“You sure this is her,” Romero said.

“She was hard to forget,” Valentine said.

Her name was Maria Sanchez. Twenty-three, dark brown hair, five-foot five, originally from San Juan, she’d come to the U.S. a few years ago and immediately started turning tricks. Unlike a lot of girls, who looked frightening without a coat of make-up, Maria was a beauty.

Fuller took the file, and Valentine walked the agents outside to their car. What had started out as a pretty morning had turned ominous, and dark, muscular clouds filled the sky. Fuller and Romero shook Valentine’s hand again, then glanced at the sky.

“Think it’s going to snow?”

“Sure feels like it,” Valentine said.

“How come it feels so much colder here?”

“It’s the humidity. It cuts to the bone.”

The agents climbed into the Chevy. Valentine started to walk away, then stopped at the entrance to the station house. Sometimes the most obvious things were the easiest to miss. He caught Fuller as he was backing the car out of its space. The driver’s window came down, and Fuller said, “You think of something else?”

Valentine stuck his hands into his pockets. He’d come out without his coat and was freezing. “The Dresser is picking up hookers inside the casino. That’s his MO. Hookers think he’s a tourist, and they let their guards down.”

“So?”

“Chances are, he picked up allthese girls inside the casino.”

He paused, and let Fuller think about it. Romero leaned over from the passenger side so his face was visible. “You think he might be on another surveillance tape?”

“I’d bet dollars to doughnuts on it,” Valentine said.

“Never thought of that,” Fuller said. “Can we look at those tapes?”

“We’re talking about hundreds of hours.”

“So what are you suggesting?”

“I work in Resorts’ surveillance control room. I’ll show the composite to the techs who watch the monitors, and have themreview the tapes. If those guys are good at anything, it’s picking a face out of a crowd.”

Fuller looked at his partner. It was an angle they’d missed. They climbed out of the car, shook his hand, and thanked him one more time.

Chapter 12

The sky had opened up like a busted feather pillow, and Romero stared gloomily at the falling snow while Fuller drove back to their motel. Stopping at a traffic light, Fuller threw the car into park and glared at him.

“What’s eating you?”

“Nothing,” Romero said.

“It’s written all over your god damn face.”

Romero blew out his lungs. He’d stopped playing cards with Fuller because his partner always knew what he was holding. “We should have talked to the rank-and-file cops the moment we got here.”

Fuller continued to glare at him. “We agreed that we wouldn’t talk to the cops until we were sure the Dresser wasn’t one of them. Remember?”

“I remember.”

“Then why bring it up now?”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, stop thinkingit.”

The light changed and Fuller put the car into drive. They had arrived in Atlantic City several days ago, and with Banko’s help, started their investigation. The Dresser had contacted the FBI twice with letters — the first after he’d abducted Mary Ann Crawford, the second after Connie Hastings, both times sending pieces of jewelry as proof — and declared he could kill woman at will, and the FBI would never capture him. The FBI’s profilers had latched onto this, and decided the killer was someone the public implicitly trusted. A doctor, perhaps, or a fireman. Or even a cop.

So they’d done background checks on every doctor, every fireman, and every cop on the island. Atlantic City had less than fifty thousand full-time residents, and it had only taken a few days. To their surprise, the FBI’s profilers were wrong. None of the town’s doctors, firemen or cops matched the profile. The Dresser had fooled them.

Fuller turned into the beach front motel they were staying in. It was called The Lucky Boy, and was a dive. Both men got out of the car.

“I’m going to check for messages at the desk,” Romero said. “See you in a few.”

The Lucky Boy’s check-in was a tiny building with a neon sign in its window. Every afternoon, the clerk got married to a gin bottle, and getting information out of him was never easy. Romero tapped on the door before entering.

“Why didn’t you tell me the rug smelled,” the clerk said.

“What are you talking about?” Romero asked.

“The rug in your room. Did you puke on it?”

“You’re not making any sense.”

The clerk drew back in his chair. “Listen, you stinking wet back, you can’t come in here, and talk to me like that. I’ll throw you and that partner of yours out of here —” He snapped his fingers for effect “ — just like that!”

Romero’s open wallet hit the counter, exposing his gold badge. It was a move he’d practiced for situations like this. The clerk’s jaw became unhinged.

“You a cop?”

“FBI.”

“Oh, man, I’m sorry,” the clerk said.

Romero tucked his wallet away. “I’m listening.”

“A deliveryman came by earlier, carrying a rug over his shoulder. Said he’d been told to replace the one in your room. I thought you’d called him. Jesus, I’m sorry. ”

“Why are you sorry? What did you do?”

“I left him alone in your room. Sure hope he didn’t steal anything.”

Romero felt his radar go up. Leaving the office, he hurried down the winding brick path to his room. The motel had a pool in its center, and as he walked around it, he saw the door to their room was open. Fuller came out, holding his automatic limply by his side. Romero drew his own gun, then approached him.

“What happened?”

Fuller slipped his gun into its shoulder harness. Then he took out a pack of cigarettes, and banged one out. Sticking it between his lips, he said, “See for yourself.”

Romero went to the doorway and looked in. A dead girl hung by her wrists from a light fixture in the ceiling. She was wearing a go-go dancer’s outfit, complete with knee-high Nancy Sinatra boots, and a piece symbol around her neck. Mexicans believed that the dead’s spirits hung around earth for a while. Not acknowledging them was a mistake, and Romero mumbled a prayer before going in.

The dead girl’s face was covered with hair. Romero got close to her, then blew it away. It was Maria Sanchez, the beautiful Puerto Rican hooker that Tony Valentine had seen the Dresser pick up inside the casino. He walked outside, and bummed a cigarette off his partner.

“I think we’d better change motels,” Fuller said.

Chapter 13

Valentine was exhausted when he walked into the kitchen of his house at seven o’clock that night. It had been a long afternoon at the casino.

First, he’d busted a man for putting a coin into a slot machine with a string attached to it, and jerking the coin out. A silly crime, only the man played the machine so many times he won a jackpot. Jackpots could not be paid until the videotape was reviewed, and now the man was sitting in a holding cell, facing three-to-five.

Then, he’d nailed a card mucker. The guy could invisibly switch cards while playing blackjack. What had tripped him up was his face. It was in a book of mug shots of known cheaters Bill Higgins had sent him. Valentine had made the match, and now the mucker was in the same cell with the yo-yo man.

The icing had been nailing a gang of teenage boys who’d been ripping off slot players. The boys would enter the casino from the Boardwalk, and approach a woman playing a slot machine. One boy would toss coins beneath the woman’s chair. A second would tap her shoulder, and point at the coins on the floor. While the woman was retrieving the coins, the third would snatch her purse. And out the door they’d go.