Finkel removed the bottom report from the stack, and flipped it open. “Let’s see. The hold for blackjack afteryou started jumped to 15%; for craps, 16%, and for roulette, 17%.” He looked up. “I think you’ve got a case, Tony.”

“They’re still going to hate you,” Carp chimed in. He’d thrown his feet onto his desk, and was blowing perfect smoke rings from his cigarette. “Expect less, and you’ll be disappointed.”

“How about the other games?” Valentine asked.

Finkel read the holds for the Asian domino game called pai gow and for baccarat. They had also increased.

“This is impressive,” Finkel said.

“Hate, hate, hate,” Carp said.

Valentine had already known what the numbers said. One of the first scams he’d uncovered at Resorts was a group of pit bosses letting family members and friends take down large credit lines, which they later paid back, interest free. By stopping this practice, the holds at allgames had improved overnight.

“I need to write this down,” Valentine said.

Finkel crossed the office and opened a desk drawer in search of a pen. Valentine glanced at Carp, and saw that he wasn’t paying any attention. Taking the most recent report off Finkel’s chair, he flipped it open at the tab marked COMPS. There was a six-month summary, and he stared at the numbers.

ROOMS

$7,874,096

DRINKS

$2,360525

FOOD

$2,935,198

ENTERTAINMENT

$1,952,437

AIR TRANSPORTATION

$2,001,887

GIFTS

$1,438,296

“Makes you sick to your stomach, doesn’t it,” Finkel said.

Valentine looked up to see Finkel standing over him, pen in hand. He hadn’t heard him return, and sheepishly said, “I don’t mean to be poking my nose where it doesn’t belong, but I’ve always wondered how much free stuff Resorts gives away.”

“Too much,” Carp said.

“Eighteen million, five hundred and sixty-two thousand, four hundred and thirty-nine bucks in six months, ” Finkel said.

“Is that how much this is?” Valentine asked.

“To the penny,” Finkel replied. He handed Valentine the pen, then took his seat. “The state of New Jersey considers comps to be legitimate ways to encourage business. We have to be competitive with Las Vegas in every arena.”

“Is this how much Vegas casinos give away?”

The auditor nodded. “It’s how they keep the high-rollers coming back. Percentage wise, we’re right in line with Vegas.”

Valentine shook his head, pretending to be astonished by the number. But what he was astonished by was the audacity of Vinny Acosta’s skim. Resorts’ casino had been packed with gamblers since the very first day it had opened. Resorts didn’t need to give away all this free stuff, and it wasn’t.Only Carp and Finkel didn’t know this.

“Holy shit,” Carp exclaimed, looking at his watch.

“What’s wrong?” Finkel said worriedly.

“We have work to do!”

Valentine got the hint. He scribbled some numbers on a piece of paper, then tore it off a pad and shoved it into his pocket. Standing, he shook the auditors’ hands. Carp gave him the limp fish, and Valentine was reminded why he’d always disliked him.

“Thanks for the hospitality,” Valentine said.

Carp brayed like a donkey.

“That’s a good one,” he replied.

Chapter 47

Valentine drove home with dollar signs swimming in his head. When Mink had said a hundred thousand dollars a day was being stolen from Resorts, he had assumed it was a bullshit number, used to suck Mink in. Only the audit backed Mink up. Six months divided into eighteen million dollars was a hundred thousand dollars a day. He made thirty-six grand a year. He would have to work for a thousand years to make that much money.

Pulling up his driveway, he tried to guess how many employees were involved in the skim outside of Vinny Acosta and his runners. He put the number at a dozen people in the casino and hotel’s accounting departments. Hard-working people who’d decided thirty-six grand a year didn’t cut it, and had decided to go to work for the mob.

You’re all going down, he thought.

A young woman stood on the stoop of his house. Early twenties, dirty brown hair, wearing a fake fur coat. Definitely not a ‘I’d like to talk to you about Jesus’ nut. As he pulled up the driveway, she turned around. It was Sissy, the Visine Queen. Parking, he jumped out of the car. If he was seen with another hooker, Banko would have his scalp. Approaching her, he said, “What are you doing here?”

“Selling girl scout cookies.”

“Who gave you my address?”

She eyed him cooly. “I date a cop on the side. He told me.”

“What do you want?”

Sissy shot him a nasty look. “You’re not very hospitable.”

“I’m on suspension. What do you want?”

“It’s about Mona.”

“What about her?”

“She’s missing. I think she’s in trouble.”

He looked up and down the street for Hatch or any other detectives that might be watching his house. The street was empty, and he escorted Sissy inside. She slipped out of her fake fur, and threw it over a chair in the dining room. She wasn’t wearing trashy clothes, or anything particularly alluring; little make-up, and no perfume. She refused to sit down, and stood next to his dining room table. She was all business.

Sitting on the table was a box of family photographs that Lois planned to hang around the house to replace those destroyed by the burglars. The top photograph caught Sissy’s eye, and she picked it up. It was of Lois modeling a bathing suit when she was younger.

“This your wife?”

“That’s her,” he said.

“She’s a beauty.”

Valentine took a deep breath. Sissy was trying to be nice, but it didn’t matter. He wanted her to say what was on her mind, and get out of his house.

“What happened to Mona?” he asked.

Sissy continued to admire the photograph. “She’s disappeared. Went to the beach yesterday and never came home. We do buddy checks. When she didn’t answer her phone this morning, I went looking for her.”

“Any luck?”

“Just her car. It was parked in the lot of the Catholic church near the casino. I talked to the priest. He said it had been there overnight.”

“You file a missing person’s report?”

“No. Do you mind?”

Before he could object, Sissy removed Lois’s photograph, and picked up the one beneath it. It was of Gerry at his fifth birthday. He was dressed in a Batman costume and was blowing out the candles on a sagging ice cream cake. Sissy rubbed his face with her thumb, then seemed embarrassed and put the photograph down.

“Why not?” he asked.

“I’m leaving town. I did what I could.”

“I thought Mona was your friend.”

“You think a missing person report is going to make a difference?”

“It’s a start,” he said, growing angry with her.

She took her fake fur off the chair, and slipped it on. “I told Mona to stay off the streets until this sicko was caught. She didn’t listen. You know why?”

He shook his head.

“There’s an old expression. Quit the business, before the business quits you. Mona didn’t know when to quit.” Sissy walked to the front door, opened it, then turned and looked him square in the eye. “I do.”

He followed her outside to the curb. Sissy drove a baby-blue Mustang, and it was packed with everything she owned, the clothes and kitchen utensils thrown across the seats like she’d robbed a rummage sale.

“If you see her again, tell her I’m sorry,” Sissy said.

Valentine watched her drive away, then went back inside his house.

He sat at his kitchen table, and tried to decide what to do with the information Sissy had given him. The rules for being suspended were clear: No involvement in any active investigations. He couldn’t call Banko without getting himself in more hot water, only sitting on the information wasn’t an option, either. Not if he wanted to sleep at night, and live with his conscience. He picked up the phone and called Lois at work. His wife was on break, and he told her everything that Sissy had said.