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.
Chapter 18
Valentine felt a gentle tug on the lapel of his bathrobe and opened his eyes. Lois stood over the couch, all dressed for work, the living room awash in sunlight.
“Hey, sleepyhead, rise and shine,” she said.
She took his half-finished glass of milk into the kitchen, and came out a minute later with a steaming cup of coffee. Valentine sat up on the couch, and let the coffee bring him back to the real world. His wife sat down beside him.
“Any luck with the surveillance tapes?” she asked.
Valentine stared at the video monitor’s blank screen. He’d stayed up until three A.M. watching Crowe, Brown, Mickey Wright and the Prince standing by Resorts’ entrance. He still wasn’t sure what the four men had been doing together.
“I need you to do me a favor, and take Gerry with you to work,” he said.
Gerry was still on suspension from school, and since Valentine was at home, it made sense that he should watch him. His wife made a face.
“Would you mind telling me why?” she asked.
“Doyle’s coming over to discuss a case. I don’t want Gerry overhearing us.”
Lois frowned. She was a special ed instructor at the Atlantic City School for the Deaf. The last time she’d taken Gerry to work, his inability to sign had made for a long day.
“Must be a serious case,” she said.
“Real serious,” he said.
Doyle came to the house at lunch time, and brought corned beef rye sandwiches. While they ate, Valentine played the surveillance tape he’d watched the night before. Doyle’s eyes were sharp, and he immediately made Crowe, Brown, Mickey Wright and the Prince standing at the front door.
“For the love of Christ, what are they doing together?” his partner asked.
“I don’t know. I want to make a copy of it. Did you bring the VCR?”
“Yeah. It’s in my car.”
Doyle went to his car, and got a VCR he’d borrowed from the casino. He hitched it up to the back of the video monitor, and made a copy of the tape.
“What are you going to do with it?” Doyle asked.
“Bury it in the backyard with the Prince’s address book.”
“But it’s evidence. You need to show it to Banko, or we could get screwed.”
Valentine understood what Doyle was saying. If someone in the department found out they were withholding the tape, they were finished as cops.
“But what’s it evidence of? We still can’t prove anything. We need to figure out what’s going on before we start shooting our mouths off to Banko.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“We need to start watching Mickey Wright.”
Doyle ran his fingers through his thinning hair. One of the annoying aspects of working in a casino was that everyone was watched, even people in surveillance. If they spied on Mickey Wright, the other people they worked with soon notice it.
“I think we’re risking our careers,” his partner said.
Valentine gave him a no-nonsense stare. “Four men died at the Rainbow Arms, and three of them were hanging out with Mickey Wright. I want to know why. Don’t you?”
Doyle shook his head in resignation. His conscience had been eating at him since day one. “I think this thing is bigger than us, Tony. That address book was filled with the names of New York mobsters. Do you really want to tango with those guys? We could end up with horse heads in our beds. Or worse.”
Valentine had already thought it through. They were in too deep to quit. He had killed a man over that stupid address book, and he wanted to know why.
“I’m not afraid. Are you?”