“Listen to me,” Bronco said in a whisper. “If you don’t help me get out of this fucking place, I’ll tell the D.A. about all the crooked shit you’ve done, like laundering money, and hiring hit men for clients. You’ll go to jail for the rest of your life.”
Garrow looked stricken. “I’m doing everything I can.”
“Do more. I need time so I can figure a way to get out of here.”
“Tell me what you want, and I’ll do it,” his attorney said.
Bronco stared at the pocked table. This whole conversation had started because Tony Valentine was involved in the case. That gave him an idea.
“Take Valentine out of the picture.”
“But he’s a cop.”
“Ex-cop. Nobody cares about them.”
“You want him whacked?”
“You’re a mind reader.”
Garrow understood what his client was saying, and nodded solemnly.
“Consider it done,” the lawyer said.
Walking back to his cell, Bronco glanced over his shoulder at the guard who was escorting him. His name was Karl Klinghoffer, and he was as big as a mule and half as smart. As they reached his cell, Bronco said, “You married?”
Klinghoffer lifted his bovine eyes. “What if I was?”
“Want to make your wife happy?”
“Don’t go there,” Klinghoffer warned.
Bronco dropped his voice. “I’m talking about buying her a fancy appliance, or a big diamond. Think she’d like that?”
Klinghoffer unlocked the cell door, and brusquely shoved him in. Then, he closed the door and started to walk away. It was a slow walk, and Bronco knew that he’d taken the bait.
“This isn’t a bribe,” he called after him.
Klinghoffer shuffled back to Bronco’s cell. His shoes were at least a size fourteen and he couldn’t walk without scuffing the floor.
“Then what is it?”
“Free money.”
“Ain’t no such thing.”
“Yes there is.” Bronco pressed his face against the bars. “There’s a casino in Reno called the Gold Rush. You know it?”
“Sure.”
“Go inside, and go to the first row of slot machines you see.”
“Front door or back?”
“Front. Third machine from the end is a Quarter Mania. Put three quarters into the machine, and pull the handle. Then put in two, and pull the handle. Then put in one, and pull the handle. Then you’re set. Make sure you bet the maximum amount of coins after that.”
Klinghoffer stared at him. There was a security camera watching them, and he was smart enough to answer while barely moving his lips.
“Why should I do that.”
“Because you’ll win a jackpot.”
“Machine rigged?”
“Never been touched.”
“Then how?”
Bronco pulled away from the bars and lay down on his cot. He propped his pillow against the wall, and lay on it with his arms behind his head. “It’s free money, my friend. I have the keys to the kingdom, and I’m willing to share them with you.”
Klinghoffer’s mouth twisted in confusion, his conscience battling with the devil called greed. He started to walk away, then halted, and turned to stare at his prisoner.
“Three, two and one?”
“That’s right. Make sure you buy your wife something nice.”
Chapter 8
The next day, Valentine and Gerry flew to Las Vegas to meet up with Bill Higgins. It was six hours of flying with all the stops, and when they got off at McCarren International Airport in Las Vegas, Bill was waiting for them outside the terminal. A Navajo by birth, Bill’s dark suit complimented his jet black hair and steely disposition.
“I’ve got some good news,” Bill said.
“Let me guess,” Valentine said. “You found the bad agent in your department, and we can go home.”
“No, but we did find Bronco’s apartment. He’s been living in Henderson under an alias. I figured you’d want to be there when we searched it.”
“Who’s we?” Valentine asked.
“Two of my best field agents, plus two detectives with the Metro LVPD.”
“And the three of us?”
“Correct.”
Bill was the smartest law enforcement agent Valentine knew who’d never been a cop. But there was something missing from not having that cop experience. As a cop, you got to learn how bad people could really be. Valentine fished a piece of nicotine gum out of his pocket and popped it into his mouth.
“Governor Smoltz said this was my investigation.”
“That’s right,” Bill said. “Smoltz gave you carte blanche.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning you can boss around whoever you want to.”
“Including yourself?”
Bill swallowed a lump in his throat. They’d been friends for more than twenty-five years, only Valentine wasn’t going to let that stand in the way of handling the investigation. Gerry excused himself, and ducked into a Men’s Room.
“Including me,” Bill replied.
“If you don’t mind, I want to excuse your two agents and two detectives, and search Bronco’s place ourselves.”
Bill’s face turned to stone. He didn’t like it, and Valentine fished another piece of nicotine gum out of his pocket, and handed it to him.
“Try this.”
“What for?”
“It helps control your temper.”
Bill popped the gum into his mouth and made a face. “That tastes terrible.”
“See, it’s working already. You’ve got your mind on other things.”
Dozens of people were swirling around them in the terminal, and Valentine lowered his voice. “Look, Bill, who’s to say your two field agents aren’t working with Bronco, or that Bronco doesn’t have cops on the police force in his back pocket? I know it’s a stretch, but why take risks?”
“You’ve got a point.”
“Besides the one on top of my head?”
Bill smiled, no longer pissed off. “Besides that one.”
“One more thing,” Valentine said. “I want some form of identification that will let me do this job.”
Bill thought it over. “How about a Nevada Gaming Control Board shield?”
“Beautiful. I’ll also need an ID for my son.”
“Isn’t he here on vacation?”
Gerry had come off the plane wearing khakis and a loud Hawaiian shirt, and had looked like every other person ready to have a good time.
“No. He’s working with me.”
Bill started to protest, then clamped his mouth shut. Bill had come close to having Gerry arrested six months ago, and was not a member of his son’s fan club.
“It’s your show,” Bill said.
Henderson was a bedroom community twenty minutes outside Las Vegas, and had everything the neon city had — casinos, nightlife, good restaurants — but a lot less tourists. As a result, it had less problems, and Valentine had always considered it one of Nevada’s better places to live. Bronco lived in an older housing development on the outskirts of town. The development’s name was plastered on a sign by the entrance, and Valentine forgot it the moment Bill drove past. Inside were endless rows of one-story, sun-bleached houses on streets with names like Whispering Hills and Emerald Greens, even though there were no hills for fifty miles, and nothing was green.
Bronco’s house was at the end of a cul-de-sac, and was cordoned off with yellow police tape. A pair of Metro LVPD’s finest stood in the shade of the front porch, their thumbs hooked in their belts. Bill got out, and flashed his ID.
“We’re here to search the house,” he said. “I want one of you in front, the other in back. If you see anyone come up, yell.”
“Yes, sir,” the officers replied.
Valentine followed Bill across the front lawn with the sun burning on his neck. Gerry walked beside his father, ignoring the two cops’ stares.