Jackpot

“Where is she now?”

“Still downstairs on the main floor,” Impoco said. “The casino is stalling her, having her sign some meaningless papers.”

“That your idea?”

Impoco nodded.

“I want to see the tape of what she was looking at,” Valentine said.

Impoco called a technician over, and told him what he needed. The technician looked like a kid that had grown up wearing a cap with a little propellor on top. The technician noted the date and time on the tape of Rebecca Klinghoffer, then said, “This is going to take a few minutes, gentlemen.” and walked away before either of them could respond. Gerry, who hadn’t spoken a word since getting off the elevator, pointed at Impoco’s briefcase lying on the floor.

“Is your laptop in there?” his son asked.

Impoco nodded.

“Would you mind showing us how you use it to run the diagnostic test?”

There was a strained look on Impoco’s face, as if he knew that his running the inspection test and Rebecca Klinghoffer winning the jackpot were somehow linked. He put his briefcase on the desk, removed a Mac and powered it up. Within seconds they were hovering around the small but powerful computer.

“My laptop has a computer chip called a DEPROM, which can talk to the slot machine’s computer chip, called an EPROM,” Impoco explained. “With the DEPROM, I’m able to run tests on the slot machine’s computer, specifically its Random Number Generator chip.”

“Can someone inspect a slot machine without a DEPROM chip?” Valentine asked.

“No,” Impoco said. He played with the mouse on his laptop, and opened up the software used to run the inspection. “Each test lasts about fifteen minutes, with the slot machine running billions of numbers, which the laptop periodically analyzes to see if they’re truly random. The results are stored in the laptop, and sent back wirelessly to our headquarters.”

“So headquarters knows which machines are being inspected,” Valentine said.

“Yes. Our bosses read printouts every day. One bad machine can cost a casino a lot of money. We also collect information on the machine’s hold, which is sent to headquarters as well.”

The hold was the amount of profit the slot machine was making. Impoco played with the mouse some more, and brought up a sheet of information. “This is what I took off the machine after I did the inspection. Everything looks normal. But my gut tells me that I did something to alter that machine.”

Valentine understood exactly what Impoco was saying. Human beings had been listening to their guts since the beginning of time, and it was still the best barometer when dealing with crime.

“So what you’re saying is, if someone could gaff the DEPROM chip in your computer, they could corrupt any slot machine in the state,” Valentine said.

“Right,” Impoco said. “Only, there’s one problem. The software program would be huge, and take up a large portion of my hard drive.”

“Which you’d notice,” Gerry said.

“I sure would,” Impoco said. “I scanned the hard drive earlier. There are no hidden programs.”

Valentine felt like they were talking Greek. He knew how to start his computer, how to send and receive e- mail, and that was about it.

“Why would the program have to be large?” he asked.

“Because each slot machine has its own source code,” Impoco explained, “which is essentially the machine’s internal blueprint. The source code is protected by an electronic fingerprint, which is a string of thirty-two numbers and letters. Since there are over one hundred thousand slot machines in the state, and my testing is purely random, my laptop would have to have all electronic fingerprints in order to crack the machines.”

“And that would take up a lot of space,” Valentine said.

“Enough for me to notice,” Impoco replied.

“Here’s the surveillance tape you requested,” the tech called out from the other side of the room. “Hope you find what you’re looking for.”

A tape appeared on the monitor. Impoco, Valentine and his son leaned forward to stare. It showed the area of the casino which Rebecca Klinghoffer had been staring at. An elderly man with stooped shoulders stood in the picture. Beside him, a boy eating an ice cream cone . Valentine stared at the boy’s face. The apple hadn’t fallen very far from the tree. It was Rebecca’s son.

Valentine shifted his attention to the elderly man. He looked like he was developing a humpback, which happened to older people with arthritis. His face was a road map of the hard life, with more wrinkles than you could count. The elderly man didn’t look familiar, yet there was something about him which was familiar. Not his face or his appearance but something about the image he was projecting.

Valentine stepped back from the monitor. Sometimes the best way to look at a puzzle was from afar, and he kept stepping back until it hit him what was familiar.

It was the elderly man’s pants. They were his pants.

“Did Bronco steal my clothes out of the trunk of the car?” Valentine asked his son.

Gerry had seen it as well, and was practically jumping up and down.

“It’s him, Pop. The son-of-a-bitch is in the casino.”

Chapter 36

They took the elevator down to the casino. The doors parted, and Valentine and his son followed Impoco across the casino floor. The Peppermill was filled with elderly gamblers, maybe the most fervent gamblers known to man. Running through them was out of the question, and they elbowed their way toward the slot machines.

Valentine did a visual sweep of the floor. Rebecca Klinghoffer, her son and Bronco were nowhere to be seen, and he saw Impoco making a bee line toward the cage, where Rebecca would have collected her money. Impoco got the attention of the main cashier and asked where Rebecca had gone.

“She took her money and left,” the cashier said.

Impoco’s face went red, and he grabbed the bars of the cage. “I called down from upstairs, and specifically told you not to pay that woman off until I cleared it.”

“That’s right,” the cashier said.

“Then why did you?” Impoco asked.

“Because you called me back, and told me the woman was okay.”

“No, I didn’t.”

The phone in the cashier’s cage rang. Valentine heard Gerry calling him. He spun around, and saw his son standing twenty feet away, holding a house phone. Gerry hung up, and the phone in the cashier’s cage stopped ringing.

“It was Bronco,” Valentine told James. “He called and cleared it.” To the cashier, he said, “How long ago did they leave?”

“Couple of minutes,” the cashier said. “You might still catch them at the valet.”

The Peppermill’s valet stand resembled a car lot, with junkers and expensive sports cars parked side-by-side. Valentine went to the front of the line, his son and Impoco to the rear, determined to check every car before it left.

The valets had put up orange traffic cones to keep everyone driving at a safe speed. Valentine grabbed