The bullet’s scar had wiped away the life line on his hand.
“All gone,” he said.
“What’s with the crutches?”
“I fell down running after my wife.”
Mona laughed hoarsely while sizing up Romero and Fuller. “Who are these Toms?”
“Special Agent Fuller, Special Agent Romero, FBI.”
“You’re hanging out with fast company.”
“I’m helping them with a case.”
A waitress with a cigarette glued to her lip took their order. Coffee all the way around.
“What do you want from me?” Mona asked.
Romero removed an envelope from his jacket, took out head shots of the Dresser’s four victims, and slid them Mona’s way. She pushed her plate to the far end of the table, then spread the photographs in front of her and stared.
“These girls were working Resorts,” Valentine said. “Know any of them?”
Mona pointed a gnarly finger at one. “She kind of looks familiar. Haven’t seen her in a while.”
Romero removed the Dresser’s composite and showed it to her.
“How about him?” Valentine asked.
Mona studied the composite for a few moments. “Naw.” She looked up, and her eyes rested on Romero, as if trying to place him.
“Now you, I know,” she said.
Romero dabbed at his brow with a paper napkin. It was cold inside the restaurant, yet there was sweat pouring off him. Had he gone out for some fun, and done her?
“You must be mistaken,” the FBI agent said.
“Don’t get smart with me, federal agent man. I saw you the other morning in the Catholic church over on Atlantic. You were in the front pew, praying. You said good morning to me. Remember?”
She banged out a cigarette from her pack of Kools. Romero picked up her lighter and fumbled with it. Finally, he got her cigarette lit.
“Yes, I remember,” he said.
Mona inhaled deeply on her cigarette. “I pray for my sister. She’s dying of leukemia. Who you praying for?”
“A dead friend,” Romero said.
“That ain’t nothing to be ashamed off,” Mona told him.
Fuller and Romero had printed flyers with the Dresser’s composite along with a special 24-hour FBI hot line to call, and asked Mona if she would distribute them to other working girls on the island. Mona read the flyer and shook her head.
“This will never work,” she said.
“Why, what’s wrong with it?” Valentine asked.
“It says, ‘If you think you recognize this person, please call Special Agent Fuller or Special Agent Romero of the FBI at this number.” She snorted with laughter. “Come on. You really think a whore is gonna call the Hardy Boys?”
Valentine hid a smile. “Probably not.”
“Have them call
“Me?” Valentine said.
“Yeah. The whores trust you. Your word means something.”
Fuller turned sideways to looked at Valentine. “Do you mind if we do that?”
Valentine hesitated. He had enough on his plate, only he knew Mona was right. The hookers in the town would call him if they thought their lives were in danger.
“All right,” he said.
Romero got pens from the waiter, and he and Fuller crossed out the last line on each flyer, and substituted Valentine’s name and station house phone number. Mona took one of the flyers, and appraised it with a skilled eye.
“This will work,” she said.
Chapter 20
Two days after Christmas, Valentine tossed his crutches, and decided to go back to work. Hanging around the house was starting to feel like a prison sentence, and he found himself looking forward to returning to Resorts, and making some cheater’s life miserable.
But first, he had some business to take care of. Driving to the Margate mall, he found a jewelry store with a sign in the window that said Christmas sale, all items 30% off. He had a female clerk help him pick out an appropriate gift, then had her wrap it. He drove to the Rainbow Arms apartment with the gift in his lap, and parked
