Wild Card

The light changed and Fuller put the car into drive. They had arrived in Atlantic City several days ago, and with Banko’s help, started their investigation. The Dresser had contacted the FBI twice with letters — the first after he’d abducted Mary Ann Crawford, the second after Connie Hastings, both times sending pieces of jewelry as proof — and declared he could kill woman at will, and the FBI would never capture him. The FBI’s profilers had latched onto this, and decided the killer was someone the public implicitly trusted. A doctor, perhaps, or a fireman. Or even a cop.

So they’d done background checks on every doctor, every fireman, and every cop on the island. Atlantic City had less than fifty thousand full-time residents, and it had only taken a few days. To their surprise, the FBI’s profilers were wrong. None of the town’s doctors, firemen or cops matched the profile. The Dresser had fooled them.

Fuller turned into the beach front motel they were staying in. It was called The Lucky Boy, and was a dive. Both men got out of the car.

“I’m going to check for messages at the desk,” Romero said. “See you in a few.”

The Lucky Boy’s check-in was a tiny building with a neon sign in its window. Every afternoon, the clerk got married to a gin bottle, and getting information out of him was never easy. Romero tapped on the door before entering.

“Why didn’t you tell me the rug smelled,” the clerk said.

“What are you talking about?” Romero asked.

“The rug in your room. Did you puke on it?”

“You’re not making any sense.”

The clerk drew back in his chair. “Listen, you stinking wet back, you can’t come in here, and talk to me like that. I’ll throw you and that partner of yours out of here —” He snapped his fingers for effect “ — just like that!”

Romero’s open wallet hit the counter, exposing his gold badge. It was a move he’d practiced for situations like this. The clerk’s jaw became unhinged.

“You a cop?”

“FBI.”

“Oh, man, I’m sorry,” the clerk said.

Romero tucked his wallet away. “I’m listening.”

“A deliveryman came by earlier, carrying a rug over his shoulder. Said he’d been told to replace the one in your room. I thought you’d called him. Jesus, I’m sorry. ”

“Why are you sorry? What did you do?”

“I left him alone in your room. Sure hope he didn’t steal anything.”

Romero felt his radar go up. Leaving the office, he hurried down the winding brick path to his room. The motel had a pool in its center, and as he walked around it, he saw the door to their room was open. Fuller came out, holding his automatic limply by his side. Romero drew his own gun, then approached him.

“What happened?”

Fuller slipped his gun into its shoulder harness. Then he took out a pack of cigarettes, and banged one out. Sticking it between his lips, he said, “See for yourself.”

Romero went to the doorway and looked in. A dead girl hung by her wrists from a light fixture in the ceiling. She was wearing a go-go dancer’s outfit, complete with knee-high Nancy Sinatra boots, and a piece symbol around her neck. Mexicans believed that the dead’s spirits hung around earth for a while. Not acknowledging them was a mistake, and Romero mumbled a prayer before going in.

The dead girl’s face was covered with hair. Romero got close to her, then blew it away. It was Maria Sanchez, the beautiful Puerto Rican hooker that Tony Valentine had seen the Dresser pick up inside the casino. He walked outside, and bummed a cigarette off his partner.

“I think we’d better change motels,” Fuller said.

Chapter 13

Valentine was exhausted when he walked into the kitchen of his house at seven o’clock that night. It had been a long afternoon at the casino.

First, he’d busted a man for putting a coin into a slot machine with a string attached to it, and jerking the coin out. A silly crime, only the man played the machine so many times he won a jackpot. Jackpots could not be paid until the videotape was reviewed, and now the man was sitting in a holding cell, facing three-to-five.

Then, he’d nailed a card mucker. The guy could invisibly switch cards while playing blackjack. What had tripped him up was his face. It was in a book of mug shots of known cheaters Bill Higgins had sent him. Valentine had made the match, and now the mucker was in the same cell with the yo-yo man.

The icing had been nailing a gang of teenage boys who’d been ripping off slot players. The boys would enter the casino from the Boardwalk, and approach a woman playing a slot machine. One boy would toss coins beneath the woman’s chair. A second would tap her shoulder, and point at the coins on the floor. While the woman was retrieving the coins, the third would snatch her purse. And out the door they’d go.

Until today. The slot player had been Doyle, wearing a wig. Now the lads were sitting in a juvenile detention center, waiting to face their parents.