by Luke Murphy
The two cars turned off the main road without another car in sight. There were no streetlights, but he could see Grant’s Jag approaching a vacated strip mall that had been closed down for years.
Ah, the perfect spot.
A deep thrill climbed Ace’s body.
Doug had just turned onto the back road, less than fifteen miles from his place, when he noticed the car behind him. It moved quickly, lights flashing.
What now? A cop?
He shook his head but pulled the Jaguar into the deserted parking lot of an abandoned strip mall.
A Ferrari pulled beside him on the right side.
Shit. Ace Sanders.
Sanders was the last person Doug wanted to see.
Nothing moved in the Ferrari. The windows were blacked out, so he couldn’t see the driver’s face.
It has to be Sanders. What’s he doing? Is he fucking nuts or just arrogant beyond recall?
The window of the Ferrari moved down. It was Sanders. Did he want a confrontation?
Doug rolled down the passenger-side window. “You need something?”
“I was hoping I’d catch you before you got home,” Sanders said. “We need to talk.”
“About what?”
“Linda.”
Doug was shocked that Sanders would bring up her name so boldly. He watched Sanders climb out of his car and walk around, moving between the two vehicles. Sanders leaned back against the Ferrari’s passenger door and raised his hands in the air. “Truce.”
Truce?
Sanders’ eyes softened. “Look, Doug, I know we’ve had our differences in the past. But I think that if we leave the past where it belongs, in the past, and move on, then there is a mega opportunity for us to make some real money in this city.”
Doug had no idea what Sanders was talking about. What opportunity?
“If you just hear me out,” Sanders went on. “Then what I have to show you will be very beneficial.”
“You said something about Linda.” Doug said.
“So you’ll hear me out?”
Speechless, Doug stared out the front windshield, refusing to look in the man’s direction. What could Sanders possibly say about Linda? Was this some last-minute attempt to try to save her in some way, somehow persuade him to think better of her, take her back? That wasn’t Sanders’ way at all. And what was this opportunity?
Maybe I’ll learn something I can use to fight Sanders. Some slip-up.
He finally looked at Sanders and nodded slightly. Doug heard Sanders’ car door open and then slam and then Sanders got into the passenger seat of the Jaguar. He set a leather bag on his lap
The tension in the car was palpable, the quiet haunting.
“What about Linda?” Doug asked finally.
Sanders shook his head. “I don’t want to talk here. I don’t want anyone to see or know that we’re having this conversation. There’s a lot of competition out there. There’s a place where we can talk. It’s only a few minutes away. I’ll give you directions as you drive.”
Something in Sanders voice told Doug he didn’t have much of a choice.
He was more than a little hesitant to accommodate Sanders. But if there was a possibility that he could learn something new, possibly important enough to change his feelings, then he had to take the chance.
What was he thinking? Did he still have feelings for Linda? This was insane. He should flat out refuse and leave Sanders in the parking lot staring at the Jaguar’s taillights. But he couldn’t.
Except for Sanders’ occasional directions, the drive was quiet. He had yet to look his way and Doug was beginning to panic. He couldn’t sit still any longer. The silence was unnerving him. “So what’s up?”
Sanders twitched, as though Doug’s question had startled him out of a trance. He stared at Doug as if he hadn’t known the man was in the car with him.
“There’s something you need to see,” Sanders said.
“What’s in the bag?”
“After I show you something, we’ll talk about what’s in my bag.”
Five minutes later they were driving through a heavily forested area.
“It’s in there,” Sanders said, pointing to the woods that surrounded the region.
Doug balked. This was idiotic. What was Sanders going to show him—bleached bones from a murder? Or was this really some sort of truce, Sanders thinking about a partnership with a prime piece of real estate to invest in. Doug knew Sanders always had a motive for money. This area could work for a casino/hotel.
He didn’t like it, but his curiosity was overwhelming and stronger at the moment than his fear. He had to know what was so important to see or discuss about his wife that Ace would drive him out to the middle of nowhere. Ignoring his every gut instinct, he slowly got out of the car.
Ace sat in the idling car and watched as Grant got out and looked around. He had worried that Grant would refuse to go along and felt for the knife in his jacket.
Then he joined Grant. “This way,” Ace said, motioning.
They moved past scrub and over thick grass. It was hard to see more than a few feet ahead.
“Why didn’t you bring a flashlight?” Grant asked, a tremor in his voice.
“I know where we’re going.” After a few more steps, he said, “It’s right in there.”
Grant slipped past him, parted the shaggy branches and leaned forward.
Ace took a step closer. Perfect.
He yanked Grant’s head against his shoulder, thrust the knife deep into one side of Grant’s throat, then sliced all the way across with such force he could feel the knife’s edge slide along Grant’s spinal cord. Masses of blood gushed and spurted from the wound.
When the trailing tip of the hunting knife left Grant’s throat, Ace let the limp body drop to the ground. Looking into his victim’s dead eyes, he smiled with intoxicating pleasure and wiped most of the blood from the blade, using Grant’s expensive suit as a towel.
