“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.
“Next time, wear regular clothes,” Valentine said.
Bill used a crow bar to break down the front door. Then, he stepped aside. “It’s all yours,” he said.
Valentine entered and waited for his eyes to adjust, then stared at a living room straight out of a college frat house. On every table were empty beer bottles and plastic ashtrays overflowing with stale cigarette butts. On the floor were piles of newspapers and magazines that dated back several months. Gerry whistled under his breath.
“Reminds me of my room when I was growing up.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Valentine said. He watched his son head toward the kitchen. “Don’t touch anything.”
“Yes, sir.”
Valentine cased the living room. An 58" plasma screen TV hung from the wall. He had been thinking about getting a new TV, and had priced the same model at Best Buy, then decided he could live without it. It wasn’t that he couldn’t afford to spend five thousand bucks for a TV; there was simply nothing on TV worth spending five grand for. In front of the TV was a cracked leather chair that looked really comfortable. Next to it, a small table on which sat an empty fifth of Jack Daniels and three ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts. It reminded Valentine of his father, who killed his evenings in front of the tube, smoking and drinking. He noticed a DVD on the table and picked it up. The writing on the DVD said, MARIE/FIRST DATE.
The remote control sat on the chair’s arm. Valentine powered up the TV, and the screen came to life. He inserted the DVD and hit play. A surveillance tape appeared on the screen, showing a group of people playing craps inside a casino. One woman stood out. Short, dark-haired and vivacious, with a melt-your heart smile. She was throwing the dice, and appeared to be winning.
“Hey Pop, in here,” Gerry called from the back of the house.
“You find something?”
“Yeah, but I don’t know what it is.”
“You didn’t touch it, did you?”
His son didn’t reply, leaving Valentine to believe that he had. As Valentine crossed the room, he saw Bill leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
“He’s learning,” Valentine said.
He walked through the kitchen. It was a disaster area, the sink overflowing with dirty dishes that looked like science experiments, the counter tops covered with empty beer bottles. Most hustlers tried to stay away from the sauce; it was bad for business. Bronco obviously had a problem he couldn’t control.
“Where are you?” Valentine called out.
“In the garage.”
He found a short hallway that led to the garage. He stuck his head in, and saw Gerry standing at a work table that ran the length of the wall. The garage had been converted into a workshop, and contained every power tool ever invented. Gerry pointed at several boxes filled with rings of keys.
“What are these?”
Valentine walked over and pulled a ring from one of the boxes. There was a tag attached to it that said Harrah’s. He pulled out another. The tag on it said Caesars.
“They’re skeleton keys to slot machines. Bronco can see a key once, and make a duplicate. At one time, he probably could open half the slot machines in Las Vegas,” Valentine explained.
“What happened?”
“The casinos changed all their machines.”