by James Swain
He typed Linville’s name backward, and hit ENTER. A page appeared on the screen. It was an FBI MOST WANTED poster. In the center of the poster was the same photo he was carrying around in his pocket. Next to it a SPECIAL ALERT had been posted at 2:00, Eastern Standard Time. That was only twenty minutes ago.
He quickly read the alert and felt a jolt to his nervous system as strong as the double espresso. The FBI had determined that Amin was a terrorist, and planning a major attack somewhere near Las Vegas.
41
Valentine got in his rental, took Sahara to I-15, and headed south toward Bill Higgins’s house. He did seventy most of the way, his eyes peeled on the empty highway. The sickening sensation he’d felt reading the FBI’s poster would not go away.
He needed a comforting voice to talk to, and decided to call Mabel. When she didn’t answer her house line, he tried her cell.
“I’m at St. Joe’s with Yolanda,” his neighbor said.
He nearly swerved off the highway. “She okay?”
“She went into contractions ten minutes ago. The doctor is here, and he’s concerned she’s going into labor too soon. She’s not due for another three weeks.”
Valentine pulled onto the shoulder, threw the rental into park, and shut his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he said, “But she’s okay so far?”
“So far, yes,” Mabel said. “The bad news is, she knows Gerry’s in a lot of trouble. She had a dream that told her so.”
“A dream?”
“I know, it’s goofy, but she’s convinced it’s a premonition.”
Valentine swallowed the rising lump in his throat. “It’s going to be okay,” he said.
“These people Gerry’s associated with are very bad, aren’t they?” his neighbor said.
“Everything’s going to be fine.”
“Oh, Tony, the evidence is right there. Gerry sent Yolanda a box of money, and he bought a gun with his credit card, and—”
“Did you hear what I said?” He realized he was shouting, and lowered his voice. “It’s all going to work out in the end. Please, trust me on this.”
“But, Tony—”
“Please, Mabel. Please.”
“Is that what you want me to tell Yolanda?”
He imagined Yolanda in labor, and the thoughts that were going through her mind. “Yes. That’s exactly what I want you to tell her.”
“Whatever you say,” his neighbor said.
Walking up the path to Bill’s house, he picked up the Sunday Las Vegas Review-Journal lying in the grass. The headline was about six UNLV baseball players accused of not attending classes. Beneath their pictures were the words TSK! TSK! TSK! Before he could ring the bell, Bill opened the door and took the paper from him.
“Must’ve been a slow news day,” he said.
They went to his study. Bill tossed the newspaper into the garbage, then rested his cane against the desk and took a chair. Valentine remained standing, his eyes vacantly staring at his friend’s face.
“So you know what’s going on,” Bill said.
“Yeah. Who told you?”
“The FBI monitors whoever goes into the classified area of their site. They called Steve Linville at FaceScan and asked him why one of his employees was in there. Linville told them it was you.”
“Any sign of my son?”
“Nothing,” Bill said. “Your boy hasn’t communicated with you?”
“He left me a voice message last night,” Valentine said. “He used a code to tell me he was in trouble.”
Bill ran his fingers through his hair. It was a signal that cheaters often used to signal each other there was “heat” and trouble on the horizon. He wondered if Bill recognized the irony in the gesture.
“Why didn’t you tell me last night that the FBI thought this son-of-a-bitch was a terrorist?” he said.
“Because last night, the FBI didn’t know that he was a terrorist,” Bill replied.
“What changed?”
“Sit down, will you? You’re making me nervous.”
Valentine pulled up a chair and sat down. “Feel better?”
“Yes.” Bill’s eyes were watery from lack of sleep, and he rubbed them. “Remember when I told you how the FBI linked two murders in Biloxi to four other gambler suicides?”
“I remember.”
“When the FBI was looking at the information, they saw something else. The cities where the gambler suicides took place were Biloxi, Detroit, New Orleans, Reno, and Atlantic City. These same cities have something else in common.”
“What’s that?”
