Wild Card, page 23
He tried to relax by watching television. Nothing on was worth his time, and he killed the power and stared at the blank screen. He’d suffered from insomnia over the years, but it had always been over a case he was working on. Never had he feared what he was suddenly fearing now.
He was a cop; it was the only thing he’d ever been really good at. His mind had been made to solve puzzles, and piece things together. And now, that privilege was going to be taken away from him. He could go out on his own, and become a private eye, only that didn’t appeal to him. He’d known several cops who’d become P.I.’s, and overnight they’d turned into reptiles.
Which left him what?
He shook his head. He was starting to feel sorry for himself. Next, he’d be wallowing in self-pity like his old man. Or, he’d accept what had happened, and move on with his life. Losing his badge wasn’t the end of the world. He could always get another job, and support his family. It was that simple.
Pushing himself off the couch, he went into the dining room. Earlier, Lois had laid the family photographs she’d retrieved from the attic across the dining room table. She planned to look at them for a few days, and decide which ones to hang in the house.
“Pick out your favorites,” she’d told him.
Valentine looked the photographs over. There were three that he really liked. His mother at their wedding, where all she’d done was smile; Gerry’s baptism, where all he’d done was cry; and Lois riding a moped during their honeymoon in Bermuda. He stacked them together, then noticed a dusty photo album sitting on the table edge. He flipped the album open, then realized what he’d found. Highlights of Lois’s modeling career.
He picked up the album and returned to the living room. Sitting on the couch, he leafed through the album’s plastic pages. As a teenager, his wife had never wanted for work. Every exhibit and attraction on the Boardwalk had wanted her to be “their girl” each summer. Her stunning looks had always drawn a crowd.
The pictures made him laugh, and he felt his mood lifting. One was of Lois wearing a rubber lobster outfit. That was the job for the fresh Maine lobster exhibit. Another showed her dressed in a giant bagel. Goldfarb’s bagels. No matter how ridiculous the costume, her smile always looked genuine.
Halfway through the album, he came to pictures of Lois in bathing suits. There were over a dozen, both one-pieces and bikinis. He remembered the job vividly: A company called Candy Swimsuits out of California. Lois had done five shows a day, and been hit on by every hot-blooded male on the Boardwalk. It had been an unbearable summer.
The bathing suits ended, and he stared at a photograph of her coming down a runway in a mini-skirt, her hair ironed straight. The photograph had a date stenciled in the right hand corner. 7-15-65. He vaguely remembered the job. Booked by an agent out of New York. Great pay, only Lois had hated it, and quit after the first day.
He flipped the page. The next photograph was from the same job. This time, Lois wore wide bell bottoms, a denim shirt with flower embroidery, and love beads. He felt himself shudder. His wife was dressed like a 1960's hippie.
He shut his eyes, and from memory dredged up the slides Fuller and Romero had shown of the Dresser’s victims, the pictures as fresh as the day he’d seen them. Each victim had been dressed in hippie clothes. He saw each outfit clearly, then opened his eyes, and stared at the outfits Lois was wearing in the album. They were the same.
He took a deep breath. Was he seeing too much into this, like Banko had claimed, his mind making connections that weren’t there? Or was there a link between Lois’s modeling job that summer and the Dresser’s victims? There was only one way to find out, and he jumped off the couch, the album clutched to his chest.
He hated waking his wife so late at night, but saw no other choice. Sitting on her side of the bed, he turned on the bedside table lamp, and gently shook her.
“Hi…” she said sleepily.
“Wake up.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I need to talk to you.”
Her head had sunk deep into her pillow, and she murmured “Of course.” and drifted back into dreamworld. Valentine shook her a little harder, and his wife’s eyes snapped open. She sat bolt upright, stared at the bedside clock, then at him.
“It’s two-thirty. What’s wrong?”
“I need to ask you some questions.”
“You’re scaring me, Tony. What’s the matter?”
The album was sitting on his lap. He opened it to the section of her doing the modeling job in the hippie clothes, and began flipping the pages.
“Do you remember this job?”
Lois stared at the photographs. “Sure. Summer of Love. That crummy agent out New York talked me into taking it. I hated every minute of it.”
“Why?”
Lois was wide awake now, and gave him a strange look. “Tony, what’s wrong?”
“Please, answer me.”
“Oh, God, I don’t know. I guess I didn’t like the clothes. They were supposed to be hippie clothes, but they were just garbage.”
“Was there anything else? Did anyone hit on you?”
“There were always people hitting on me. And you were always telling them to shove off.”
“Was there anyone in particular on this job? Someone who bothered you? Think hard.”
His wife gave him an exasperated look. “Come to mention it, there was. A weird guy who worked backstage wouldn’t stop bothering me. He barged into the dressing room when I was half-naked, and I threw him out.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“No. Now, please tell me why you woke me up at this godawful hour.”
