“Looks like we’re in luck,” Valentine said.

Her name was Mona. Valentine had always thought it was a put-on, until he’d run her in, and the name had appeared on her rap sheet. “I popped out of my mother’s belly, doctor slapped my ass, I started moaning like a cat in heat,” she had explained, her wrist handcuffed to a chair as he finger-typed his report. “Name stuck.’”

Valentine had always liked her after that. Mona was heavy on the sarcasm, and he guessed she was trying to hide the real self, which was a strung-out, broken down women whose best days were past. She liked him, too, as much as any hooker could like a cop.

“Mind a little company?” Valentine asked.

Mona looked the three men over. “Pick up the check?”

Fuller agreed, and they sat down at her table. Mona’s right hand held a fork, her left a cigarette. She hacked violently in their faces. “I hear you got shot,” she said.

Valentine showed her where the bullet had gone through the palm of his hand.

“No more life line, huh?” she said.

The bullet’s scar had wiped away the life line on his hand.

“All gone,” he said.

“What’s with the crutches?”

“I fell down running after my wife.”

Mona laughed hoarsely while sizing up Romero and Fuller. “Who are these Toms?”

“Special Agent Fuller, Special Agent Romero, FBI.”

“You’re hanging out with fast company.”

“I’m helping them with a case.”

A waitress with a cigarette glued to her lip took their order. Coffee all the way around.

“What do you want from me?” Mona asked.

Romero removed an envelope from his jacket, took out head shots of the Dresser’s four victims, and slid them Mona’s way. She pushed her plate to the far end of the table, then spread the photographs in front of her and stared.

“These girls were working Resorts,” Valentine said. “Know any of them?”

Mona pointed a gnarly finger at one. “She kind of looks familiar. Haven’t seen her in a while.”

Romero removed the Dresser’s composite and showed it to her.

“How about him?” Valentine asked.

Mona studied the composite for a few moments. “Naw.” She looked up, and her eyes rested on Romero, as if trying to place him.

“Now you, I know,” she said.

Romero dabbed at his brow with a paper napkin. It was cold inside the restaurant, yet there was sweat pouring off him. Had he gone out for some fun, and done her?

“You must be mistaken,” the FBI agent said.

“Don’t get smart with me, federal agent man. I saw you the other morning in the Catholic church over on Atlantic. You were in the front pew, praying. You said good morning to me. Remember?”

She banged out a cigarette from her pack of Kools. Romero picked up her lighter and fumbled with it. Finally, he got her cigarette lit.

“Yes, I remember,” he said.

Mona inhaled deeply on her cigarette. “I pray for my sister. She’s dying of leukemia. Who you praying for?”

“A dead friend,” Romero said.

“That ain’t nothing to be ashamed off,” Mona told him.

Fuller and Romero had printed flyers with the Dresser’s composite along with a special 24-hour FBI hot line to call, and asked Mona if she would distribute them to other working girls on the island. Mona read the flyer and shook her head.

“This will never work,” she said.

“Why, what’s wrong with it?” Valentine asked.

“It says, ‘If you think you recognize this person, please call Special Agent Fuller or Special Agent Romero of the FBI at this number.” She snorted with laughter. “Come on. You really think a whore is gonna call the Hardy Boys?”

Valentine hid a smile. “Probably not.”

“Have them call you,” Mona said.

“Me?” Valentine said.

“Yeah. The whores trust you. Your word means something.”

Fuller turned sideways to looked at Valentine. “Do you mind if we do that?”

Valentine hesitated. He had enough on his plate, only he knew Mona was right. The hookers in the town would call him if they thought their lives were in danger.

“All right,” he said.

Romero got pens from the waiter, and he and Fuller crossed out the last line on each flyer, and substituted Valentine’s name and station house phone number. Mona took one of the flyers, and appraised it with a skilled eye.

“This will work,” she said.

Chapter 20

Two days after Christmas, Valentine tossed his crutches, and decided to go back to work. Hanging around the house was starting to feel like a prison sentence, and he found himself looking forward to returning to Resorts, and making some cheater’s life miserable.

But first, he had some business to take care of. Driving to the Margate mall, he found a jewelry store with a sign in the window that said Christmas sale, all items 30% off. He had a female clerk help him pick out an appropriate gift, then had her wrap it. He drove to the Rainbow Arms apartment with the gift in his lap, and parked on the street.

The building’s elevator was on the blink, and he climbed the stairs to the top floor. He was puffing hard as he knocked on the door to Sampson’s apartment, and told himself he needed to start exercising again. In two years he’d turn forty. He’d never had to regularly exercise, but suddenly it seemed like a good idea.

He heard chains being drawn. The door opened, and ten-year-old Bernard stood before him, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt with the face of a toothless Leon Spinks, the former heavyweight champion of the world. He stared at the gift in Valentine’s hand.

“Thought you were coming by last week,” Bernard said accusingly.

Valentine had called and said he was coming by. Then he’d gotten beat up.

“I was out of commission,” Valentine said.

“What does that mean?”

“I got hurt. I called your grandfather from the hospital. Didn’t he tell you?”

“Hurt how?”

“Guy punched my lights out.”

“You get any licks in?”

“A couple.”

A smile spread across Bernard’s face. Yes, Valentine thought, his grandfather had told him. But Bernard wanted to hear him say it, and judge for himself if it was true. Valentine handed him the gift.

“Merry Christmas.”

They went down the shotgun hallway to the kitchen with the naked bulb danging from the ceiling. The grandfather sat at the table, the newspaper spread before him.

“I was getting worried about you,” Sampson said.

“I hurt my foot and couldn’t walk,” Valentine said. “It’s fine now.”

“Glad to hear it. Would you mind making some coffee? I’m dying for a cup.”

There was a cannister of ground coffee on the counter, and Valentine doled several teaspoons into the Mr. Coffee maker sitting beside it. He heard Bernard open his present, but did not turn around until he knew it was out of the box.

Bernard stared at the Timex watch. “This really for me?”

“Yes, it’s for you.”

“Let me see it,” his grandfather said.

Bernard held the watch a foot in front of his grandfather’s face and let him visually appraise it. “A fine looking time piece,” Sampson said. “Tell Mr Valentine thank you.”

“Thanks,” the boy said.

Bernard was good at keeping his feelings hidden, and Valentine didn’t realize until he’d put the watch on how much he liked it. Valentine had chosen a snappy-looking black leather wrist band, and it looked just right on him. Bernard knew it, too.

“Better hurry before you miss the school bus,” his grandfather said.

“Yeah,” Bernard said.

He was gone in a flash, the front door slamming behind him. Soon the coffee was ready. Valentine poured two mugs and brought them to the table. He held Sampson’s cup to his lips, and let the old man drink first. Then he took a sip from his own mug.

“I have some bad news,” Sampson said.