“In the past two and a half years, caches of high-grade explosives have been found in each one. With the explosives were sophisticated detonators and mercury switches. In each city, the FBI got an anonymous tip that led them to the explosives before they were used. In New Orleans, they found a van with the stuff lining the interior walls.”
Valentine felt another jolt to his nervous system. They were starting to scare the hell out of him. He placed his hand on his chest and felt his ticker. Its beat was slow and steady. His nerves, he decided.
“You okay?”
“I’ll live. When did the FBI link the explosives to the murders?”
“This morning,” Bill said. “There was a shootout yesterday at a gas station outside Henderson. A Mexican died. His partner got pulled over by the highway patrol. A K-Nine dog sniffed vapors in his truck. The partner broke down this morning and admitted selling explosives to a guy matching the suspect’s description.”
“What kind of explosives?”
“Triacetone triperoxide, also called TATP. It’s what that guy Reid had in his basketball shoes when he tried to take down the jet right after 9/11.”
“How much did they sell him?”
“Seventy-five pounds. If it were detonated all together, it would take down an entire city block.”
Valentine closed his eyes, then slowly opened them. “You think he’s planning to hit Las Vegas?”
“That’s the general consensus.”
“I talked to my son last night. I know things about this guy the FBI might not know.”
“Did you tell Fuller?”
“I tried last night. He wouldn’t listen.”
“You want me to call him?”
“Yes.”
He watched Bill dial the phone. He’d wanted to find Gerry before the FBI did, but he knew now that that was no longer the most important thing. The FBI had to find Amin, and they had to do it fast. Even if it meant his son ended up getting hurt.
“Peter, this is Bill Higgins,” Bill said into the phone. “I’ve got someone here who I think can help your investigation.”
42
Longo woke up Sunday morning feeling like he’d slept with his head stuck in a vise. Like an idiot, he’d gone and gotten a six-pack of beer the night before, sat in front of the TV in his motel room, and polished it off. His body ached from the beating he’d taken, so he’d gotten drunk, hoping the alcohol would wash his misery away.
It had worked, and he had slept like a dead man.
But then he’d woken up with the world’s worst headache. Staggering into the bathroom, he’d stared at his reflection in the vanity and groaned. The lumps and bruises on his face were reminiscent of the white boxers on ESPN who couldn’t fight. Throw in the broken nose, and he was the picture of a palooka.
He couldn’t deal with it. Not so early in the morning. So he’d taken a handful of ibuprofens and washed them down with the remains of a beer. Soon his head was spinning. Lying on the lumpy bed, he’d returned to dream world.
At eleven o’clock the phone on the bedside table rang. Only a handful of people knew he was here, all of them cops. Longo raised the receiver expectantly.
“What’s up?”
His caller was an undercover narcotics detective named Hotchkiss.
“I’ve been calling you for an hour,” Hotchkiss said belligerently. “Where the hell have you been?”
Longo sat up in bed. “Out jogg
ing. You got something for me?”
“Yeah, I found your guy.”
Before he’d gone to sleep, Longo had called every cop in Las Vegas who owed him a favor, and asked them to help him track down Valentine.
“Where is he?”
“Right now, he’s on Las Vegas Boulevard, heading back into town.”
“You got a tail on him?”
“No,” Hotchkiss said, “a helicopter.”
Longo smiled. Narcotics had a great way to track suspected dealers. They would put tiny reflectors on the hoods of their cars and watch their movements from the sky. “How did you find his car in the first place?”
“A sheriff saw him driving the Strip this morning. He followed him to the FaceScan building and tagged his car.”
Longo’s smile grew. It made his face hurt, but he didn’t care. He was going to finally give Tony Valentine his due. Nothing in this world could have made him happier.
“Your guy just turned into the Acropolis,” Hotchkiss said.
There was a pause, and Longo guessed Hotchkiss was watching the action through the computer in his office, the helicopter sending him back a live feed.
“What’s he doing?”
“He left the car by the valet and went inside. I heard the place is closing down.”
