to know how his kid brother had scammed the machine. You know, just to be sure that it couldn’t be traced back to me.”

Valentine’s face felt like a four-alarm fire. He’d still been working for the Atlantic City police department when Gerry had his bar, which meant that his son had scammed an Atlantic City casino while he was still policing them. He knew Gerry had balls; he just hadn’t known how enormous they were.

“So the guy brings his kid brother into the bar the next day,” Gerry went on. “The kid explains how he got a video poker machine for Christmas. He analyzed the machine with his computer, and discovered that it used something called a random function to shuffle its internal deck of cards. This random function created different ‘seeds’ which insured that the cards were always different.”

Valentine had little experience with video poker machines because the belief in the industry had been that no one had ever successfully scammed one. Looking at Bill, he said, “This make sense to you?”

Bill nodded. “Random functions generate starting values, which are called seeds. The seeds are randomly changed to insure a fair game.”

“Exactly,” Gerry said. “The kid discovered that his game used the machine’s internal clock to create seeds. When he hit the start button, the random function looked at the number of milliseconds which had elapsed since 12:00 A.M., and used that number to create the seed. Since there are eighty-six million milliseconds each day, the seed should have been random. Only it wasn’t, because the kid could generate the same eighty-six million seeds on his computer because he knew the starting point. That let him calculate which cards were coming out.”

“How did this translate to you beating a video-poker machine in Atlantic City?” Valentine said. “The kid was playing a game, for Christ’s sake.”

“The kid’s game was manufactured by a company that made casino video poker games,” Gerry explained. “He told his brother, and his brother went to Atlantic City, and played one of the company’s real games. Guess what? The same cards came out as his brother’s game at home. They were generating the same seeds.”

Bill crossed his arms. “Gerry, what you just described is ancient history. Remember what I told you before, about my being involved in updating the machines? We discovered that flaw, and made the manufacturers stop using internal clocks.”

“But what if a company didn’t?” Gerry said. “What if one company ignored your order, and didn’t change the program? You know, to save money.”

“Like Universal did when it used the same fingerprint on its slot machines,” Valentine said.

“Exactly,” Gerry said. “And Fred Friendly’s gang discovered the flaw. But instead of making the company update the machines, they keep it a secret, just waiting for the day when they knew they could screw the casinos with it.”

Valentine sensed where his son was headed. “If that was true, it would mean that those video poker machines could be scammed if a player played at a certain time, and a certain way. Just like the e-mail is telling them.”

Bill’s face had turned ashen, and he clenched both his hands into fists. Out on the boulevard, traffic had gotten worse, the angry blare of car horns echoing across town. “How far are Fred Friendly’s offices from here?” Valentine asked.

“A couple of miles,” Bill said.

“We need to pay them a visit.”

Chapter 56

The Electronic Systems Division of the Nevada Gaming Control Board was headquartered in a nondescript three-story building on Sahara boulevard, two blocks off the strip. At a quarter of two, Bill pulled into the parking lot with Valentine and Gerry, and braked by the front doors. Bill had taken back roads, and it still took twenty minutes. Bill used his pass to enter the building’s elaborate security system, and they took an elevator to the third floor, where the ESD managers worked. The gang’s offices were at the end of a hallway, and stood side-by-side. Each had a brass name plate on their door. Haskell, Robinson, Lacross, Dolan, Howard, Ortiz, and Friendly.

Bill did a quick check of each office. Their personal belongings were gone from their desks, and their computer screens were blank. Fred Friendly occupied the corner office, and Bill sat down at his desk, and rifled the drawers. His elbow touched the keyboard for the computer, and the screen came to life.

“What is this?” Bill muttered.

Valentine edged up to the computer to have a look. On the screen was a spread sheet with a heading that said LV/VIDEO POKER. He touched the keyboard, and began to scroll through the document. “It’s all the video poker machines in Las Vegas.”

“Do you think Fred left this for us to see?”

“Sure looks that way. Looks like he highlighted some of them.”

They brought their faces up to the screen. Friendly had highlighted a quarter of the machines on the spread sheet. Each highlighted machine had a notation that said UNV. Valentine thought he knew what it meant, but asked anyway.

“It means Universal,” Bill said softly.

“Universal makes video poker machines, too?”

“Yes. They’re responsible for a quarter of the machines in town.”

Valentine drew back from the computer screen. The realization of what Friendly’s gang had done hit him over the head like a lead pipe. Friendly’s gang hadn’t corrupted five Universal video poker machines to pay out jackpots at 3:00 o’clock; they’d corrupted hundreds of them to pay out jackpots, then sent out emails to insure that the machines got played. Las Vegas’s casinos were about to lose hundreds of millions of dollars.

“What are we going to do?” Bill said.

“Run them down, and find out how to reverse what they’ve done.”

Bill looked at his watch. “It’s almost two. We’ve got an hour.”

“Piece of cake.”

Bill glanced up at him, and smiled grimly.

Valentine gathered the garbage pails from each office, dumped them on the carpet in Friendly’s office, and with Bill kneeling beside him, went through their contents. His guess was, the gang had split up, and taken different routes out of town. That was the smart thing to do, and these guys were as smart as they came.

The garbage didn’t say much, but then he found a coffee-stained receipt in the bottom of the pail that had come from the office of Janet Haskell, one of the two women in the gang. The receipt was for three paperback books purchased at the nearby Borders, and was from yesterday afternoon. Two of the books were mysteries by Valentine’s favorite authors, Michael Connelly and Elmore “Dutch” Leonard. The third book was a Fodor’s Guide to Acapulco. He showed it to Bill.

“You’re a genius,” Bill said.

Clutching the receipt in his hand, Valentine walked down the hallway to the empty office where Gerry had parked himself behind a desk, his fingers dancing across the keyboard as he tried to access the computer. His son looked up expectantly.

“You find something?” Valentine asked.

His son nodded. “I think this was left for us. I’m printing it now.”

The laser printer sat atop a metal stand in the corner. Valentine grabbed the sheets as they were spit out and quickly read the manuscript. It had been co-authored by the gang, and explained in detail why they’d gone bad. Every criminal had a “reason” for committing crimes, and the reasons were all bogus. Everyone on the planet knew the difference between right and wrong; even the severely retarded. But this gang surprised him. They weren’t saying they weren’t guilty. They simply stated in plain English that they were fed up with how justice was administered in Las Vegas.

A hand tapped his shoulder, and he turned to face Bill.

“There’s an American Airlines flight to Acapulco out of McCarren that leaves at two-thirty,” Bill said. “I called TSA, and told them to ground that plane.”

They went downstairs and climbed into Bill’s car. Bill started to pull the vehicle onto the street, then jammed on the brakes. Traffic had reached critical mass on Sahara, and the cars looked glued together. Bill called the Metro Las Vegas police on his cell phone. They weren’t much help, and he cursed after hanging up.

