They shared a long silence. Then he said, “You gave me that notebook hoping I'd unravel this thing. Well, every time I turn a rock over, I discover another snake. Doyle must have told you something.”
“I'll tell you what Doyle told me,” she said, lowering her voice. “But please keep me and the boys out of it.”
He promised her he would.
“While Doyle was doing his investigation, he heard a story about another scam, one that involved a gang of employees. At first, he didn't believe it. Doyle had so many friends at The Bombay. But then he got a call from a phone operator who worked there. He told Doyle the scam was real.”
“Do you remember this phone operator's name?”
“Sparky Rhodes. He's in a wheelchair. He'd been in Desert Storm with several Bombay employees. He told Doyle the Desert Storm gang had decided to rip Archie Tanner off.”
“Why did Sparky call Doyle?”
“He told Doyle he was afraid they'd be caught, and he'd end up in prison. He said gimps don't last long behind bars.”
“What happened then?”
“Doyle went to Sparky's house. Sparky had secretly taped a meeting the employees had, and he played it for Doyle. The employees were angry because Archie Tanner had spent their pension money buying hotels in Florida. They talked about ripping off The Bombay.”
“How?”
“Slots.”
“And that's where the quotes in Doyle's notebook came from.”
“Yes.”
“What did Doyle do with the information?”
“He called the Division of Gaming Enforcement and the Casino Control Commission and spoke to the auditors. They checked into it and told Doyle The Bombay's slot take was normal. Doyle asked them to check the take again, and got the same answer. Then he contacted Detective Davis.”
“Why Davis?”
“Davis was handling the Funny Money investigation. You know, all the fake coins showing up around town.”
“So Doyle thought the cases were connected.”
“I guess.”
“What happened then?”
Liddy stared into the depths of her coffee cup. “Doyle was supposed to meet with Davis the night he got killed.”
“Did Doyle tell you anything else?”
“He said he wished he'd never taken the job.”
She went to the sink to wash her hands. She was moving in slow motion, the permanence of Doyle's death finally catching up with her. Valentine came up from behind, and put his hand gently on her shoulder.
“One more question.”
“What's that . . .”
“Was Frank Porter involved?”
He saw the corners of her mouth turn down. Then remembered that Frank was Sean's godfather.
“I don't know,” she said.
“Please don't lie to me, Liddy.”
Her shoulders tensed. “How do you know I'm lying?”
For as long as he could remember, Valentine had known when people were lying to him. It was a gift, yet also a curse.
“I just do.”
A tear did a slow crawl down her face. “Yes. Frank knew.”
He handed her a paper napkin from a basket on the counter and watched Liddy dab at her eyes. He struggled for something insightful to say to lessen her pain.
Nothing good came to mind.
19
Money Plays
Going back to his motel, Valentine flopped down on the bed with his clothes on and pulled out his cell phone. From memory he punched in Joe Cortez's number at the Immigration and Naturalization Service.
There were days that would always stay in his memory. His first great Christmas. Kissing Lois for the first time. Seeing Gerry take his first real step. Special days that would remain fresh, no matter when he thought of them.
For Valentine, one of those special days had occurred because of Joe.
It had happened like this. In 1982 he'd been assigned to work the high rollers room at the old Resorts International casino. A Japanese billionaire named Toki Mizo had been playing blackjack, and asked the house to raise the stakes to a half-million dollars a hand. The dealer, an imported French guy in a pointy-collar tux, had objected.
“But, sir, it is unheard of,” the dealer said.
Mizo slapped the table angrily. He was down four million bucks and hadn't broken a sweat. A handful of casino employees hovered around him, tending to his every whim. Mizo glanced across the room at Valentine, who was leaning against the wall. Mizo knew he was a cop—high rollers always drew heat—and motioned him over to the table.
“Hey, Mr. Policeman, what do you think?”
Valentine shrugged his shoulders. “None of my business.”
“Come on,” he said. “You been around.”
That Valentine had. And seen a lot of blackjack played. Playing one-on-one against the dealer like Mizo was doing was a dangerous proposition. A player could go broke in the time it took to smoke a cigarette.
“Well,” Valentine said, “you know what they say.”
“What's that?”
“Money plays.”
Mizo had to think about it. Then he smiled. “And that's what makes the world go round, my money.”
“It sure as hell isn't
Mizo burst out laughing. So did everyone else in the room. Even the dealer let out a snort. The casino's general manager slipped under the red rope that separated the Worthy Few from the Unwashed Mob, and whispered in the dealer's ear.
“A half-million dollars it is,” the dealer announced.
Valentine went back to leaning against the wall. A cocktail waitress appeared, testing her strength with a tray of drinks. She'd served him a Coke.
Valentine sipped the drink. By the time the glass was empty, Mizo was down twenty-six million dollars.
It would go down as the single biggest loss in casino history. Out in Las Vegas, where Mizo had been lured from, it had pissed off everybody. And, it had made Valentine's reputation, the expression
“I remember that little bastard,” Special Agent Joe Cortez of the INS said. “That was a fine piece of police work you did tracking him down.”
“Couldn't have done it without you,” Valentine said.
“No,” Cortez said, “you couldn't have.”
Where the story had gotten interesting was when Mizo had tried to blow town and not pay off his marker. On a hunch, Valentine had called Joe and found out which airports had direct flights to Japan. The earliest was out of Philadelphia on JAL, and he'd driven there and convinced the local cops to let him board. He'd found Mizo hiding in a
