Wild Card

“I asked him if I could see the clothes, and he gave me the box. When I looked through them, I found a sales tag. It was dated today. Fuller bought the clothes at a consignment shop.”

“Did you confront him?”

Romero shook his head. “No,” he added for emphasis.

“Why are you letting him get away with this?”

“It’s like this, Tony. Fuller is on probation for slapping around his ex-wife, and if I expose him, he’ll lose his job. We’ve been partners for five years. He took a bullet for me once. I can’t betray him.”

Valentine felt bile rising in his throat. He had always held the FBI to a higher standard than other law enforcement agencies, and he supposed it had something to do with their history of never having an agent in the field go bad. Romero knew better than to go along with this; saving Fuller wasn’t worth sacrificing his integrity.

“What about the four dead girls?” Valentine said. “Do you just kiss them goodbye? Or is leaving made easier by the fact that they were hookers?”

Just off the porch, everything had turned a magnificent white. Romero made a conciliatory gesture with his hands, then looked away. When he spoke, it was barely a whisper. “Do you know why I became an FBI agent?” he asked.

“You like long hours and crummy pay,” Valentine said sarcastically.

“I got a girl pregnant in high school. I played football and she was a cheerleader. I took her to a back alley abortionist, and he botched it and killed her.” Romero turned his head and gave Valentine a hard stare. “I became an FBI agent because I wanted to save a life. I wanted to save a life in redemption for the one I lost.”

“How does leaving town accomplish that?”

“I didn’t say I was giving up on the case.”

“I’m not reading you.”

“Your name is on the flyer with the killer’s composite. If a hooker spots the Dresser, you’re going to get a call. If you do, call me, and I’ll tell my boss the Dresser is in Atlantic City. Fuller and I will be back the same day.”

Romero was trying to protect his partner, and keep his integrity. He wasn’t a bad guy, just misguided, and Valentine said, “You shouldn’t be helping Fuller do this.”

“What’s the alternative? Ratting him out?”

“Try following your conscience. It’s always worked for me.”

“Would you rat out your partner? Tell me the truth.”

“My partner isn’t dirty.”

“But what if you found out he was? Would you rat him out and destroy his career?”

It was Valentine’s turn to look away. He and Doyle went back a long way. It was wrong for him to assume that Fuller and Romero’s bond didn’t run as deep. Put in Romero’s shoes, he’d probably do the same thing.

“No, I wouldn’t rat him out,” Valentine said.

The snow had stopped as quickly as it had started, and it suddenly didn’t feel as cold. Romero removed a pen from his pocket and scribbled a telephone number on a pack of matches, then handed the matches to Valentine. “That’s the number of the hotel where we’re staying in New York. Call me if you hear anything.”

“You leaving tonight?”

“Yes. I need to pick up Fuller, and then we’re gone.”

“Thanks for the heads up.”

Romero trudged down the path and climbed into the Chevy. As he backed down the drive, his eyes found Valentine’s face. He looked upset with himself, and Valentine sensed that his conscience was eating a hole in him. Life was filled with choices, and Romero had made a choice that he would forever regret.

Going inside, Valentine found his son lurking behind the door.

“Am I in trouble?” Gerry asked.

He tousled his son’s hair. “You will be if you don’t go upstairs, and start doing your homework.”

Chapter 32

The Dresser watched Fuller and Romero check out of their motel. Each man threw a single suitcase into the back of the Chevy, then climbed into the car, and drove north toward the causeway that would take them back to the mainland. The weather had sent everyone indoors, and the Dresser tailed their vehicle while singing along to the moronic song on the radio, Bachman Turner Overdrive’s Let it Ride.

The Dresser worked for AT&T, which had its advantages. He got a company van, a spiffy uniform, and the ability to tap phone lines. He had tapped the FBI agents’ motel room, and listened to the two men’s conversations. Romero had impressed him as being morally strong, Fuller spiritually weak. Blackmailing Fuller had been a piece of cake, and now the two FBI agents were out of his life.

The Chevy drove onto the causeway and soon disappeared. The Dresser slapped the wheel in glee, did a U-turn, and headed south.

He drove to Chelsea Heights and parked in the driveway of his house, a single-story ranch with crummy heating and a leaky roof. He’d inherited the place after his parents had died, and kept living with the loud pipes and leaks he’d been putting up with his entire life, his bedroom the same he’d had as a boy. He was a native, and like most people on the island, his upbringing had been uneventful, until he’d turned seventeen.