“Yes. Your story will determine how this case is handled.”

“Handled by who?”

“The district attorney.”

Gerry took a deep breath. This wasn’t going right. Marconi was treating him like a suspect, instead of someone who’d saved his partner’s life. He put his elbows on his knees, and gave Marconi a hard look.

“Excuse me, but what am I missing here? Abruzzi was going to shoot Eddie. I did the only thing I could.”

“I believe you, but we have to make sure the district attorney believes you.”

“Why wouldn’t he? You have the gun, don’t you?” Marconi lowered his gaze, and stared at the floor. It was the quickest admission of guilt Gerry had ever seen.

“You don’t have the gun?” Gerry asked.

“Couldn’t find it,” Marconi said, eyes still downcast. “I had two uniforms stay and search the area after day break. The gun is gone.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that we don’t have evidence that the guy you killed actually took a shot at Eddie, as you and Eddie claim.”

“What about the car across the street that got winged?” Gerry asked. “That’s evidence, isn’t it?”

“The car is gone, too,” Marconi said, not enjoying the role reversal.

“Gone? How does that work? Mirrors?”

“We’re not sure.”

“Let me guess. One of the uniforms let the owner drive it away.”

Marconi massaged his face with his hands. “Probably.”

Gerry had grown up hearing about bone-headed mistakes made by cops. The average pay for a uniform on the AC police force was twenty-eight grand. As a result, the force didn’t always attract the best and the brightest, and mistakes at crime scenes were common.

“So what you’re saying is, I might be facing a manslaughter rap,” Gerry said.

Marconi looked up. “That’s not going to happen. You have my word.”

“But it couldhappen.”

“Let’s not go there. We need to concentrate on your story. I want to explain to the DA that this was an organized gang of cheaters. Right now, all I’ve got is this baseball cap. If you can explain how it works, we’re home free.”

“Do you know what a crossroader is?” Gerry asked.

Marconi clutched a cup of machine-made coffee. “That’s a cheater who specializes in ripping off casinos.”

“Correct. The most important weapon in a crossroader’s arsenal is signaling, or what crossroaders call giving the office. Here’s an example.” Gerry spread his fingers out wide. “This is called George, and is usually done on the table, or with the hand held flat against the chest. What do you think it means?”

Marconi shook his head.

“George means everything is okay. If five cheaters are spread out across a casino, they can use George to communicate that the coast is clear. Here’s another example.” Gerry made his hand into a fist. “This is called Tom. It’s also done on the table, or against the chest. Tom means there’s a problem, and everyone needs to clear out.”

“Tom is also a criminal name for the police,” Marconi said.

“Maybe that’s where it came from,” Gerry said. “My father busted a gang using George and Tom to cheat a blackjack game. The dealer was involved, and flashing cards to her accomplices as she dealt. The flashing was invisible to the eye-in-the-sky cameras, but could be spotted by a pit boss standing behind her. Her accomplices used George and Tom to tell her when the pit boss was there, and when he wasn’t. They stole over a half million dollars using just two signals.”

The baseball cap lay on a coffee table. Gerry pointed at the receiver and LEDs stitched into the rim. “The gang inside Bally’s was using electronic signals. We know they had a woman nail-nicking cards at blackjack. Once the cards at a table were marked, two members of the gang used the information to beat the house.”

“How?” Marconi asked.

“You play much blackjack?”

“No.”

“It’s a simple game. The dealer gets two cards, one face up, the other face down. The players also get two cards, and try to get a total closer to twenty-one than the dealer. Because the dealer goes last, the house has an edge of one and a half percent.

“When cheaters nail-nick cards, it allows them to read the dealer’s face-down card, and know the dealer’s total. This gives them a fifteen percent advantage. But, the cheaters must be careful. Staring at the dealer’s hand is a dead giveaway that marked cards are in play.”

“Makes sense,” Marconi said.

“Here’s what the gang in Bally’s was doing. One member sat to the dealer’s right. He read the nicks on the dealer’s face-down card, and sent the information to his partner through a tiny transmitter strapped under his pant leg. His partner played the Iggy, or dumb tourist.

He drank and smoked and horsed around. He also read the signals in his baseball cap, and beat the house silly.”

Marconi thought it over. “Let me play devil’s advocate for a minute. What if the district attorney says the LEDs inside the cap are decorative. Plenty of people wear lights and electronic doodads in baseball caps. What do I say then?”

“The cap has a receiver,” Gerry said. “According to the New Jersey device law, no person shall possess any calculator, computer, or any other electronic, electrical, or mechanical device to assist in projecting or altering the game’s outcome.”

A thoughtful look crossed the Marconi’s face.

“That will work,” the detective said.

Gerry took out his cell phone. He needed to call his father, and get him up to speed. He wondered what his father would say upon hearing that Gerry had killed a member of George Scalzo’s crime organization.

A female cop entered the visitors’ area. The bland contours of her uniform could not hide her stunningly attractive figure. She pulled Marconi into a corner, spoke in a hushed voice, then handed him a thick Pendaflex file from under her arm. Marconi opened the file, his dark eyes scanning the page, then glanced nervously at Gerry.

“Thanks, Ellen,” he said.

She left. Marconi came over to where Gerry was sitting, and dropped the folder in Gerry’s lap. Then he sat down across from him.

“We need to talk,” Marconi said.

Gerry put his cell phone back into his pocket. “What’s wrong?”

Marconi pointed at the folder. “That.”

Gerry opened the file, and found himself staring at a Xeroxed memo from the Atlantic City Casino Control Commission. His name was on the center of the page and highlighted in yellow marker. He glanced at the other memos beneath it. His name was highlighted in yellow on them as well.

“What are these?”

“Memos from the Atlantic City Casino Control Com mission on which your name appears,” Marconi said. “Out of curiosity, I had Ellen do a name search through the computer. That’s how many files the CCC has on you. Your name is linked to more gambling scams in Atlantic City than anyone else in the computer. Tell me how I’m going to explain that to the district attorney.”

Gerry dropped the folder on the coffee table. A few hours ago he’d killed a scammer; now Marconi had evidence that said he was also a scammer. It didn’t paint a pretty picture, and he decided to come straight with the detective.

“Does it bother you that I was never arrested?” Gerry asked.

“So you were smart.”

“My name’s on fifty memos. That would make me a genius, don’t you think?”

Marconi leaned back in his chair. “Okay, so what’s your point?”

“Cops think that wherever there’s smoke, there’s fire,” Gerry said. “But there isn’t any fire here. Before I went to work for my father, I was a bookie. I did good business, and I’m not ashamed of it. I also had a reputation as being Tony Valentine’s son. Every scammer in the Northeast knows who my father is. Guys would come to me and ask me my advice.”

“What kind of advice?”

“They would be thinking about scamming a casino in Atlantic City. They would tell me what they were going to do, ask me if I thought my father had ever seen it before. When I was a kid, my father used to show us scams at the dinner table. I was exposed to a lot of amazing stuff when I was growing up. I also understand how my father thinks. I’d look at the scam, and tell them if I thought it would pass muster.”