Within thirty seconds of winning a jackpot, a team of security people were swarming around her. Rebecca remained seated, and said nothing. The woman who’d been laughing at her a minute ago had become her new best friend, and whacked Rebecca enthusiastically on the back while calling to others in the casino to come over, and see what Rebecca had done.

What Rebecca had done was to win a ninety-six hundred dollar jackpot andshut Drew Carey up, the comedian not offering a single word of praise. Slot machines were evil things that preyed upon human weakness, and Rebecca promised herself that she’d never play another one for as long as she lived.

She glanced over at her son. Karl Jr. had finished his cone, and was clapping his hands enthusiastically, the man from the casino standing behind him, his hand on Karl Jr.’s shoulder. In church, Rebecca had heard stories about parents who lifted cars off their children in order to save their lives. The minister had attributed these incredible feats to God, but Rebecca knew better. They were acts of desperation, fueled by fear.

She had not wanted Karl, Jr. to go to a foster home. Anything but that.

She blew a kiss to her son, and saw him smile.

Chapter 35

Valentine was on the balcony of his suite on the eleventh floor of the Peppermill, watching the neon gradually replace the fading sun, when his cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket, and stared at its face. It was Bill.

“Hey.”

“How you feeling?” Bill asked.

Valentine frowned into the phone. He’d been assaulted, shot at, and believed he’d lost his son, all in the space of a few short hours. How did Bill think he was feeling?

“Never been better. What’s up?”

“Something just came up I think you should be aware of,” Bill said. “Are you in your room at the Peppermill?”

“Sure am.”

“Good. One of my field agents just called me from the Peppermill. A woman just won a jackpot on a slot machine. My agent was in the surveillance control room, and watched the woman play the machine. The agent said the woman didn’t get excited or show any real emotion.”

“Maybe she was looped,” Valentine said.

“That’s what I thought. My agent did some digging, and discovered two things that make me think he’s on to something. The woman is the wife of the guard who Bronco attacked at the police station this morning.”

“I thought the guard nearly died. What’s she doing playing the slots?”

“That’s why my agent was wondering. The second thing is, the slot machine she played is the same one that my agent inspected this morning. He gave it a full diagnostic test with his laptop computer.”

“Was the machine clean?”

“Yes,” Bill said. “My agent said that the woman went to the machine, sat down, and won the jackpot in less than a minute.”

Valentine walked onto the balcony with the cordless phone. Down below, the Peppermill’s entrance was lined with cars, the real day for the casino about to begin. Gambling was like sex; people seemed to enjoy it most at night.

He went back inside. Something was staring him right in the face and he wasn’t seeing it. Lying on the bed were the files of the seven agents from the Electronic Systems Division that Gerry suspected of being their slot cheater.

“You still there?” Bill asked.

“I’m here,” Valentine said. “Let me ask you a question. The laptop computer that was used for the diagnostic test. Is your agent responsible for programming it?”

“No, that’s done in Las Vegas.”

“By who?”

“The Electronic Systems Division. They’re responsible for programming all the laptop computers we use.”

Bingo, he thought. “You just figured out the scam.”

“I did?”

“Yes. Your cheating agent is programming the laptops to scam slot machines all over the state. He’s letting your field agents do the dirty work for him.”

“For the love of Christ.”

“Where’s your field agent right now?”

“He’s still in the Peppermill’s surveillance control room,” Bill said. “It’s on the third floor of the casino.”

“Call him, and tell him I’ll be right down.”

Valentine ended the call and went to the door that joined his room to Gerry’s. He rapped loudly, and his son appeared a moment later wearing nothing but his briefs.

“Put your clothes on,” Valentine said. “I need you to help me catch a cheater.”

The Peppermill’s surveillance control room was a chilly, windowless space filled with some of the most sophisticated electronic surveillance equipment money could buy. The five technicians on duty were required to watch four rotating video monitors, while fielding phone calls from the floor below. Valentine had once heard the job likened to air traffic control. Long hours of boredom punctuated by random moments of stark terror.

The Nevada Gaming Control Board field agent who’d called Bill Higgins was waiting for them. His name was Jim Impoco. Tan, early forties and with an athletic build, he wore a blue blazer and a blazing red tie. GCB agents could go anywhere they wanted inside a casino, and Impoco had commandeered a corner of the surveillance control room for himself.

“That was fast,” Impoco said, shaking their hands.

“We’re known for our service,” Valentine said. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Impoco sat down at a computer, and typed a command into the keyboard. A tape of a young woman playing a Drew Carey slot machine appeared on the screen.

“That’s Rebecca Klinghoffer, the lady who won the jackpot,” Impoco said.

Valentine brought his face up to the screen. As Rebecca Klinghoffer played, she kept glancing nervously off to her right. Valentine had watched thousands of people play slots, maybe more. She wasn’t acting right.

“Where is she now?”

“Still downstairs on the main floor,” Impoco said. “The casino is stalling her, having her sign some meaningless papers.”

“That your idea?”

Impoco nodded.

“I want to see the tape of what she was looking at,” Valentine said.

Impoco called a technician over, and told him what he needed. The technician looked like a kid that had grown up wearing a cap with a little propellor on top. The technician noted the date and time on the tape of Rebecca Klinghoffer, then said, “This is going to take a few minutes, gentlemen.” and walked away before either of them could respond. Gerry, who hadn’t spoken a word since getting off the elevator, pointed at Impoco’s briefcase lying on the floor.

“Is your laptop in there?” his son asked.

Impoco nodded.

“Would you mind showing us how you use it to run the diagnostic test?”

There was a strained look on Impoco’s face, as if he knew that his running the inspection test and Rebecca Klinghoffer winning the jackpot were somehow linked. He put his briefcase on the desk, removed a Mac and powered it up. Within seconds they were hovering around the small but powerful computer.

“My laptop has a computer chip called a DEPROM, which can talk to the slot machine’s computer chip, called an EPROM,” Impoco explained. “With the DEPROM, I’m able to run tests on the slot machine’s computer, specifically its Random Number Generator chip.”

“Can someone inspect a slot machine without a DEPROM chip?” Valentine asked.

“No,” Impoco said. He played with the mouse on his laptop, and opened up the software used to run the inspection. “Each test lasts about fifteen minutes, with the slot machine running billions of numbers, which the laptop periodically analyzes to see if they’re truly random. The results are stored in the laptop, and sent back wirelessly to our headquarters.”

“So headquarters knows which machines are being inspected,” Valentine said.