Valentine took his wife’s hands, and held them. “The Dresser is dressing up prostitutes in hippie clothes, and then killing them. While I was looking through this album, I realized how much each of his victims looked like you. Same height, same weight, same hair color, and all of them had dark complexions, and were very pretty. Whoever that guy was, I think he’s the same killer.”
The words were slow to sink in. When they did, his wife’s face turned to horror, and she grabbed the bedcovers, and pulled them up around her.
“Oh, my god, Tony. Oh, my god.”
Chapter 50
Valentine and Lois were sitting in the waiting area outside Banko’s office when the sergeant arrived at work the next morning. Banko scowled, and Valentine guessed that his superior thought they were there to beg for his job back.
Banko ushered them into his office. Sabina had fixed coffee, and Banko acted surprised when they both declined his offer of a cup.
“So what do I owe the pleasure?” Banko asked.
Valentine had the photo album under his arm. Placing it on the desk, he flipped it open it to the Summer of Love pictures. Banko flashed a benevolent smile.
“I didn’t know your wife modeled,” he said pleasantly.
Lois’s eyes welled up with tears. Valentine pointed at the first picture of the set and said, “Look at the clothes my wife is wearing.”
Banko took out his bifocals, and fitted them on his nose. Valentine turned the page to another photograph of his wife on a runway. Then, a third page was shown.
“So?” the sergeant said.
“The Dresser is dressing his victims up in hippie clothes, and killing them. His victims all look like my wife. My wife remembers a guy at this job who was stalking her. I think he’s our killer.”
Banko pulled the album closer and ran through the pages. Picking up his phone, he called Sabina in the next room. “Get me the murder book on our serial killer.” Hanging up, he continued to look at the photographs while gulping down his cup of coffee. After ten seconds had elapsed, he rose from his desk, went to his door and opened it.
“Hurry,” he told his secretary.
It was a painful coincidence that the murder book was the same color as the photo album. Painful because Lois Valentine was suffering through this experience of having to see the victims dressed like her, and nothing Banko could do would make it any easier for her. The victims’ clothes in the murder book matched her clothes in the album, right down to the jewelry. The killer had recreated her for his own sick pleasure.
Banko closed the two books. Then he stood up, and came around the desk. His face had a look that Valentine didn’t recognize; soft, and full of compassion. Banko stopped in front of his wife, and gently took her hands with both his own.
“May I call you Lois?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said.
“Lois, I’m going to ask you to do something that’s probably going to be painful.”
“What’s that?”
“We have the victims’ clothes downstairs in the evidence room in the basement. I’d like to have you look at them.”
Her voice broke. “Is that… necessary?”
“You said you don’t remember much about the modeling job. Or the man who was stalking you.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“I understand. Maybe seeing the clothes will jog your memory, and you’ll remember this guy’s name, or something he said to you.”
“And then you can catch him,” Lois said.
“That’s what I’m hoping,” Banko said.
“Okay. I’ll take a look at them.”
The cop on duty in the evidence room was named Dave Gordon, although everyone called him The Kid. The Kid was wearing on his shirt a jelly doughnut he’d just eaten, and looked embarrassed as hell when the three of them came through the door.
The evidence was kept behind a giant cage inside metal drawers that were stacked to the ceiling. The Kid unlocked the cage, then busied himself pulling out the plastic bags that contained the victims’ clothes. When he had the four bags, he came out of the cage, and carefully laid them on a rectangular table that served as his desk.
“Open the bags up, and lay the clothes out,” Banko said.
The Kid unzipped the bags. He handled the clothes gingerly, like the dead women’s’ spirits might still be in them. Soon, the clothes covered the table. Lois took a step forward and reached for a blouse.
“Is it okay if I pick them up?” she asked.
“Of course,” Banko said. “They’ve already been dusted for fingerprints.”
Lois picked up a sky-blue blouse with peace symbols stitched into the fabric. Around the symbols flowed the words Peace Love & Understanding. She looked at the blouse for a long moment, then opened up the neck to glance at the label.
“Oh, Jesus,” she whispered.
Valentine was standing beside her, and stared at the blouse’s label. Summer of Love. He saw his wife pick up the bell bottoms that went with the blouse. She turned them inside out, and stared at the inseam.
“No,” she said sharply.
Then, quite suddenly, his wife burst into tears.
“You’re absolutely sure about this,” Banko said.
They were back in Banko’s office. This time, they’d accepted Banko’s offer of a cup of coffee. Sipping her drink, Lois nodded while staring at the floor.
“Positive. Those are the clothes I wore that day,” she said. “I remember getting to the job, and none of the bell bottoms fit. A seamstress had to let the inseams out.”
“You’re sure they’re the same clothes,” Banko said.
“Yes. I quit the job after the first day. The agent in New York was furious, and screamed at me over the phone. I didn’t care.”
“Why?” Banko asked.
“I don’t know.”
Banko pulled his chair up closer to her. His tone was gentle. “ I know this is difficult, but I’d like you to close your eyes, and try to think back.”
“Tony tried to hypnotize me last night. It didn’t work.”
“Please let me try,” the sergeant said.