“The city’s roads and highways are at a standstill,” he said.

Valentine was riding shotgun. “Where are the cops?”

“The cops have been dispensed to the casinos to keep things under control,” Bill said. “Thousands of people have come in for the promotion. They’re fighting over seats at video poker machines.”

Valentine tapped his fingers on the dashboard, then turned around and looked at Gerry in the backseat. “How did you leave things with Nick?”

“What do you mean?” his son asked.

“You didn’t ogle his wife’s breasts or anything, did you?”

“Come on, Pop. I didn’t even meet her.”

“So you left on good terms?”

“Yeah, of course.”

Valentine took out his cell phone, and dialed Nick Nicocropolis’s direct line from memory. Twice in the past four years he’d saved Nick from going under, and he didn’t feel ashamed to call in a favor. The little Greek answered on the third ring.

“I need help,” Valentine said.

“Name it,” Nick said.

Nick showed up fifteen minutes driving a personalized white golf cart that looked like a pimp-mobile, with a frilly white curtain with pom-poms around the interior, and a shiny gold hood ornament of a naked woman leaning forward in a provocative pose. Valentine knew that Nick’s wife was six months pregnant, and could only wonder when fatherhood was going to catch up to the little Greek.

“Hop in, boys,” Nick said.

“I thought you were bringing your chopper,” Valentine said, climbing into the front.

“My pilot used it to take some big shots to the Boulder Dam,” Nick explained, flooring the accelerator once they were settled in. “Besides, this will get us there faster.”

“It will?”

“Yeah. It’s got a real tiger in the engine.”

Nick drove the golf cart onto the sidewalk and headed for the strip, his hand on the Harpo Marx horn hidden beneath the hood. The sidewalks were filled with tourists who didn’t seem to care if they got run over, and Nick screamed at anyone who stood in their path. Some people jumped out of the way, others didn’t, and more than once Valentine thought they were going to run somebody over.

“Slow down before you kill someone,” Bill yelled from the back.

“There’s plenty more where they came from,” Nick replied.

McCarren International Airport was a few short miles from the strip, its main runway visible to most hotel rooms on the south end of town. Nick drove his golf cart down the sidewalk on Tropicana Boulevard which ran parallel to the airport, then pulled into a gated entrance marked RESTRICTED/Airport Employees Only. As Valentine hopped out of the golf cart, he banged the hood with his hand.

“Thanks for the save.”

“All in a day’s work,” Nick replied. To Bill he said, “Mr. Higgins?”

“Yes, Mr. Nicocropolis,” Bill replied.

“You owe me, pal,” Nick said, then drove away.

Bill showed his laminated ID to the man in the guardhouse, and the gate was raised. They drove to Terminal A where a team of TSA agents were waiting for them. The agent in charge had straw-colored hair that he wore in a military buzz cut.

“Mr. Higgins, we’ve detained the American Airlines flight for Acapulco, per your request,” buzz cut said. “It’s at the gate loaded with passengers.”

“What reason did the pilot give for the delay?” Valentine asked.

“He told the passengers there was a mechanical malfunction that needed to be fixed,” buzz cut said.

“So no one knows what’s going on?”

Buzz cut shook his head. The key to nabbing Janet Haskell and getting her to talk was going to be the element of surprise: If she knew she was about to be arrested, she’d scream for a lawyer, and Valentine planned to put the fear of God into her before that idea crossed her mind. He said, “Do you have the plane’s manifest?”

The manifest was produced. Valentine opened it on the hood of the cruiser, and scanned the list of names. He didn’t think Janet Haskell was traveling under her own name, and had assumed a false identity.

“How long have you’ve worked with Haskell?” he asked Bill.

“Fifteen years.”

“She married?”

“Divorced a few years back. Why?”

“What’s her maiden name?”

Bill dredged his memory. “I think it was Bowen. No, Brown.”

Valentine ran his finger down the manifest and found Jane Brown. She was sitting in first class, no doubt already enjoying life on the lam.

“Got her. Let’s get her off that plane.”

Buzz cut got Haskell off the flight by having a filght attendant make an announcement over the plane’s P.A. system, and asking Jane Brown to come forward, and claim a personal belonging that had dropped from her handbag while it was being X-rayed. As they waited for Haskell to come down the jetway, buzz cut explained that he’d used this ploy successfully many times before.

“Most ladies have so much stuff in their handbags, that they don’t know when something’s missing,” he said.

Haskell came down the jetway with a bounce in her step and a glassy look in her eye, and Valentine guessed she’d started hitting the sauce the moment she’d boarded. She was dressed for Mexico, with a festive straw hat on her head, and a flowery skirt and matching silk top. A happier crook he’d never seen.

The happy look disappeared when she spied Bill. She did an about-face, and tried to beat it back to first class, only to have two TSA agents run down the jetway, and grab her by the arms. They lifted her clean in the air, and with cries of “Help! No!” coming out of her mouth, carried her off the plane, and into a windowless room beside the screening area.

Valentine entered the room to find Haskell wiping her eyes with a tissue. He started to shut the door, and saw Gerry standing outside.

“Get me two cups of coffee.”

By the time Gerry returned with two cups of Starbucks, Haskell had killed the water works, and was sitting with her back against the wall, her arms crossed defiantly.

“I want a lawyer,” she said.

She was in her late forties, with rings beneath her eyes and a sad face. Valentine guessed that she’d planned to start her life over in Acapulco. First she’d buy all the things that she couldn’t afford before — a sports car, house on the beach, maybe even a water craft — then go hunting for a male. This was the plan of most people who robbed and ran, and Valentine had tracked enough of these people down to know that it rarely panned out. But you couldn’t tell the Janet Haskells of the world that.

He handed her one of the cups.

“I want a lawyer,” she said again.

“Talk to me first.”

“Up yours.”

He leaned against the wall. “You’re the first member of the gang to be caught. That can be either bad for you, or good for you.”

She blew steam off her drink, and said nothing.

“It’s bad for you if we don’t catch Friendly or any of the other members of the gang. Bronco Marchese murdered a man in Lake Tahoe, and just killed another man on Fremont Street. Because your gang was working with Bronco, you’re all responsible for those deaths. If you end up being the only person we catch, you’ll take the rap.”

As she sipped her coffee, tears ran down her cheeks. Valentine believed that when a criminal cried, it meant that deep down, there was still a person left to work with.

She said, “How can it be a good thing?”

“You can play ball with me, and that will be the first thing the judge hears when you go to trial. You’ll do time, but it won’t be as much as the others. And, you won’t get pinned for two murders. Think about it.”

She did. After a long moment, her body started to shudder, her conscience finally starting to win out. Her hands shook so badly that coffee spilled onto the floor. Valentine took the cup from her, then went into a crouch, putting their eyes on an equal plain.

“You going to work with me?”

“Yes.”

