Wild Card

Chapter 17

Valentine was released from the hospital the next day. Despite the severity of the beating he’d taken — the surveillance tape showed him getting punched in the head a total of nine times — the worst injury he had suffered was when he’d keeled over, and landed on the craps table. He’d torn a ligament in his ankle, and been reduced to hobbling around on crutches.

The doctor told him to stay off his feet for two weeks. Valentine had gone home and collapsed on the couch in the living room. He tried to read a book, and when that didn’t work, he watched an old John Wayne movie on TV. By that night, he was bored to tears, and driving his wife and son crazy.

The next morning, he overheard Lois calling Captain Banko, and asking him to give her husband something to do, even if it was just filling out forms.

“Thanks,” he called across the house to her.

At noon, Banko appeared on his doorstep. With him was a tech from the casino’s surveillance department. Soon a video monitor and VCR were sitting on the coffee table in Valentine’s living room. Next to the table was a cardboard box overflowing with video cassettes the tech had lugged in. As the technician connected the VCR to the monitor, Banko said, “You told Fuller and Romero that you were going to have the surveillance techs look at past surveillance tapes, and see if they might spot the guy who’s killing the hookers. Well, I had an idea.”

“You want me to watch them,” Valentine said.

“Exactly. You can’t watch all the tapes the casino has — it would take a year. So, I selected tapes from ten o’clock on, because that’s when the hookers usually come out.” Banko had put his overcoat on a chair, and he removed an envelope from one of its pockets, and dropped it on the couch. “Those are the pictures of the killer’s victims. It might be easier for you to spot one of them before you spot the killer. I realize this is like searching for a needle in a haystack, but who knows, you might get lucky.”

Valentine grabbed a video tape out of the box, eager for something to do.

“I’ll get right on it.”

Banko picked up his overcoat and slipped it on. He’d arrived covered in snow, and the flakes had melted in the pattern of little men on the coat’s shoulders. He brushed them away, and Valentine retrieved his crutches from the floor, and walked him and the tech to the front door.

“One more thing,” his superior said. “Fuller and Romero would like your help tomorrow afternoon.”

“Doing what?”

“They want to talk to hookers, see if any might have been approached by this sicko. I told them you knew every hooker in town—”

“Thanks.”

Banko flashed a rare grin. “—and that I thought you’d be happy to.”

Valentine hadn’t gotten a decent piece of information out of a hooker in all his years as a cop. But he had a feeling that watching surveillance tapes non-stop would eventually have him climbing the walls, so he said yes.

“Feel better,” Banko said.

Valentine watched videos all day, and well into the night. At a quarter of midnight, the phone rang. His wife and son had already gone to bed, and the downstairs was empty. Getting his crutches from the floor, he hobbled into the kitchen. On the fifth ring, he answered the phone by saying, “This had better be good.”

It was Doyle, calling from a payphone. “Remember my cousin Shawn? Owns the Irish pub off Atlantic, near the beach.”

“Shamrocks?” Valentine asked.

“That’s the place. Shawn called an hour ago, said your father came into his bar tonight, got loaded, and passed out in his bathroom.”

Valentine felt his face grow flush. His father has been passing out in bars for as long as he could remember, and it had never lost its impact on him.

“I drove over, got some coffee in him,” Doyle said. “Then, I took him to a flophouse and bought him a bed for the night. He seemed to remember me.”

“What did he say?”

“He talked about you beating him up.”

Valentine’s vision grew blurry. Twenty years past, he’d thrown his father out of the house before he could lay another hand on his mother. Drunk, his father had challenged him to a fist fight on the front lawn. Valentine hadn’t wanted that; he just wanted his father to leave. But his father had thrown a punch, and then there was no stopping it. He’d beaten his old man silly. Beat him until he was on one knee, and still throwing punches in the air. Beat him like there was no tomorrow. It had solved nothing, and he had regretted doing it every day since.

“I really appreciate your doing this,” Valentine said.