Lois looked at her husband, and saw him nod.
“All right.”
Lois folded her hands in her lap, and shut her eyes. The pose made her look like a young girl. A minute slipped away while Banko talked to her, and helped her slip back in time. His wife frowned, struggling with the memory. Valentine remembered something she’d told him on their first date. It’s great to be pretty, but sometimes it can also be scary. Now, twenty years later, he finally understood what those words meant.
“The exhibit was called Summer of Love,” she said. “We worked out of a tent on the Boardwalk. Besides me modeling clothes, there were performers keeping the crowd entertained. A singer, a juggler, and another variety act. All guys. Their dressing room was next to mine. One of the guys gave me the creeps. He kept staring at me like I was something he wanted to eat. I remember thinking that this was the kind of guy my mother told me to be afraid of.”
“Do you remember his name?” Banko asked.
“It was something strange.”
“What did he look like?”
“A few inches taller than me, not handsome, kind of shy.”
“How old was he?”
“My age, I think.”
“You remember his face?”
“Not really.”
“Which one of the acts was he?” Banko asked.
“I didn’t see any of them perform. Too busy getting dressed and undressed.”
“What happened to make you quit?”
She took a deep breath. “I worked for ten hours the first day, and was exhausted. After the show was over, I went to my dressing room, and discovered that my underwear had been violated. I didn’t know which one of them did it, so I quit.”
“But you thought it was him.”
“I’m sure it was.”
“Could he have stolen the outfits you were wearing?”
“They were hanging in my dressing room. He must have.”
“Did he ever have contact with you again?”
She strained to remember. “Yes, he called me at home.”
“When was this?”
“A few months later. He told me his parents were out of town, asked me to come to his house. I said no, I already had a boyfriend.”
“Were you seeing Tony then?”
“Yes. We’d been going steady for a while.”
Banko glanced at Valentine. There was an apology in his eyes, and Valentine acknowledged it with a slight nod. Then Banko brought his wife up from her trance.
Valentine extended his hand to his wife. “It’s time to go home,” he said.
“Did I tell you anything helpful?” Lois asked.
The color had returned to his wife’s face, and she looked just as beautiful as the day he’d met her. “Yes. You did good,” he said.
She rose from her chair, and Banko walked them to the door. “I’d like a word with your husband, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” Lois said.
She stepped into the waiting room, and Banko shut the door, and put his hand on Valentine’s shoulder. “I guess we know now why the killer contacted you the other day. I’m sorry I’ve been so harsh with you, but I didn’t have much choice.”
“I understand,” Valentine said.
“No hard feelings?”
“No, sir.”
His superior lowered his arm. “I’m calling the FBI, and bringing them back in. I’m also assigning several extra detectives to work this case. Knowing this guy was an entertainer should make him easy to track down. Oh, and one other thing.”
Valentine waited expectantly.
“I’m lifting your suspension, effective immediately. However, what I said before still applies. I want you to stay away from this investigation. This killer has designs on your wife. You can’t be chasing him down.”
“But —”
“Another word and I’ll suspend you again,” Banko said.
Valentine clamped his mouth shut.
“I’m assigning two detectives to guard your wife until this sicko is caught. I want you back at the casino immediately.”
“What’s going on at the casino?”
“Bill Higgins called last night. A gang of blackjack cheats that stole a million bucks in Las Vegas are now in Atlantic City. Bill said you drew a bead on them.”
Valentine remembered the tape Bill had sent him, and the suspicious woman with the Coke bottle. “That’s right,” he said.
“Bill took the red eye out of Las Vegas last night, and is flying in this morning. I want you to help him nail these people. Think you’re up to it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Welcome back.”
He shook his superior’s hand, and saw him smile. It had been years since he’d seen Banko do that, and he left the office feeling better than he had in a long time.
Chapter 51
“Here we go,” Bill Higgins said a few hours later.
They were standing before the wall of video monitors in Resorts’ surveillance control room. A block of twelve cameras were isolated on a blackjack table with a five thousand dollar limit. Higgins hadn’t slept on the plane and looked like death warmed over.
Valentine studied the blurry images on the monitors. At the blackjack table sat the same two players from the tape Higgins had sent him. Both were in their mid-thirties with sandy brown hair and easy smiles. Cameras were recording them from every conceivable angle. So far, everything looked clean.
“You’re sure they’re cheating,” Valentine asked.
“Trust me,” Higgins said. “It’s a scam.”
Valentine wasn’t convinced the two players could be cheating. They were playing carelessly while flirting with four stewardesses playing at the adjacent table, which had a five hundred dollar limit. Everything looked on the square.
Then, after a few minutes, he saw something he didn’t like. The stewardesses had locked up their table, and were playing all seven hands. That wasn’t normal.
“I smell a rat.”
“You think the stewardesses are involved?” Higgins asked.
“Yes. I can count on the fingers of one hand how many women I’ve seen play multiple hands at blackjack. It’s strictly a guy thing.”