With the calmness of a seasoned veteran, he walked back to Grant’s car, opened the passenger door and took out his leather bag, careful not to leave any bloodstains on or inside the car. He opened the bag, pulled out a couple of towels, a shirt and a pair of pants, and set them to the side.
Unbuttoning his shirt, he removed the bloody garments and gloves and threw everything into the leather bag, including the knife and its sheath. With the towels, he wiped all the blood off his body that he could see. He put on a fresh shirt and pants, closed the leather bag, made sure it had no blood on it anywhere and put it back in the passenger seat. Then he pulled on a new pair of clean gloves, eliminating any possibility of prints on the steering wheel.
He needed to go back to the mall, pick up his Ferrari and leave Grant’s vehicle abandoned there. The only tread marks the police would ever find at the murder site would come from the tires on Grant’s own car.
Ace glanced at the body in the bushes and frowned. Pitt wouldn’t be happy. Pitt had told him to leave the body in Grant’s office, but that had never been Ace’s intention. It would have been too risky.
It just wasn’t in the cards.
Chapter 8
Calvin was jolted from an uneasy sleep by the phone. He reached across the bed and answered with a hoarse voice. “Yeah.”
“Get your ass out of bed,” Pitt said.
“What is it?”
“The Grant job. Come to the office for the info.”
Calvin glanced at the bedroom clock. Seven o’clock was way too early for Pitt and he had not gotten over his improbable story about the loan, or his worry about collecting from someone so prominent in Las Vegas. The closest Pitt had come to a big shot was Sanders, who Calvin thought didn’t count.
What was so important that it couldn’t wait until the afternoon?
Calvin hung up without saying goodbye. He’d been through the drill enough times that he knew what to expect. There was no need to panic or rush.
This is it!
He rolled over and sat o
n the edge of the bed, testing his knee. He looked around the rundown apartment and shook his head. Soon he’d be gone, so the state of the apartment mattered less than ever.
He climbed out of bed, noticing that Rachel was gone already, as usual. Most of the time he kept her away from his apartment because it wasn’t a pleasant place and it put Rachel at risk if someone tried to collect from the collector. But last night, knowing that this would be his last job, he was floating on air. He had been careless.
Still groggy from the painkillers, he walked to the bathroom and stubbed his toe on a fifty-pound dumbbell. “Shit.”
He rolled the dumbbell under the bed and proceeded to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. He took a quick shower, then dressed in jeans and a tight-fitting T-shirt that exposed the intimidating size of his chest and well-defined biceps.
He smiled at his reflection. Before the morning was over, Calvin would be starting his new life.
He reached the office before eight. It was rare that Calvin got there before the secretary, but the room was quiet and empty, except for Pitt, who was sitting at his desk. In front of him sat a half-empty bottle of cognac beside Pitt’s coffee mug.
Pitt gave a wide grin and shook Calvin’s hand.
Very un-Pitt-like. Unshaven and smelling bad, the man had bloodshot eyes.
“This is it, Calvin, your last one. We sure are gonna miss you around here.”
Pitt seemed unusually chipper. Where did the belligerent man go, the one who lectured him yesterday?
“Well, I ain’t gonna miss you.” Unsmiling, Calvin stuck his hand out. “The info?”
“Don’t be in such a rush. There are some things I have to explain to you first.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t have to tell you that everything I say is confidential, as always.”
“How many times have I done this? You’re treating me like a rookie.”
Pitt held his arms up in surrender. “Fine. No more chitchat.” He grabbed a file on his desk. “I didn’t tell you yesterday because you didn’t need to know. Now you do. The $200,000 you’re collecting from Grant isn’t a gambling debt. It’s payment for some jobs I did for him over the last couple of months. He had some work he didn’t want anyone to know about.”
“Like what?”
“You don’t need to know that.”
“Why would he come to a scumbag like you when he can afford the best and trust them?”
“That’s the point. He researched me, found out I wasn’t only a bookie but could do other things too, or arrange for them to happen. And he knew that no one would ever think that we’d do business together. Opposite ends of the social scale. Even I have to admit that.”
“What does all that have to do with my collecting this morning? Get to the real point.”
Pitt sighed. “Maybe I won’t miss you so much after all, Calvin. The point is that this whole situation is already very embarrassing for Grant, even though no one knows about it.”
“Sounds like he has to keep the whole thing secret.”
“He doesn’t want to drive to a meeting with two hundred grand in cash. That’s why the meeting is at his private office. He doesn’t have a secretary, so it’ll just be the two of you.”
Calvin said nothing.
“He needs you to be discreet in that building and seem more like a rich associate than the collector you are.” Pitt strode to the closet, opened the door and stepped inside. “Here’s his plan. You’re going to be disguised. He’s added you at the front desk to his appointment list, but not as Calvin Watters.”
Great. This was getting weirder by the minute.