“For you, anything,” his partner replied.

He said goodbye and hung up the phone. He went back into the living room, and saw that the surveillance tape he’d been watching had run its course. He popped it out of the VCR, and replaced it with another. If he’d learned anything as a cop, it was that patience sometimes paid off.

Sitting on the couch, he stared at the grainy image on the screen. The new tape was of the Resorts’ front entrance, with hundreds of people passing through the doors every few minutes. He found it interesting to note the difference in their postures. People entering the casino had their shoulders thrown back, and were ready to take on Lady Luck. Those leaving were slumped forward, their pockets empty, and egos bruised.

A woman in a white jump suit appeared on the tape. She had a man on her arm, and was leaving the casino. She looked familiar, and Valentine rewound the tape until she was back in the picture. Then, he opened the envelope which contained the victims’ photographs, and pulled out Mary Ann Crawford’s. He compared the photograph to the woman in the white jump. It was definitely her.

He turned the photograph over. Printed on the back was the date Mary Ann Crawford had disappeared. He popped the tape out of the VCR, and looked at the date printed on its spine. It was the same.

He popped the tape back into the VCR, hit play, and stared at the screen. If his theory was correct — and the Dresser was picking up hookers inside the casino — then the Dresser was probably the man on Mary Ann’s arm. Valentine watched them come into the frame. The man’s face was completely obscured by Mary Ann’s hair.

“Shit,” he said.

“What’s wrong, Pop?”

Valentine glanced up to see Gerry standing at the foot of the stairs, dressed in his pajamas and rubbing his eyes.

“I’ve got a headache,” his son explained.

In the kitchen, Valentine got a bottle of aspirin out of the pantry, then poured two tall glasses of milk. Gerry took the medicine, and Valentine gave him a homemade chocolate chip cookie out of the jar on the counter.

“Makes the medicine work faster,” he said.

“Yeah, right,” his son said, biting into the cookie.

Gerry had reached the age where he didn’t like to be hugged. Valentine hugged him anyway, then tousled his hair. They returned to the living room. The surveillance tape was still playing, and a familiar-looking face flashed by on the screen.

“Hey. That’s Mr. Crowe,” Gerry said.

“How did you know Mr. Crowe?” Valentine asked.

“He coached my little league team, remember?”

Out of curiosity, Valentine rewound the tape and hit Play. The familiar-looking face reappeared, and he froze it on the screen. It was definitely Crowe, and he was huddled by the front door of the casino with three other men.

Valentine grabbed his wife’s glasses off the table, and fitted them on. He knelt in front of the screen, and studied the men standing with Crowe. One of them was Brown, Crowe’s partner. The second and third men were mysteries.

He focused on the second man, a tall, black guy wearing a dress coat that hung to his knees. It wasn’t Mink, or any of the black detectives on the force. Valentine hit play, and watched the black guy break off from the group, and walk away. He had a swagger, and his hair bobbed on his shoulders. There was no doubt in his mind now. The second man was Prince D. Smith.

“That guy walks like a pimp,” his son said.

Valentine had forgotten that Gerry was in the room. Rising from the floor, he touched his son’s arm. “Go to bed, okay?”

“Was Mr. Crowe involved with that guy?”

“Just do as I say, okay?”

“Ah, come on. He must have done something.”

Valentine gave Gerry a look that said the conversation would go no further. His son mumbled goodnight and went upstairs to his room.

“Sleep tight,” Valentine called after him.

Then he rewound the tape, and played it again. The third guy was really bothering him. He was several inches shorter than the others, and practically invisible to the camera, yet Valentine felt certain he’d seen him before. He played the tape backward, then played it forward in slow motion, and watched the man enter the picture. His face was still invisible to the camera, but the top of his head wasn’t, and Valentine stared at his oily pompadour.

He cursed under his breath. He’d seen that haircut every day for the past month. The third man on the tape was Mickey Wright, Resorts’ head of surveillance.