She was fighting back the tears, holding herself together.
“No,” he said.
“Then put the gun down.”
They heard the death rattle of Cowboy’s boots as he passed into the great beyond. Valentine tried to gauge how much time had passed. A minute? How much more time before Bill’s people or the police showed up? There was no way of guessing, and he said, “I didn’t come here to die. Tell me what you want. I’ll do it, and you’ll let Lucy go, and I’ll let you go.”
“A horse trade?”
“That’s right.”
Fontaine chewed it over. The scar he’d gotten in prison made him look gruesome. It was a look he seemed bent on cultivating, his head shorn like a patient in a psycho ward, his eyes bugged out like he was on drugs.
“Okay,” he said.
“What do you want?”
“Call Nick and tell him to release my people.”
Valentine had expected something like this and played his trump card. “He can’t release all of them.”
“Why not?”
“Albert Moss is in the hospital.”
Fontaine blinked. “You put him there?”
“Afraid so.”
A dark cloud passed over Fontaine’s face. He didn’t care about any of his people except Albert Moss. Moss knew everything; he was the only person the police would need to break to press charges. Letting everyone else go was a smoke screen.
“Have Nick call the hospital.”
“And take Moss out on a stretcher?”
“That’s right.”
“Afraid I left my cell phone in my car.”
“There’s one on the table,” Fontaine said. “I’m going to have Lucy pick it up and slide it across the floor to you.”
“Albert Moss isn’t going anywhere.”
Valentine hesitated. If Moss skipped town, Fontaine was off the hook. As if reading his mind, Fontaine shoved the .22 deeper into Lucy’s face.
“All right, I’ll call the hospital,” Valentine said.
“Give him the phone,” Fontaine told Lucy.
Lucy’s eyes had filled with tears, but she wasn’t letting them come out. She picked up the cordless phone off the coffee table. Her arm tensed.
Valentine had been involved in two hostage negotiations as a cop. In both, an X factor had upset the balance of the situation. In the first, it had been a flock of seagulls flying over a schoolyard. In the second, a pizza boy coming to the door. This time, it was Lucy slamming the cordless phone into Fontaine’s face. With her other hand, she grabbed the .22 and raised the barrel to the ceiling. The gun discharged, the bullet causing an explosion of sparks as it hit something metallic.
Valentine did not remember physically moving across the condo and jumping on Fontaine. It just happened. Knocking Fontaine to the floor, he began raining blows onto his shaved head. Lucy stood beside him, holding the .22 by her side while bellowing at the top of her lungs.
“Beat the shit out of him! Do it! He deserves it!”
Moments later, he heard someone yell “Freeze!” and looked up to see the condo become filled with armed men.
Not cops, Valentine realized as they pulled him off Fontaine and got the .22 away from Lucy. And not Gaming Control Board agents. Both of those groups had to identify themselves upon entering someone’s home. These guys didn’t.
There were a dozen, each identically dressed in black pants and black sweaters that were hiding bulletproof vests. All had short hair, and looked to be in their thirties. Six were white, the others black. All looked real strong. He guessed FBI.
One of the agents made him stand against the wall and frisked him. Valentine heard a bunch of surprised grunts as the arsenal he was carrying got dumped onto the couch.
“He’s clean,” the agent finally announced.
“No, he’s not,” another man said, and grabbed Valentine from behind by the balls. It was a sensation like no other, and Valentine yelped as the man took him by the collar with the other hand, and dragged him across the room. Glancing over his shoulder, he stared into the eyes of Director Peter Fuller.
Fuller pulled him into the spare bedroom and slammed the door. Dressed in black like the others, he looked like an action figure from a comic strip, with bulging muscles in his arms and chest. He hadn’t changed much over the years, except for his hair. Once light blond, it had recently turned snow white.
“How would you like to spend the rest of your life in jail?” Fuller said.
“What for? I didn’t break any laws.”
“Oh, no? Tell that to the guy you shot in the next room.”
“That guy is a wanted criminal,” Valentine said. “He and Fontaine were holding Lucy Price hostage. Why the hell are you reading
“Because I know you have a blood feud with Fontaine. Frank told me you were gunning for him.”
Valentine stared at Fuller in disbelief. “Frank
“That’s right.”
“Did you know that while he’s been working for you, he bankrupted the Acropolis?”
“Can you prove that?”
Valentine thought about Albert Moss lying in the hospital. He was the key, and was probably not going to say anything for a while.
“Eventually, yes.”
“Eventually?” Fuller jabbed him in the chest. “Fontaine’s been working with the FBI for a month. He hasn’t had time to scam the Acropolis.” Fuller jabbed him again. “You lied to me this afternoon. The gym bag we found in the stripper’s townhouse
Valentine’s face burned from where Albert Moss had slashed him, but it didn’t burn as much as the shame he was feeling. He should have called Fuller back and told him the truth. Only he hadn’t.
“I figured it out after we talked,” he said quietly.
“Did you know about the gun?” Fuller asked him.
“I knew he purchased one.”
“Your son bought a three fifty-seven Smith and Wesson at a Las Vegas gun store. A three fifty-seven was used in the murder of the stripper who had your gym bag. I need to talk to your son immediately. Do you understand?”
Valentine found himself looking into Fuller’s face. He hadn’t called Gerry a murderer. There was a pleading look in Fuller’s eyes, tinged by desperation.
“I’ll bring Gerry in. You can grill him all you want.”
“Do I have your word on this?” Fuller said.
“Yes.”
“You’ve got until midnight. Then all bets are off.”
“I’ll bring him. Then will you tell me what this is about?”
Fuller shook his head. “No,” he added for emphasis.
Then the director of the FBI marched out of the bedroom.