“That’s more like it. I need you to tell me something. How many Universal video poker machines did ESD rig to pay off jackpots?”

“All of them.”

He rocked back on his heels. “What? How many is that?”

“Ten thousand.”

He did the math in his head. Ten thousand jackpots at a million dollars apiece was ten billion dollars. In exactly one hour, Las Vegas was going to be wiped out.

Haskell saw the look of shock on Valentine’s face and let out a bitter laugh. She’d drunk enough alcohol on the plane that it cut right through the coffee.

“And there’s nothing you can do about it,” she added.

Chapter 57

The honorable Franklin E. Smoltz arrived in his private helicopter at McCarren International Airport at two-thirty in the afternoon. To be governor of a state whose tax base came primarily from legalized casinos and prostitution, you had to have a special view of the world, and Smoltz was the right man for the job. A former federal prosecutor, he had never tried a case where he hadn’t considered how its outcome would affect his career. He exited from his chopper spewing obscenities at his two aides.

“How many god damn times do I have to tell you?” Smoltz bellowed, his voice rising over the chopper’s blades. “I am unavailable to the media at the present time. Got it?”

His aides had short haircuts, wore matching pin stripes, and looked like they’d been ordered out of the same catalogue.

“Yes, sir,” they chorused.

Smoltz stood on the edge of tarmac as if looking for a cab. Seeing Bill standing nearby with Valentine and Gerry, he hustled over and shook his fist in Bill’s face. The blood in his cheeks had risen to the surface, and he looked ready to explode.

“What the hell is going on? Every casino boss in Las Vegas has called me. They’ve got more video poker players than they can handle. It’s pandemonium.”

“Fred Friendly and his gang corrupted ten thousand video poker machines in Las Vegas,” Bill explained. “In thirty minutes, they’re all going to pay jackpots.”

“That’s horsegarbage!” Smoltz said, breathing down on the shorter man’s head. “Our games can’t be corrupted. What are you doing, drinking your own bathwater?”

Bill jabbed his thumb in Valentine’s direction. “Tony confirmed it.”

Smoltz looked angrily at Valentine. They’d disliked each other since the first time they’d met, and the governor said, “Is this shit true?”

“Shit’s true,” Valentine said.

Smoltz’s face contorted like he was about to have a seizure. He angrily stomped the ground. “This is your god damn mess, Bill. I wanted to cut a deal with Bronco Marchese from the start. But you said no. Well, your ass is on the line, my friend.”

The wind was blowing off the runway, and it pulled Bill’s eyelids back as he spoke. “Governor, I just told you that a quarter of all the video poker machines in Las Vegas are corrupted. It’s your responsibility to deal with it, not mine.”

“What are you suggesting I do?”

“Las Vegas’s casinos are connected through a special intra-net called Secure Internal Network,” Bill said. “SIN lets the casinos make each other aware when there are gangs of card-counters and cheaters running around. You need to contact the casino owners through SIN, and tell them their video poker machines have been rigged, and not to pay out any jackpots which occur after 2:59 this afternoon.”

“That’s your solution?”

“Yes,” Bill said. “We’ve proven that the video poker machines are corrupted, so it will hold up in court if anyone tries to challenge us.”

Smoltz’s face changed colors. “That’s insane! Do you have any idea what type of shit storm that will cause? I have a better idea, Bill. I want your resignation on my desk tomorrow morning. Now, get out of my face.”

Bill walked away without saying a word. Brushing him off, Smoltz turned to his aides. “We have to keep a lid on this story. If it does leak out, here’s what I want you to tell the media. This afternoon, a major conspiracy was unearthed at the Nevada Gaming Control Board. A gang of GCB agents tried to destroy us. These people are...”

“Traitors?” one of his aides suggested.

Smoltz snapped his fingers. “They’re traitors! But we headed them off at the pass, and averted a disaster. Be sure to tell the media that no video poker machines were corrupted in Las Vegas. Understand?”

One of the aides spoke up. “But Governor, a quarter of the video poker machines were corrupted. Bill Higgins just told you that.”

“I didn’t hear that, and you didn’t hear that. Understand?”

His aides nodded like wooden soldiers. Smoltz turned to Valentine and his son. “You didn’t hear that, either.”

“Right,” Valentine said.

Smoltz came over to where the Valentines stood. The governor was a big man, and used to getting his way. “Don’t smart mouth me, Tony. You know how the game is played in this town. I have to protect the integrity of our casinos, at any cost.”

“Protect them how? If you don’t do what Bill just suggested, your casinos will lose ten billion dollars,” Valentine said.

“Bill’s a fool,” Smoltz said. “I can never admit our games are rigged, even if they are. Keep your mouths shut, and let me handle this. Now, I want your word that his conversation will go no further. Understood?”

Valentine and his son exchanged looks. The governor clearly had come up with another plan of attack. It was his problem now, and they both nodded.

“Good,” Smoltz said.

Valentine and his son found Bill inside an empty hanger with a dejected look on his face. Bill had spent his entire career working for Gaming Control. He didn’t have any family or close friends. He lived for his work, and now it was a thing of the past.

“Smoltz tell you what he’s going to do?” Bill asked.

“No,” Valentine asked.

“Guess we’ll find out at three o’clock.”

“Guess so.”

“What are we standing here for?” Gerry said impatiently. “Let’s go find Bronco.”

“He’s long gone Gerry,” Valentine said. “Let it go.”

“Like hell he is,” his son replied matter-of-factly. “Bronco’s in a casino, trying out the Pai Gow scam.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he’s got a new toy, and he wants to play with it.”

“You think so?”

“Damn straight,” he son said. “He threw on a disguise, drove to the other side of town, and went into a casino where he knew they had Pai Gow. Trust me. He’s ripping someone off right now.”

“Then he shouldn’t be too hard to find.” Bill said, punching numbers into his cell phone. “I’ll alert the SIN network that a white male is cheating at a Pai Gow game, and ask them to alert the casinos. Since most people who play Pai Gow are Asian, Bronco will stick out like a sore thumb if your theory is true.”

“It isn’t a theory,” Gerry said. “Just wait.”

Ten minutes later, Bill got a call back. A white male playing Pai Gow at the MGM Grand had taken the casino for twenty-five grand in less than an hour. A surveillance photo of the player appeared on the screen of Bill’s cell phone.

“You think this is him?” Bill asked.

Valentine took the phone out of Bill’s hand and had a look. The player in question wore a baseball cap and tinted sunglasses. Most of his face was hidden, and Valentine couldn’t be sure if it was Bronco or not. But the shades bothered him. Only poker players wore shades in a casino, or cheaters using infra-red marks to beat the house. Maybe that was the secret of the Pai Gow scam.

He showed the photo to Gerry. “What do you think?”

“That’s him,” Gerry said after a pause.

“You sure?”

“Positive. Look how he cups his hands. He did that in the car in Reno.”

