Wild Card

Chapter 12

The sky had opened up like a busted feather pillow, and Romero stared gloomily at the falling snow while Fuller drove back to their motel. Stopping at a traffic light, Fuller threw the car into park and glared at him.

“What’s eating you?”

“Nothing,” Romero said.

“It’s written all over your god damn face.”

Romero blew out his lungs. He’d stopped playing cards with Fuller because his partner always knew what he was holding. “We should have talked to the rank-and-file cops the moment we got here.”

Fuller continued to glare at him. “We agreed that we wouldn’t talk to the cops until we were sure the Dresser wasn’t one of them. Remember?”

“I remember.”

“Then why bring it up now?”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, stop thinking it.”

The light changed and Fuller put the car into drive. They had arrived in Atlantic City several days ago, and with Banko’s help, started their investigation. The Dresser had contacted the FBI twice with letters — the first after he’d abducted Mary Ann Crawford, the second after Connie Hastings, both times sending pieces of jewelry as proof — and declared he could kill woman at will, and the FBI would never capture him. The FBI’s profilers had latched onto this, and decided the killer was someone the public implicitly trusted. A doctor, perhaps, or a fireman. Or even a cop.

So they’d done background checks on every doctor, every fireman, and every cop on the island. Atlantic City had less than fifty thousand full-time residents, and it had only taken a few days. To their surprise, the FBI’s profilers were wrong. None of the town’s doctors, firemen or cops matched the profile. The Dresser had fooled them.

Fuller turned into the beach front motel they were staying in. It was called The Lucky Boy, and was a dive. Both men got out of the car.

“I’m going to check for messages at the desk,” Romero said. “See you in a few.”

The Lucky Boy’s check-in was a tiny building with a neon sign in its window. Every afternoon, the clerk got married to a gin bottle, and getting information out of him was never easy. Romero tapped on the door before entering.

“Why didn’t you tell me the rug smelled,” the clerk said.

“What are you talking about?” Romero asked.

“The rug in your room. Did you puke on it?”

“You’re not making any sense.”

The clerk drew back in his chair. “Listen, you stinking wet back, you can’t come in here, and talk to me like that. I’ll throw you and that partner of yours out of here—” He snapped his fingers for effect “—just like that!”

Romero’s open wallet hit the counter, exposing his gold badge. It was a move he’d practiced for situations like this. The clerk’s jaw became unhinged.

“You a cop?”

“FBI.”

“Oh, man, I’m sorry,” the clerk said.

Romero tucked his wallet away. “I’m listening.”

“A deliveryman came by earlier, carrying a rug over his shoulder. Said he’d been told to replace the one in your room. I thought you’d called him. Jesus, I’m sorry. ”

“Why are you sorry? What did you do?”

“I left him alone in your room. Sure hope he didn’t steal anything.”

Romero felt his radar go up. Leaving the office, he hurried down the winding brick path to his room. The motel had a pool in its center, and as he walked around it, he saw the door to their room was open. Fuller came out, holding his automatic limply by his side. Romero drew his own gun, then approached him.

“What happened?”

Fuller slipped his gun into its shoulder harness. Then he took out a pack of cigarettes, and banged one out. Sticking it between his lips, he said, “See for yourself.”

Romero went to the doorway and looked in. A dead girl hung by her wrists from a light fixture in the ceiling. She was wearing a go-go dancer’s outfit, complete with knee-high Nancy Sinatra boots, and a piece symbol around her neck. Mexicans believed that the dead’s spirits hung around earth for a while. Not acknowledging them was a mistake, and Romero mumbled a prayer before going in.

The dead girl’s face was covered with hair. Romero got close to her, then blew it away. It was Maria Sanchez, the beautiful Puerto Rican hooker that Tony Valentine had seen the Dresser pick up inside the casino. He walked outside, and bummed a cigarette off his partner.

“I think we’d better change motels,” Fuller said.