Wild Card (Tony Valentine Series)

by James Swain

  Valentine tried to reply, only he was choking on his own laughter. Lois backed him into a corner, and began to playfully pummel his arms with her fists. “Tony Valentine, how dare you set me up like that!”

  At a few minutes past nine, the front doorbell rang. Lois was upstairs reading a book. Valentine was still in the kitchen, and heard Gerry answer the door. When his son came into the kitchen a few moments later, his face was white as a sheet.

  “There’s a man outside to see you. Says he’s with the FBI.”

  Valentine couldn’t let the opportunity pass, and said, “What did you do now?”

  “Me? I didn’t do anything.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Valentine hung up his apron and went to the front of the house, opened the door, and stepped outside without his coat. Special Agent Romero was on the stoop, and wasn’t wearing a coat either. They shook hands, and Valentine glanced at the Chevy parked in the driveway. Fuller was nowhere to be seen.

  “Let me guess,” Valentine said. “You caught the bastard.”

  “I wish. Fuller and I are leaving Atlantic City tonight.”

  “What? Why?”

  Romero lowered his voice. “This conversation goes no further, understood?”

  It had started to snow, with flakes the size of half dollars coming down. Valentine sensed that Romero was walking a tightrope, and simply nodded.

  “Fuller came to me this afternoon, and said that he’d gone to an apartment where one of the suspects on our list lived,” Romero said. “The suspect had moved, and Fuller got the landlord to let him look at a box of things the suspect had left behind. In the box Fuller found bell bottoms, flower dresses and love beads. The landlord told Fuller the suspect had gone to New York. Fuller called our boss at the bureau. Our boss told Fuller to follow the suspect, which is why we’re leaving.”

  “What’s the suspect’s name?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Fuller’s lying.”

  The snow had intensified along with Valentine’s sense of unease. “Why do you say that?”

  “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.

  His parents had gone to Philadelphia one weekend, gotten caught in a blizzard, and been forced to stay overnight. It had been his first time home alone. Feeling brave, he’d called a girl he’d met the previous summer. In his closet were the clothes he’d stolen from her, which he liked to look at while imagining he was making love to her.

  “Hey, my folks are out of town — want to come over?” he’d asked.

  “I don’t think so,” she’d said.

  “But I really like you,” he blurted out, instantly sorry he’d exposed his feelings.

  “Sorry, but I already have a boyfriend,” she’d said in a condescending tone.

  Her words had crushed him. I’m your boyfriend, you fucking tramp, he almost shouted. Hanging up, he’d gone to the liquor cabinet, grabbed his father’s prized fifty-year-old bottle of Scotch, and got
ten drunk. The liquor had brought out the monster in him, and he’d taken his parent’s car, and driven to the Greyhound bus station on the north end of the island. It was a seedy place, and he found a hooker sitting on a bench, showing plenty of skin. He paid her a hundred dollars to get into the car.

  Driving to the beach, he climbed into the back seat with the hooker, his head swimming from the booze. As they started to have sex, he began to strangle her. She struggled and screamed, then fell limp in his arms.

  He’d taken the hooker home with him, and dressed her in the tramp’s clothes. Seeing her in those clothes had aroused him, and set a fire deep in his soul.

  He’d been killing hookers ever since. For twenty years, he’d traveled to Philly and New York on the weekends, and gone on his prowls. He would lure a girl into his car, knock her out, and bring her home with him, keeping her as a slave until she died. The traveling had been a drag, but he’d seen no other way to keep killing, and not get caught by the police.

  Then Resorts’ casino had opened. That had changed things. Overnight, the island had become filled with hookers, and he’d had his pick of victims.

  As the locals liked to say, it had been a beautiful thing.

  He showered and shaved and made himself look presentable. He dressed well when he went to the casino, and made sure to have plenty of cash. That was all the hookers cared about.

  He went to his closet. Hanging from the bar were the clothes he’d stolen from the tramp twenty years ago. He’d never liked hippie clothes until he’d seen her wearing them. On her, they’d looked incredible.

  The outfit he chose tonight was his favorite. A blue jump suit that reminded him of Diana Rigg from the TV show, The Avengers. Skin tight, and sexy. He pulled it out of the garment bag, and hung it on the door.

  He left the house and drove to the casino. He parked a block away in the lot of a Catholic church on Atlantic Avenue. It was the same church where he’d followed Special Agent Romero one morning and watched him pray. A man of true convictions, he’d decided.

  Inside the casino, he bought a bucket of quarters at a change booth and walked up and down the aisles of slot machines. A sad-eyed brunette wearing a tight sweater caught his eye. She was sitting in front of a machine, resting her feet. He’d seen her trolling for johns before. About five-five, small-breasted, with freckles on her nose.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Sissy,” she said.

  He explained that he was on a losing streak, and a friend had told him to go find a pretty girl, and ask her to pull the arm of a slot machine after he put the coins in.

  “My friend swears by it,” he said.