“Hell,” Bill said, “he’s right across the street.”

The MGM’s sparkling emerald green buildings were visible from where they stood. Valentine felt a tinge of excitement knowing that Bronco was so close. He listened as Bill called the MGM’s head of security and ordered him to put guards at every exit.

“I’ve got my job until tomorrow,” Bill said, ending the call. “Maybe I can end it on a high note.”

Gerry ran over to an airport employee driving a luggage cart, and talked him into giving the cart up. Jumping behind the wheel, Gerry drove over to where they stood, and Bill and Valentine hopped in.

“What did you tell that guy?” Valentine asked.

“Don’t ask,” his son said.

Chapter 58

They pulled into the MGM at five minutes till three. The front entrance looked like a parking lot, and Gerry drove the luggage cart on the sidewalk and braked by the front door. He threw the keys to a bewildered valet, and they hurried inside.

The casino’s head of security waited in the lobby. His name was Richard Goldman, and he wore a designer blue power suit that was the trademark of his position. On the giant screens behind the check in area, a troupe of Chinese acrobats that were appearing in the hotel’s theater did gravity-defying somersaults through the air.

“I’ve got a guard covering each exit,” Goldman said as he led them through the packed casino. “I would have used more, only there are so many players in the casino, I needed the others for crowd control.”

The MGM’s casino was over three football fields in length. It had more video poker games than any other casino in town, and players were lined up to play them. It was a madhouse, and Goldman pushed his way through with a walkie-talkie to his ear.

“He’s still there? Good. We’re coming.”

Valentine glanced at his son. Gerry was gritting his teeth.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Valentine told him.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They reached the area of the casinos devoted to Pai Gow. The tables had pretty Asian girls dealing the games, and Asian pit bosses watching the action. The players, all Asian males with excited looks on their faces, were drinking imported beer and talking excitedly amongst themselves, oblivious to the chaos taking place around them. As Valentine neared the table, he spotted an empty spot with a gigantic stack of chips. He motioned to the pit boss..

“Whose sitting here?”

“Some guy wearing a baseball cap. He’s taking a leak,” the pit boss said.

“Is he winning a lot?”

“He hasn’t lost.”

“You need to shut down this table.”

The pit boss acted shocked, and looked to Goldman for help.

“Do as the man says,” Goldman said.

To the anger of the Asian gamblers at the table, the game was shut down. The gamblers left, and the dealer went on break, leaving the pit boss to watch Bronco’s winnings.

“When our friend comes back, tell him the game was shut down,” Valentine told the pit boss. “If he beefs, offer to give him a free meal voucher.”

“Whatever you say,” the pit boss said.

“What are you doing?” Bill wanted to know.

“I don’t want to arrest Bronco on the floor,” Valentine said. “Better to let him take his winnings to the cage. Then we’ll get him.”

“Good idea.”

They moved behind a bank of slot machines. From their vantage point, they had a clear view of the Men’s Room. Valentine’s palms were sweating, and his mouth had turned dry. He’d never hunted, and wondered if this was what a hunter felt when their prey was in range, ready to be taken down. He checked the time. In two minutes, the ball was going to drop. They needed to catch Bronco before that happened.

“Here he comes,” his son said.

Bronco sauntered out of the Men’s Room and approach the Pai Gow table he’d been playing at. Valentine had always wondered how Bronco had managed to slip through the hands of the law so many times. Watching him cross the casino, he saw the slow, unsteady walk of a gambler who’d had too much to drink. It was an act, and he realized then Bronco’s great secret. Bronco was a chameleon who could play any role.

Bronco came to the empty table and halted. A strange look registered across his face. He knew something wasn’t right. He had a short conversation with the pit boss. Scooping up his chips, he began to slip them into his pockets. He took his time and stayed in character, a real pro. Then he headed across the floor to the cage, continuing his impersonation of a tipsy tourist. His shirt was pulled out, and Valentine guessed he had a gun tucked in his waistband.

Reaching the cage, Bronco began sliding his chips through the bars to the female cashier. She had big hair and an easy smile, and was talking a mile-a-minute. It was the best distraction they could ask for.

They moved in fast; Bill to Bronco’s right, Valentine and Gerry to his left. Bronco was leaning on the cage’s marble counter, yukking it up with the cashier. He looked surprised when they sandwiched him in.

“Freeze.” Bill had his weapon drawn, and pointed it at his suspect’s chest. “Put your hands behind your head, and keep them there.”

Bronco dutifully raised his arms into the air. Bill reached beneath Bronco’s shirt, and removed the gun from where Valentine had guessed it would be.

Bronco seemed resigned to his fate. He looked at Valentine and laughed.

“How long you been chasing me?”

“Twenty-five years,” Valentine replied.

“That’s a long time. You happy, now?”

Catching crooks had never made Valentine happy. It was about as much fun as cleaning septic tanks, which had been his first job before becoming a policeman. But, this was different. This was for Sal.

“Sure am,” he said.

“Glad somebody is,” he said, and laughed again.

Bill made Bronco drop his arms, and began to cuff him. Bronco glanced at the cashier, who was watching, her eyes aglow.

“Nice talking to you, sweetheart.”

Valentine looked at his watch. It was exactly three. His eyes shifted to the casino, ready to see how many video poker machines lit up, and showed a million dollar jackpot. He wondered how Smoltz planned to deal with this disaster. The casinos couldn’t pay off that many jackpots without bankrupting themselves. But if the casinos didn’t pay off, no one would ever gamble in Las Vegas again.

A few seconds later, he got his answer.

Chapter 59

The lights inside the MGM flickered, then went out all together, throwing the interior into darkness. The casino had no windows, and the blackness was like being inside a cave. A roar of panic came from the startled patrons.

“Son of a bitch,” Bill shouted.

“What’s going on?” Valentine said.

“Smoltz!”

It took a moment for Valentine to understand what Bill was saying. Rather than allow a quarter of Vegas’s video poker machines to register jackpots and potentially bankrupt the casinos, Smoltz had killed the power throughout the city.

Bill let out a startled yell. Then a gun went off, the sound ripping across the casino. Valentine hit the floor, and covered his head with his hands. Self-preservation had been the first thing he’d learned as a cop, and he rolled across the floor until he hit the wall where the cage was, and stayed there.

“Gerry — you okay?”

“Yeah, Pop.”

“Bill — how about you?”

Bill did not reply. Valentine preyed his friend was not hurt. On the other side of the casino came the sounds of people screaming, as well as chairs and tables being broken. Were people destroying the place out of anger, or just trying to escape?

Valentine felt the toe of a man’s shoe catch him squarely in the face. He tasted his own blood and the world began to spin. The shoe kicked him again, this time in the forehead, and his head snapped back, and hit the wall. An ugly laugh accompanied the kick.

“Hey Valentine,” Bronco said. “Guess who’s gun I’ve got?”

