same route as most Gaming Control Board directors—to the private sector, where he’d make three times the salary and deal with half the headaches. He lowered his hands, and Valentine saw that his eyes were bloodshot.
“You and I go back a long time,” Bill said. He let the statement hang for a few seconds. Then he said, “I’m about to tell you some things that could get me fired.”
“I appreciate that.”
Bill put his weight on his elbows and leaned forward. “Remember that letter you wrote two years ago, criticizing the FBI for demanding that every casino in the country start profiling Middle Eastern gamblers?”
“Sure.”
“Do you remember why the FBI asked the casinos to do that?”
Valentine dredged his memory. “There were two reasons. The first was that the FBI had information about a Middle Eastern gambler in the U.S. with ties to the 9/11 attackers. The second was that a Middle Eastern man was seen the morning of 9/11 about a mile from the White House. He showed a gas station manager a five-thousand- dollar casino chip. The manager thought it was suspicious, and reported it.
“The FBI thought the two stories might be linked. They asked the casinos to play Big Brother, and scrutinize every Middle Eastern gambler. I heard about it, wrote the FBI a letter, and reminded them there are five million Middle Easterners in the U.S. Profiling every one who plays in a casino is a waste of time.”
“You’re aware the FBI dropped the idea.”
“Yes. What does this have to do with my son?”
“The FBI found the guy,” Bill said. “Your son’s been seen with him.”
Valentine thought back to Gerry’s description of Amin and Pash.
“Jesus,” he said aloud.
There was a stack of photographs lying on Bill’s desk. Bill flipped the top one over. It was a surveillance shot of a Middle Eastern man, early thirties, playing blackjack. “This guy popped up in a homicide investigation in Biloxi last month. He befriended a gambler he met in a casino, used the guy’s credit card to buy stuff, then skipped town when things got hot. Before he ran, he murdered the guy and tried to make it look like a suicide.
“A homicide detective saw similarities in the case to another gambler suicide in Biloxi. Thinking he might have a serial killer on his hands, he sent the information to the FBI’s Behavioral Science Division. The FBI matched the case to four other gambler suicides they’d been investigating in Reno, Atlantic City, New Orleans, and Detroit.
“The FBI showed the photograph to the gas station manager in Washington. He confirmed that it was the same guy he’d seen the morning of 9/11. The FBI sent the photograph to every casino in the country, asked them to be on the lookout.”
Bill flipped over a second photograph. It showed two people standing outside a Strip casino called Excalibur. One was the Middle Eastern man, wearing shades and a baseball cap. Beside him was a pretty blond woman.
“Last week, a casino here spotted the guy and alerted the FBI,” Bill said.
Valentine pointed at the blonde. “That the stripper who was murdered?”
“Yes.”
Bill flipped over the last photograph on the desk. Valentine stared at it, and felt his face grow flush. It was the same man, this time wearing an elaborate disguise. He was sitting at a blackjack table. In the seat next to him was Gerry.
“This photograph was taken last night at the MGM Grand. The FBI believes your son is in mortal danger. They also think you’re protecting him. Fuller called me a little while ago. I told him that if you promised you’d bring Gerry in, you would.”
Valentine struggled for something to say.
“No need to thank me,” Bill said. “This can’t be easy for you.”
“How does Fontaine figure into this?”
Bill frowned. “The FBI got a hold of this guy’s phone bills and discovered he has a network of associates around the country. They listened to some calls and realized he was talking in a complicated code. Fontaine is a master at cracking ciphers, so the FBI sprang him out of prison. I was against the idea.”
Valentine looked at the clock on Bill’s desk. It was a few minutes past nine. It was going to take fifteen minutes to reach the Jokers Wild, and he didn’t want to be late. His son had gotten into trouble before, but never anything like this.
He rose from his chair. Bill stood as well, and handed him the surveillance photograph taken outside the Excalibur.
“You didn’t get that from me,” he said.
Valentine folded the photograph and put it in his pocket. “The FBI think I’m somehow involved because I wrote that letter two years ago, and then my son shows up with this guy.”
“I told Fuller it was a coincidence.”
“Did he believe you?”
Bill shrugged. “Hard to say what Fuller believes. He’s paranoid. He’s gotten the bureau all screwed up because of it.”
“You’re telling me,” Valentine said.
Bill started to walk him out of the study. Valentine stopped in the doorway. The frozen face on Bill’s TV had finally struck a bell.
“That’s Karl King,” he said.
Bill walked back into the room. “Know him?”
“He’s a card-counter. One of the best.”
“You’re kidding. He hardly ever looks at his cards.”
Valentine found the remote and resumed the tape. He stared at the other players, then the spectators standing behind the table. A regular joe smoking a cigar caught his eye. He stood behind King stiff as a statue. Counters had come up with many ways to camouflage their skills. Valentine said, “The guy with the cigar is doing the counting and passing the information to King.”
“How?”
“He has a computer strapped to his leg. See how he’s got his hand stuck in his pocket? He’s entering the cards’ values into the computer.”
Bill stared at the screen. “How’s he passing the information?”
“The computer does that with a radio signal. King wears a transmitter in his ear. The information is sent by Morse code.”
“But the casino’s RF detector didn’t pick anything up,” Bill said.
Every casino had an RF detector. Used to detect illegal radio frequencies on the casino floor, they were pointed down at the players from the ceiling.
“The signal is going through the back of King’s chair,” Valentine explained. “That’s why the RF detector isn’t catching it. The frequency is too short.”
“How do you know so much about this?”
“I busted King’s students a few months ago.”
“His students?”
“He’s a professor at MIT.”
Bill walked him to the front door of the house. They shook hands, and Valentine thanked him for his help. Bill had a funny look on his face.
“What’s wrong?” Valentine said.
“How do I stop King?” Bill said, clearly exasperated. “I can’t tell the casinos to have security walk the floor and point RF detectors at everyone.”
Valentine slapped his friend on the back. Sometimes the most obvious solutions were the ones everybody missed.
“Change the chairs the players sit in to ones with solid backs,” he said. “That should put an end to it.”
35