  Sissy scrunched over on her stool so he could share it with her. He started feeding coins and Sissy started pulling the arm of the slot machine. Within a few minutes the bucket was empty. Sissy dropped her hand on his thigh and gave it a squeeze.

  “Hope you didn’t lose all your money in that machine,” she said.

  “I’ve got more,” he said.

  “I’ll sleep with you for a hundred bucks.”

  “Okay.”

  He gave her the cash. She stuffed the money into a beaded purse. In his closet at home, he had a box filled with similar purses. Each contained condoms, a can of mace, and a lipstick. That was all his victims ever seemed to carry.

  In the lobby Sissy stopped at a payphone and made a quick call. They walked to his car, Sissy moving quickly, like the clock was already ticking. She didn’t have a coat, and shivered from the cold.

  He wasn’t the only gambler who used the church lot, and a glut of cars was trying to leave. Sissy fired up a cigarette without asking him if he cared. He hated chimney breath, and would make her pay for the inconsideration. Finally, the lot cleared and he backed out.

  “I know a good motel nearby,” she said.

  “Lots of satisfied customers, huh?”

  “Yeah, the night manager looks out for me.”

  He wondered if that was who she’d called from the lobby. Or, was it a pimp, or a strung-out boyfriend? Those were the types of losers that wasted their time with hookers. He came to a stop light and threw the car into park. Then he made a fist and punched himself in the chest, a few inches above his heart. He groaned loudly.

  “Oh, no,” he said.

  “What’s wrong? You’re not having a heart attack, are you?”

  “I get heartburn bad. I need my pills.”

  The light changed, and he pulled down a darkened side street and parked, his tires rubbing the curb. He pointed at the glove compartment. “Would you mind getting my medicine out of there?”

  “Sure,” she said.

  Sissy popped open the glove compartment and sifted through his junk. She wasn’t paying attention to him, and he reached into the pocket on his door, and removed a flask of chloroform and a piece of folded cloth. In one practiced motion, he doused the cloth and waited for her to turn. That was the important part. Wait for them to turn into you.

  Which Sissy did. She was holding the vial of medicine in her hand, and he pressed the cloth to her mouth and saw her eyes go wide. Her head rolled back, and she collapsed into her seat.

  “Sleep tight,” he said.

  He started to pull out. A police car blew past on Atlantic Avenue, its siren wailing. He froze, terrified. He thought about the phone call she’d made. Had she called the cops? He stuck his head out his window, and listened to the siren fade away. He was being paranoid. Of course she hadn’t called the cops. He leaned over and lifted up one of her eyelids with his thumb.

  “Fucking tramp,” he said.

  He grabbed her by the hair and shook her head. He felt giddy, like he’d gone into the woods and shot a deer, and was now dragging its carcass back to be gutted and its head proudly displayed on a wall. He noticed her purse lying beside him. Normally, he would have waited until later to check its contents. But something inside of him just had to know if she was carrying the same items as the others.

  He dumped the purse onto the seat. A lipstick and some rubbers fell out. And a sheet of paper, folded in half. It looked like a promotional flyer, and out of curiosity he unfolded it.

  He found himself staring at a composite of a man that bore a strong resemblance to himself. The flyer called him a serial killer, and said he liked hookers. On the bottom of the flyer was a phone number to call, and a name. Detective Tony Valentine. He couldn’t believe it: He had gone to high school with Tony Valentine, and had hated him. And now Valentine was chasing him.

  Another wailing police car blew past on Atlantic, and he felt himself start to panic. Had Sissy called Valentine, and alerted him? He decided he couldn’t risk it. Leaning over, he unfastened Sissy’s seat belt, opened her door, and gave her limp body a shove. She rolled out of the van, and moaned as she hit the gutter.

  Her precious purse followed. He started to shut the door, and stared longingly at her lovely body. He’d earned this one, and it hurt to let her go. For a few moments he listened to her tortured breathing, her lungs struggling with the freezing cold air. Perhaps no one would find her until morning, and she’d die of exposure.

  He could only hope, and quickly drove away.

  Chapter 33

  “Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re causing me?” Banko asked.

  Valentine had come to the station house to pick up his messages, and found a note from Banko scotch-taped to his phone. SEE ME IN MY OFFICE, it read.

  “What did I do?” Valentine asked.

  Banko loosened his neck tie and pulled the knot to one side. Their relationship had been going great recently, and Valentine guessed it was because he spent his days at the casino, and they rarely saw each other. Banko’s eyes did a slow burn on his face.

  “You busted Louis Galloway in the casino. The same Louis Galloway that owns Galloway Insurance, and has bankrolled half the politicians’ elections in this state. Your arrest report says you caught Galloway cheating at blackjack. His lawyer claims that all his client di
d was spill a rum and coke on his cards. Please tell me this isn’t true.”

  “Afraid so.”

  “For spilling his drink?”

  “That’s right. He spilled his drink on three different occasions.”

  “And you arrested him.”

  “On the third time, yeah.”

  Banko shut his eyes like he was about to faint. He was usually not prone to such dramatics.