Valentine lay perfectly still, and tried to determine where Bronco was standing. If he could just grab his leg...

“Want me to shoot you?” Bronco asked.

Valentine hesitated, then said, “Not really.”

Another laugh. “You’re a funny guy. There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. Your brother-in-law Sal was on the take. He tried to squeeze me, so my boys and I killed him. He was dirty.”

Valentine felt the anger rise in his throat. Sal was like most cops, and had lived close to the poverty line. He couldn’t have been taking bribes.

Gerry started to say something. Valentine kicked him before the words tumbled out of his mouth, and his son fell silent.

“Sal got what he deserved,” Bronco said, his voice moving away. “I’ll send you a postcard when I get settled. See you around.”

A second gunshot ripped through the casino. A door leading to the street opened and closed, throwing light inside the darkened interior. Valentine pulled himself to his feet and ran toward the door. Blood was pouring out of his mouth, and his head was spinning. Gerry was right beside him, their shoulders almost touching.

“You didn’t have to kick me so hard,” his son said.

“Yes, I did.”

The darkness was deceiving, and made it hard to judge distances. Valentine found the door and jerked it open. Sunlight flooded through the space. Lying on the floor was the guard assigned to make sure Bronco didn’t escape. He’d taken a slug in the shoulder and had his hand pressed against the wound.

“You okay?” Valentine asked.

“Flesh wound,” the guard said. “Get that son-of-a-bitch.”

Valentine and Gerry went outside. The exit led to an overhead pedestrian walkway that connected the MGM to the other side of Las Vegas Boulevard. Vegas was filled with pedestrian walkways, and Valentine hated every single one of them. They served no other purpose than to give escape routes for criminals.

Bronco was halfway across the walkway. He had eyes in the back of his head, and spun around, then aimed and fired. The bullet winged the building above their heads.

“Fuck you, Valentine!”

Laughing, Bronco climbed over the walkway’s restraining wall, and jumped to the street, landing on the hood of a car filled with people. Rolling off, he began to run. The loss of power had knocked out the traffic lights, and he darted through the sea of cars.

“Let’s get him,” Gerry said.

“Stay here. That’s an order.”

The door to the MGM banged open. Bill staggered out, clutching his bloody arm. It was a nasty wound, but the pain was nothing compared to what he was feeling inside.

“We lost him,” Valentine said.

“What a way to end a career,” Bill said.

“It’s not over, yet.”

“It is for me.”

“You don’t look good. We need to find a doctor.”

“Where’s your son?”

Valentine spun around. Gerry had taken off. He felt himself panic, and heard the pounding of footsteps as Gerry ran down a stairwell that led to the street.

“Gerry!”

Valentine was never going to outrun his son. He stepped onto the walkway, and hung his head over the railing, trying to find him down below.

“There he is,” Bill said.

His eyes followed the direction of Bill’s finger. Gerry stood in the middle of Las Vegas Boulevard in the spot where Bronco had rolled off the car. His son picked up a piece of paper lying on the street. Thirty seconds later, he was standing next to his father, all out of breath.

“You trying to give me a heart attack?” Valentine asked.

“This fell out of his pocket,” Gerry explained. “It’s a photograph.”

Valentine had a look. The photo had been taken in the days before digital cameras. In it, a little boy was swimming in a plastic above-ground swimming pool. He was a cute kid, with loads of freckles and a playful smile. He flipped it over. Written on the back was the word Mikey.

“You sure this was in Bronco’s pocket?”

“Positive,” his son said.

Valentine didn’t know what it meant, and wasn’t sure he ever would. Bill had turned white as a ghost, and looked ready to pass out. They went back inside the MGM. There was a flicker of light in the ceiling, and people in the casino cheered. Moments later the lights came on, only dimmer than before, the patrons enveloped in a sickly yellow glow. As they helped Bill across the floor, Valentine noticed that everyone had gone right back to gambling. It was as if nothing had happened.

Which was exactly what Smoltz had wanted.

Chapter 60

Valentine stood on the balcony of his comped suite at the Acropolis, watching the neon jungle that was nighttime on the Las Vegas strip. Down below, thousands of people, some in cars, other on foot, snaked through the canyon formed by the gigantic casinos.

They’d checked Bill into the hospital a few hours ago, then tried to find lodgings for the night. The town was sold out, and Valentine had called Nick, and asked a favor.

Through the open slider came the voice of a TV newscaster, talking about the power outage that had taken down Vegas that afternoon. The outage was being attributed to a faulty generator in the city’s main power plant, located at the Hoover Dam. It was the first time since the assassination of President Kennedy that the city’s casinos had been shut down. The newscaster was making it sound like it had been no big deal, and Valentine supposed it wasn’t a big deal, unless you happened to know the truth.

He went inside and killed the TV. Gerry lay on the bed, still fully clothed, snoring away. His son had surprised him on this trip, and made him think there was still hope.

On the coffee table lay the photo of Mikey the mystery boy. He and Gerry had spent several hours trying to determine the photo’s significance. The photo had not been well taken care of, which had led them to believe that it wasn’t important to Bronco, and was something he planned to use when he established another identity.

Or maybe it meant something else. He sat down on the couch, and stared into space. Bronco had always been an enigma. He’d been chasing him for a long time, yet had never understood what made him tick. The things he’d learned about him on this trip had only added to the confusion. It had started with the tape of the woman named Marie. She’d obviously meant a great deal to Bronco, yet there was no evidence that she’d been in his life recently. So why had Bronco kept her dresses in his closet, and a framed photo on his night table? Had he been in love with her? It didn’t seem possible. Bronco had impressed him as someone incapable of love. That was true with most killers. They did not know how to love, or be loved in return.

Then Bronco had kidnaped Gerry. Bronco could have killed his son, only he hadn’t. Gerry’s comment about why Bronco hadn’t killed him had bothered Valentine. He has a heart. No, he didn’t. If Bronco had a heart, he wouldn’t have shot Bo Farmer on his honeymoon in front of his wife.

Valentine got a ginger ale out of the mini bar. It tasted good and cold. When it was gone, he went back onto the balcony, and thought about it some more.

Another strange thing had happened in Reno. Bronco had been nice to Karl Jr., buying him an ice cream cone, and later stuffing three hundred dollars into the little boy’s shirt pocket. Sociopaths didn’t do things like that, at least not the ones he’d encountered.

Did those things make Bronco a nice guy? Far from it. He’d killed Bo Farmer, stabbed Karl Klinghoffer, been responsible for his cell mate getting killed, and caused all sorts of mayhem in Las Vegas, including shooting the Asian in the back on Fremont Street. Bronco was a stone-cold, cold-blooded killer. Yet for some reason, he’d shown kindness to Gerry and Karl Jr., and revealed a side of himself that few killers had.

He has a heart.

That bothered Valentine. Going inside, he put on his reading glasses, and studied the faded photo. He stared until his eyes hurt.