“How come?”
“Got ripped off by a gang of cheaters.”
Longo slowly rose from the bed. His head felt like a balloon, and his legs were rubbery. He sat back down and said, “Thanks for the information. Thanks a lot.”
Longo ingested another handful of ibuprofens, then tore open a Little Debbie cupcake he’d bought the night before and wolfed it down. This time, the pills didn’t knock him sideways, and he dressed himself in yesterday’s clothes, then got his Glock .45 from the dresser. He slipped it into his shoulder harness, then went into the bathroom and combed his hair. He heard a knock on the door. Raising his voice, he said, “I’ll be out of your way in a few minutes.”
Another knock. This one louder, and more determined. He went to the door and stuck his eye to the peephole. It was his wife, Cindi. He pulled his face away.
There was a curtained window next to the door. Cindi’s face appeared behind the glass. Her eyes peeked through the opening in the curtain, and saw him.
“Pete. Please open up. I want to talk to you.”
His wife. Jesus Christ. He couldn’t let her see him like this.
“Pete? Do you want me to kick this door down?”
She would, too. Cindi was tough as nails. Her father had been a judge, and the genes had been passed down. Longo undid the chain and threw the deadbolt. Then he stepped back, hoping his face would be obscured by the room’s shadows.
Cindi came in, saw him, and did her best not to scream.
“Oh, my God,” she said. “What happened to your face?”
“I walked into a jet engine,” he replied.
They stared at each other for a long minute. Cold air invaded the room, his wife having left the door ajar, as if knowing she might want to escape. Finally, she found it in her to speak, the words coming out slow.
“Your detective friend Jimmy Burns told me you were here, if that’s what you’re wondering. I went and saw him this morning. I figured you’d probably seen him, and he’d know what you were up to.
“I asked Jimmy if he knew why you had the affair. I figure Jimmy’s been a cop a long time, he probably understands these things. Jimmy said, ‘Yeah, I know why,’ and he showed me your girlfriend’s picture.”
Longo couldn’t deal with this, and stared at the floor.
“Look at me, Pete.”
He lifted his eyes and stared at his wife. She looked no different than when they’d met in college twenty-odd years ago. He’d loved her a lot back then. So what had changed? Him? Her? Or was it just the world?
“She was beautiful,” Cindi said.
Longo felt like he’d been kicked. Why was she doing this to him?
“Don’t,” he said.
Cindi edged closer. She offered a faint smile. I won’t hurt you, her face said. She put her arms out and encircled his waist. “I looked at that picture, and said to myself, Looks like Pete found his cabana boy. Or should I say girl.”
Longo saw a twinkle in her eye. He’d once brought home a bottle of rum called Cabana Boy. On the bottle’s label was a picture of a handsome, well-proportioned guy in a bathing suit. Cindi had swooned over the bottle all night.
“You’re not mad?” he said.
“Of course I’m mad, you dickhead. What I’m trying to say is, I understand. Hell, if I was a guy, I’d probably screw her, too.”
Longo couldn’t help it, and started grinning. The first time they’d met, she’d cracked him up with the things she’d said. He felt her squeeze his waist.
“Jimmy told me this woman was using you,” Cindi said. “She was laundering stolen casino chips, and you were her protection.”
“Jimmy said that?”
“Yes. He said she was caught doing it up in Lake Tahoe and got two years’ probation. She was a bad person, Pete.”
Cindi was really holding him. They were the odd couple—him six-one, her nearly a foot shorter—and he rested his chin on her head, and felt her heart beating against his ribs. “I couldn’t . . . help myself,” he whispered.
“I’m willing to give our marriage another shot,” she said after a moment. “Go see a counselor, and get some stuff off our chests. I won’t hold this against you.”
“You won’t?”
“No. But you have to promise me one thing.”
“Whatever you want.”
“You’ll never do this to me, or the girls, again.”