It took a while, but he finally saw it. The resemblance was faint, but it was there. Mikey had Bronco’s genetic stamp.

Bronco didn’t have a heart, but he did have a son. That was who this kid was. And he’d died a long time ago. Otherwise, the photo would have been new.

He paced the room, and thought about it some more. Bronco had spoken to him inside the MGM that afternoon. I’ll send you a postcard when I get settled. He probably would, too, just to get under his skin.

Bronco was going to leave Las Vegas, and never come back. Would he say goodbye to Mikey, just like any loving father would do? Valentine had a feeling that he would.

Valentine shook his own son awake.

“What’s going on?” Gerry said groggily.

“Get up. We’ve got work to do.”

Chapter 61

Marie Marchese was buried at Woodlawn Cemetery on north Las Vegas Boulevard. She had died at age thirty-nine of an infection contracted in a prison hospital, a victim of neglect. Instead of a phone call, Bronco had gotten a letter in the mail.

He had picked Woodlawn to bury Marie because it was close to where he’d been living at the time. But the cemetery’s name had always rankled him. A wood lawn, made up of endless caskets, laid side by side.

At six-thirty the next morning, he drove his Lexus to the entrance of Woodlawn, parked in the visitor area, then got out and had a look around. A maintenance man in a gray work suit was tending to the grounds, but otherwise the place was deserted.

“Hey, Pops, you got a cigarette to spare?”

The maintenance man shuffled over, dragging a bad leg. He looked about seventy-five, with sagging skin around his mouth and eyes that had seen too much. Probably wasted his retirement money gambling, and been forced to take this crummy job. Las Vegas was filled with a hundred thousand people just like him.

The maintenance man dug out a pack, and threw it at him. Bronco grabbed the pack out of the air, pissed off at first, but then breaking into a smile. The old guy had spunk. “Marlboros, huh,” Bronco said, banging out a smoke.

“That’s all I’ve ever smoked,” the maintenance man said.

“Got a light?”

The maintenance threw a pack of matches and Bronco lit up.

“Look, the place doesn’t officially open until eight, but I won’t say anything if you want to visit,” the maintenance man said. “That’s my policy. Mind your own business.”

“Thanks.”

Bronco handed him the pack and the matches, and the maintenance man pocketed them. He’d left a rake on the ground, and used his foot to right it, then limped away. Bronco puffed on his cigarette and had another look around. Woodlawn was as dead as its inhabitants. He could say his goodbyes, and then be gone.

He finished the cigarette, and ground it out. Marie had hated tobacco, and he hadn’t smoked when they were married. Around Marie, he hadn’t needed to.

He entered the cemetery and walked down a maze of paths until he reached her marker. It wasn’t much, just a simple gray stone with her name, and the dates she’d been born and died. She’d wanted to be cremated, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it, wanting a place to visit where he could be sad and then walk away, and not be sad any more.

The ground around her grave site was ragged, the grass unkempt, the flowers he’d brought the time before withered and gone. The rest of the graves didn’t look so crummy, just hers, and it made his blood boil and the anger pulse hot through his veins. His eyes found the gimp maintenance man and he yelled at him coarsely.

“Get your sorry ass over here.”

The maintenance man shuffled over with his rake, a butt dangling from his lip. “Put out that cigarette,” Bronco said. “Show some respect.”

The maintenance man lifted his foot and ground the cigarette into the heel, then pocketed the stub. Then he looked at Bronco with hesitant eyes.

“What do you want, mister? I’ve got work to do.”

Bronco pointed down. “My wife’s grave looks like shit. Fix it.”

The maintenance man stepped forward, and began to rake the dead grass from Marie’s grave, drawing the rake delicately across the parched earth. He was being gentle with her, showing some respect, and Bronco felt himself relax. He pointed at a marker several yards away.

“When you’re done here, I want you to fix that one, too.”

The maintenance man lifted his head. “Which one is that, mister?”

“Michael Marchese. My son.”

“I’m sorry, mister.”

“He died in a foster home,” Bronco said. “My wife was in prison, and the state put him in a foster home, and he died. We never got the complete story. Some bullgarbage about falling down a staircase, and banging his head.”

The maintenance man followed the direction of Bronco’s finger. “I’m sorry, but which one is it?”

Bronco felt the rage build up inside of him. He grabbed the maintenance man by the shoulder, and pulled him close. “You don’t listen too good. It’s right over there, third marker from the end of the path. It’s taller than the others.”

“Oh, that one.”

“Yeah. Make sure you take care of it.”

“I’ll do that.”

The maintenance man dropped his arms, and thrust the rake’s handle squarely into Bronco’s groin. Bronco let out a painful yelp and doubled over in agony, then felt a fist crash down on the back of his neck, sending him face-first to the ground. Before he could react, the maintenance man pulled his arms behind his back, and cuffed him.

“You’re not the only one good at disguises,” the maintenance man said.

Bronco sat handcuffed in the passenger seat of Tony Valentine’s rental car and slowly got his bearings. His face had hit the ground hard, and two of his front teeth were chipped. Valentine was in the driver’s seat, peeling off his disguise, while his son was over at the Lexus, going through the trunk.

“There’s one part of this whole thing I don’t understand,” Valentine said.

Bronco started laughing. The great thinker was stumped. “Just one thing?”

“Okay, maybe there’s a bunch of things. But there’s one thing about this case.”

“Gimme a cigarette first,” Bronco said.

Valentine banged out a cigarette, put it between his busted lips, and lit it. Bronco took a drag, and blew a purple plume of smoke into Valentine’s face.

“What do you want to know?”

“Why did you kill Bo Farmer in Reno? You knew it would screw things up. Why didn’t you just beat him up?”

Bronco stared through the windshield at the cemetery. He’d asked himself the same question many times. The answer came out slowly. “He was a good-looking kid, had a pretty young wife. I’d lost my wife, and my son. I looked at Bo, and just hated him.”

“So, you killed him.”

“Yeah.”

“Any regrets.”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“But you had all that money from that jackpot you stole. You could have gone to Mexico or South America, and started over. Why didn’t you?”

Bronco gave Valentine a murderous stare. It was easy to dream about building a new life, easy to dream about a lot of things. But it wasn’t real. He could tell that Valentine didn’t get it, so he explained it to him.

“There’s no such thing as starting over,” he said.

Gerry climbed into the passenger seat of the rental. “I checked his car. It’s not there. He must have hidden it someplace else.”

Bronco twisted uncomfortably. The handcuffs were tight, and starting to cut off the circulation to his hands. Looking into the mirror, he saw Valentine staring at him.

“Want to do a deal?” Valentine asked.

“I ain’t got nothing you want.”

“Yes, you do. I want the tape you secretly made of Fred Friendly talking about all the jackpots he and his gang stole.”

“Who said I had a tape?”

“I did. You told the D.A. in Reno you had evidence that a gaming agent was stealing jackpots. What else could it have been?”

“You’re pretty smart, for a dumb ass cop.”

“Yes or no?”

Bronco’s hands had gone numb. He wanted to ask Valentine to loosen the cuffs, only he knew Valentine wouldn’t do it. Cops liked to treat criminals badly. He knew it would only get worse when he went to prison.

“Yeah, I’ll do a deal.”

Valentine turned in his seat and faced him. “What do you want in return?”

“Put a bullet in my head, and bury me in the desert.”

“You serious?”

“Dead serious.” He laughed at his own joke.

“You’ve got a deal. Where’s the tape?”

“Crawl under my car. It’s stuck to the bottom with a magnet.”

Gerry hopped out and went to fetch the tape. A minute later he returned covered in grime, holding the tape triumphantly in his hand.

“Just don’t make me suffer,” Bronco said.

Leaving the cemetery parking lot, Valentine hung a left on Las Vegas Boulevard, and drove a mile before turning right on Stewart Avenue. The streets were deserted except for a city bus spitting black exhaust a few blocks away. Bronco felt his heart catch in his chest as Valentine pulled into the Las Vegas Metropolitan Sheriff’s Department headquarters, and parked near the gleaming front doors.

“You’re turning me in?”

“That’s right,” Valentine said.

“But we had a deal. I want to die.”

“You are going to die. But first, you’re going to spend the rest of your life in prison, thinking about all the rotten things you’ve done.”

Bronco stared at the ugly stucco that defined the building. Like a monster hidden beneath the surface, the fear welled up inside of him, knowing what his life was about to become.

“You bastard,” he swore.

Chapter 62

When Governor Smoltz was not in the state capital in Carson City conducting business, he could be found in his luxurious suite at the Grant Sawyer State Office Building in North Las Vegas, an attractive five-story structure painted in natural earth tones. Valentine entered the building a short while after turning Bronco over to the police, and asked for Smoltz at the reception area. The uniformed security guard, a ham-faced man with no neck, raised a suspicious eyebrow.

“Who are you? What do you want?” the guard said.

Valentine dropped a business card on the desk in front of the guard. “My name’s Tony Valentine. Tell the governor it’s urgent that he speak with me.”

“Is this a joke?”

“Do I look like the kind of guy who jokes?”

The guard studied him like he was in a line-up. “Have a seat.”

Valentine sat on a leather couch facing the window. Out in the parking lot, he could see Gerry sitting in the car, nervously waiting for his return. He had weighed having Gerry with him when he talked with Smoltz, but had decided against it. If Smoltz pitched a fit and threatened him, it would be better if his son wasn’t around.

He had done some stupid things in his life, no question about it. What he was about to do now would get added to the list. But he didn’t see that he had a choice. When he had first gone to work policing the casinos in Atlantic City, he’d discovered how the gambling business preyed on human weakness. It had bothered him to no end. Eventually, he’d decided the only way he could justify his work was to make sure the games were clean and honest. To accept anything else would have made him a hypocrite.

A minute later, the guard called him back to the desk, and handed him a plastic ID tag. “Clip that to your jacket. The governor’s office is on the top floor.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ve been working here for a long time, and the governor’s never seen anyone who’s come in off the street. Who are you?”

Valentine hesitated. He could have given the guard several answers. He was a gaming consultant, and also an ex-cop. But that wasn’t why he was here now.

“A concerned citizen,” Valentine said.

Smoltz’s office was befitting the most powerful politician in the state. Wood floors covered with thick Persian rugs, fine antiques, the walls decorated with restored photographs of the city back when it had been run by gangsters and murderers.

Smoltz was on the phone when Valentine came in. His desk was covered with newspapers, and Valentine glanced at the headlines. The media had dubbed yesterday’s fiasco “The Afternoon the Lights Went Out,” and claimed over ten million dollars had been lost in gaming revenues, not to mention all the negative publicity. But in the end, it was nothing compared to the money that the casinos would have lost had the lights stayed on, and Valentine guessed that the next time Smoltz ran for office, the casino owners would happily bankroll his campaign. It was the least they could do to thank him.

Smoltz finished his call. His hair was unkempt, his face flush. He looked like a pressure cooker with too much steam, and glared harshly at Valentine.

“Sit down,” Smoltz said.

Valentine remained standing and crossed his arms. “Tough morning?”

“You have no idea.”

“Let me guess. The media wants a more thorough explanation of how the power went out yesterday. Only you can’t give it to them.”

“They’ll go away. They always do.”

Smoltz poured himself a glass of water, but did not offer his guest a glass. The gesture was not lost on Valentine.

“I need a favor. Actually, several of them,” Valentine said.

“Why should I do you a favor?”

“I caught Bronco Marchese this morning. He’s cooling his heals over at the Stewart Street jail. In Bronco’s car I found a tape he secretly recorded of Fred Friendly, talking about why he ripped off the casinos. It’s pretty heavy.”

“Did you give the tape to the police?”

Valentine shook his head.

“Will you give it to me?”

“Yes. But I want some things in return.”

“Are you trying to blackmail me?”

“Actually, I’m doing you a favor. This tape is evidence. By law, I should turn it over to the police, and give a copy to Bronco’s defense attorney. If I did that, it would eventually get played in court. Then you’d have to take the sign on Las Vegas Boulevard that says ‘Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas!’ and replace it with one that says, ‘Hello, Suckers!’ It would be more appropriate.”

“You’re an asshole, Valentine.”

He had Smoltz exactly where he wanted him. He picked up an empty glass off the desk and poured himself some water. It tasted good and cold. A sheet of sweat did a death march down Smoltz’s face, and he stammered like a punk on the witness stand.

“What do you want in exchange for the tape?”

“Give Bill Higgins his job back, with the promise that you’ll let him keep his position until he’s ready for retirement. He did nothing wrong.”

“Very well. Have Bill call me, and I’ll reinstate him.”

“No. You have to call him.”

Smoltz grit his teeth. “You want me to eat crow? All right, I’ll eat crow. What else?”

“There’s a casino owner named Diamond Dave living in California,” Valentine said. “I want you to find a reason to arrest him, and throw his ass in jail. He cheated his customers, and is also responsible for the death of his casino manager.”

“I can’t go after Diamond Dave.”

“Why the hell not?”

“The evidence against him was destroyed. I ordered it.”

“Diamond Dave pocketed several million bucks in illegal winnings. I’m sure he didn’t report it on his income tax return. Sic the IRS on him.”

“You know all the angles, don’t you?”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“I have friends with the IRS. Consider it done. What else?”

“My fee.”

A look of indignation rose in Smoltz’s face.

“You want me to pay you myself?” the governor asked.

“Yes. I don’t work for free.”

“What are the damages?”

“Ten grand.”

Smoltz took a check book from his desk and wrote him a check. Ripping it out, he held it in the air and said, “Where’s the tape?”