He kissed the top of his wife’s blond head. He used to love Cindi so goddamn much that he’d never thought he could love anybody else. Loved her with all his heart, and all his soul. And now she was giving him a chance to do it all over again.
“Never, ever,” he said.
“Say it, and not have your fingers crossed,” Cindi said.
Longo grinned so hard, it made his face hurt. Putting his lips to her ear, he said, “On my mother’s grave, I’ll never be unfaithful to you, or my family, ever again.”
Cindi looked into his eyes. Searching for something, and finally finding it.
“Let’s get out of this toilet,” she said.
43
Gerry sat upright in the backseat of the rental, still hog-tied. He’d convinced Amin that he wasn’t going to scream, and Amin had removed the gag.
They had left Bart Calhoun’s house an hour ago. Amin had driven around Las Vegas, then gotten onto I-15 and headed west toward the California state line. A mile before the line, he’d pulled into the parking lot of an old-time casino called Whiskey Pete’s. He parked at the back of the lot, a hundred yards from the other cars. He’d not spoken a word since coming out of Bart Calhoun’s house. Gerry watched him get out of the car, and walk to the casino. It’s now or never, he thought.
“Know what they call this place?”
“What,” Pash said, watching the casino.
“A sawdust joint.”
Pash adjusted the mirror so he could watch Gerry and Whiskey Pete’s entrance, at the same time. “Why’s that?”
“Back in the forties, every casino had sawdust on the floor, so they called them sawdust joints. Then a gangster named Bugsy Siegel came to town.”
Pash’s face came alive. “Didn’t Warren Beatty make a movie about him?”
“Yeah. Bugsy Siegal was also the Moe Green character in The Godfather.”
“Moe Green. The mobster who got shot in the eye?”
Gerry nodded. It was working; Pash was acting human again. “Bugsy Siegel bought the Flamingo, and turned it into a swanky club. It was the first casino in town not to have sawdust on the floors, so they called it a carpet joint.”
Posh smiled. “A carpet joint. Very good.”
“Look. You like the movies. Ever watch any Westerns?”
&
nbsp; “Oh, yes. John Wayne is my favorite.”
“In the Westerns, they always give a dying man a last request. How about giving me one, and tell me what the hell is going on.”
Pash’s lips snapped shut. Gerry leaned forward, and thrust his head between the front seats. “Look, Pash. I don’t want to die not knowing the score. Understand?”
Pash exhaled deeply, his eyes glued on Whiskey Pete’s entrance. “The score?”
“The truth, the skinny, the facts. Come on. You owe me.”
“You really want to know?”
“Yeah.”
Pash spent a moment gathering his thoughts. When he spoke, his voice was without emotion. “All right, my friend. Here is the score. You know of the events of 9/11.”
Gerry blinked. “Sure.”
“Well, there was a second group of terrorists, who were dedicated to destroying important buildings and structures throughout the United States. My brother was the leader of that group.”
Gerry felt like he’d been hit in the head with a brick. He fell back in his seat.
“It is true,” Pash said. “My brother and I are Pakistani. My brother was recruited in college, and trained at Osama bin Laden’s camp in southern Afghanistan. At night, bin Laden liked to show movies. Do you know what his favorite was?”
Gerry shook his head.
“Independence Day. When the alien spaceship blew up the White House, everyone in the camp would stand up and cheer.”
“Fuckers,” Gerry swore under his breath.
Pash took a bottled water off the seat, had a sip, and offered him the bottle. When it was declined, he screwed the top back on. “Amin came here in nineteen ninety-nine under a student visa and spent two years buying plastic explosives. Even though he was a foreigner, he found people willing to sell them to him. Ex-CIA, drug dealers, white supremacists. He amassed enough to fill a small van.
“He also helped the men in his group obtain explosives through the money he made card-counting in casinos. Those men were in Atlanta, Chicago, Los Angeles, and Philadelphia.
“The morning of 9/11, my brother drove into Washington, DC. He was in contact with his group through his cell phone.” Pash paused to stare at him. “Do you know anything about plastic explosives?”