Valentine removed the tape from his jacket pocket. They did the exchange. Then Valentine stuck out his hand. Smoltz stared at it.

“We have a deal,” Valentine said. “I don’t talk, and you keep up your end of the bargain. Agreed?”

The best deals were ones that weren’t written on paper. Smoltz stood up and shook his hand.

“Agreed,” the governor replied.

Valentine went to the door, then remembered something. He’d become a cop because he liked helping people. It was the same reason he ran his consulting business. If he could make someone’s life better, then he’d accomplished something far greater than earning a paycheck. Turning around, he walked back to the governor’s desk, and cleared his throat. “I have another request I’d like you to consider.”

“I thought we were done,” Smoltz said.

“This is personal.”

“I’m listening.”

“There’s a woman I know who’s in jail here in Nevada. I want you to pardon her.”

Smoltz leaned back in his leather chair and considered the request. “I don’t release criminals on a whim. Why should I help this woman?”

Valentine was surprised by his reply. Even Smoltz had his limits.

“Let’s just say she deserves a break.”

“Girlfriend?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“But you know her.”

“Yes, I know her.”

“What if she breaks the law again?”

“She won’t.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Valentine thought back to their last conversation. He’d never been more sure about anything in his life. “I’ll vouch for her,” he said.

Smoltz drummed the desk. “Is this the end of it? No more requests?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t hear you.”

Valentine hesitated. He had always respected authority, even when it came in the form of the sleazy stuffed suit sitting on the other side of the desk.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

A thin smile formed across Smoltz’s face. Order had been restored.

“All right, give me her name.”

Valentine gave him the name, and watched Smoltz write it down. He left the governor’s suite feeling better than he had when he walked in.

Chapter 63

People called different places home. For her, it was an eight-by-ten green concrete cell with a plastic chair, a steel toilet, and two bunk beds bolted to the wall. There was also a tiny window which she tried not to look through. Looking at the sky only made her feel sad, and life was tough enough inside the jail.

She spent most of the day sleeping. Sleep was the antidote to the black hole her life had become. In sleep, everything was peaceful and sane, her dreams filled with chirping birds and long walks in the forest and beautiful sunsets. The hard part was waking up, when she had to erase those beautiful images from her mind.

Today had been a little better. She’d been allowed outside for a walk in the yard with the other female prisoners. Looking up, she’d seen a chalky white cloud in the shape of an exclamation mark, and taken it as a promise of better times ahead.

She’d spent the afternoon reading an adventure novel given to her by another inmate. It was about a fishing guide named Thorn who helped people in the Florida Keys. She’d become lost in it, and did not hear the guard until he was standing outside her cell.

“You’ve got a visitor,” the guard said.

She put her book down. “I do. Who’s that?”

“Kimberli Bronson, your lawyer.”

The guard led her to the visitor’s room, where Bronson sat behind an five inch-thick wall of plexiglass. Bronson wore a dark blue suit and had her hair tied in a bun. Nice-looking, but not a show-off. She pulled up a chair expectantly.

“I have wonderful news,” Bronson said.

Wonderful was a relative term when you lived in a concrete cell.

“What are you talking about? What’s happened?”

“The governor of Nevada has pardoned you.”

Time seemed to stand still, and a pool of darkness appeared before her eyes. She took several deep breaths until her composure returned.

“Did you hear what I just said. You’re going to go free.”

“When?”

“Today, right now. The governor signed the papers a short while ago, and his office called me. I thought I should deliver the news in person.”

She cried without making a sound. The guard, who’d been standing dutifully behind her, handed her a Kleenex. She thanked him and blew her nose.

“Do you know why?” she asked.

Her lawyer leaned forward, smiling. “The governor wouldn’t tell me. I know a woman who works in his office, and asked her. She said a consultant named Tony Valentine struck a deal with him. Valentine got him to do it.”

She leaned back in her chair, the Kleenex clutched in her hand. “Tony Valentine did this for me?”

Bronson lifted her eyebrows and nodded.

“That’s so wonderful,” she said.

With her lawyer by her side, she went to the jail’s booking area, and signed a stack of papers that she didn’t bother to read. The man behind the desk flashed her a smile and said, “Well, I guess then you’d like your things back. Full name, please.”

“Karen Farmer,” she said.

The man got a plastic bag with her things and dumped them on the desk. It was all there — jewelry, purse, belt, shoelaces — and Karen quickly collected the items, then went into a small room, and changed out of her prison jumpsuit into the clothes she’d been wearing the day she’d been arrested. Then, she followed her lawyer outside the Washoe County jail and into the sunshine. The day had gotten more beautiful, the desert colors bleeding through like paint on a canvas. Her lawyer pointed at a Subaru parked nearby.

“Can I give you a lift somewhere?”

Karen hesitated. Bronson had gone the extra mile for her. She didn’t want to take advantage of her any further, and said, “Are you sure it’s no problem?”

“Of course. Where are you going?”

“To the Cal Neva lodge,” Karen said. “My car is still parked in the hotel valet.”

“You going back to Sacramento?” her lawyer asked.

“It’s the only home I’ve got,” Karen replied.

The drive to the Cal Neva was straight uphill, and her lawyer spent more time maneuvering her Subaru than talking. Karen enjoyed the silence, and watched the scenery with a sliver of fresh air blowing in her face. Forty minutes later, her lawyer pulled into the Cal Neva’s winding entrance and braked at the main entrance.

“Well, here you go. Good luck.”

Karen reached over and squeezed her lawyer’s hand. “You’ve been awfully good to me. Thank you.” Then, she climbed out of the car and walked over to the valet. As the Subaru pulled out, she turned and waved. Her lawyer was already on her cell phone.

Karen give her stub to the valet.

“You checking out, ma’am?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Any luggage?”

She felt a catch in her throat. Her clothes and toiletries and wedding dress were probably still somewhere inside the hotel, waiting to be claimed. And so were Bo’s things, his tux and work clothes and the funny tee shirts he liked to wear to bed.

“No,” she said.

She was soon on the road. The sun was blinding, and she dropped her visor and saw something fall into her lap. It was the size of a parking ticket, and she didn’t look at it until she was sitting at a traffic light a short while later. It was a snapshot of Bo taken at a neighbor’s backyard barbecue a few months ago. She stifled a sharp cry.

“Oh, baby,” she said.

In the snapshot, Bo was smiling like the cat who’d just eaten the canary. The devilish look on his face said he’d just done something, and was just daring her to find out what. It was the look that had made her fall in love, and now she was falling in love with him all over again.

She pulled into a gas station and parked in a shady spot. For ten minutes she cried her heart out. When she’d run out of tears, she kissed the photograph and tucked it into her purse. God, she was going to miss him.

Then, she got back on the road, and drove the three hundred twisting miles back to Sacramento, all the while dreaming about the life she might have lived.