“The cover story is that you’re Winston Coburn III, an heir who owns three casinos in Atlantic City and is thinking of expanding his operations to Vegas.” Pitt came back out of the closet holding two shopping bags. “Coburn is only in town for two days to check out available properties—small casinos. Start small and build. He’s meeting with Grant to get his advice about which casinos he should take an interest in and discuss the possibility of a joint venture, if not with Grant himself, then with his son, Shawn.”
“So I just walk in?”
“Yes. You’ll go in, flash a business card that states you’re the CEO of three casinos in Jersey and the security guards will confirm that you’re on the appointment list. Then you go up to Grant’s penthouse office on the twenty-fifth floor.”
Calvin scowled. “Do I look like I own three casinos?”
“You’ll have everything you need to complete the image. Besides, it doesn’t matter what the guards think about your appearance. They’ll assume you’re eccentric. You wouldn’t be the only one from New Jersey like that.”
He still didn’t like it. “Why the disguise exactly?”
“People know you, know what you do. You’d stand out anywhere unless we disguise you. And Grant doesn’t want you identified.” From one of the bags, he pulled a Panama hat with an encircling wide brim. “Here. Put this on. It should fit.”
Calvin donned the hat and tugged the brim down over his brow. He glanced over one shoulder and caught his reflection in the mirror by the bar. Shit…I look like a fool. Pitt was right, though. The hat distracted attention from his face and hair.
“Good,” Pitt said. “Now put on these glasses.” He handed Calvin a pair of large-framed sunglasses, which hid a good deal of his face.
“Last but not least…” Pitt reached into the second bag and pulled out a long, tan overcoat.
Without a word, Calvin put on the coat. It was roomy, even on him, with a loose neckline that he could tuck his woven dreadlocks into. The cuffs reached past his wrists and covered his body tattoos. The coat, which extended past his knees, was long and baggy enough to conceal his physique. “I look ridiculous. Is all of this really necessary?”
A black man with no distinguishing features.
Pitt shrugged. “I’ve seen worse…maybe. It’s an odd combination, but as a partial disguise, it’s great.”
“Well, I’m taking this off now.” Calvin removed the hat, glasses and coat. “I’ll put them back on when I get to the parking lot of Grant’s building.”
“Fine. Here’s your Winston Coburn III business card, engraved, embossed and on special paper.”
He studied the card. It was impressive and not something Pitt would have thought of or paid for. What the hell am I walking into? And who else is in on it? Grant? “Anything else?”
“In case there’s a problem with your listed appointment, you should know that Dixie called the front desk yesterday afternoon as your secretary. She said Grant was very interested in meeting you on your brief trip here and he’s agreed to your request for an early-morning appointment.”
“How early?”
“Nine thirty. The front desk isn’t going to disturb a man like Grant to confirm an appointment until you show up. Then they’ll call him to confirm. If he doesn’t answer, they’ll assume he stepped out for a minute because he’s intrigued by this unexpected opportunity to talk business with Mr. Coburn.”
Calvin chewed on this information for a moment. “Why are you giving me so many details? You’ve never done that with any jobs before.”
“This is the big one,” Pitt said. “Whatever you have to do to get in to that office, do it. Make sure you’re there by nine thirty. Wait for his return if you have to. If you don’t make this meeting, I don’t know how long it’ll be before he’s ready to try again.” Pitt stared at him. “You want this to be your last job? Then get it done right the first time. Once you get the money, come straight back here. I’ll give you the $30,000 balance on the spot and it’s adios, amigo.”
Calvin gave a nod. Adios, amigo sounded good to him.
He turned his thoughts to Grant. The man was often in the local papers and he knew he’d recognize him anywhere. “Give me the address.”
While driving to Grant’s office, Calvin tried to still the uneasy thoughts that flickered through his mind. He had known
Pitt for three years and the man wasn’t acting normal. He was nervous about something. And that didn’t sit well with Calvin.
Something’s up, or maybe it’s the size of the payoff.
Calvin didn’t buy into Pitt’s story about Grant owing him $200,000. Not completely. Most casino owners in Vegas hired men like Pitt to do the dirty work and keep quiet, but Grant hiring Pitt for various illegal jobs was inconsistent with the character and reputation of the casino owner. Through the decades that Grant had run the Greek with his father and in the last fifteen years with his son, he’d had a good reputation as a somewhat honest man. To Calvin, Grant was a man who wouldn’t get near such jobs.
So why does Pitt want me to see Grant?
If there was something going on here—and Calvin was sure there was—he was going to have to improvise and be careful too. His instincts had never failed him before. Calvin wanted to talk to Grant himself and find out what was really going on.
With most jobs, he only knew his target by name. It was easier if he didn’t know the person. This time he had no personal connection, but almost too much information.
He remembered when the rich had welcomed him into their group as a promising, clean-cut athlete bound for glory. Now he was just an outsider looking in. Just another thug.
The upscale building was located in downtown Las Vegas, the city’s central business district. It was originally the town site and gambling district located in the center of Las Vegas Valley, but it had taken a backseat to the Strip, which was located just south.
When he arrived at the expensive office complex, he ignored the valet parking and parked on the street. He put on the hat and sunglasses, stepped from the car and donned the coat.
Surveying the crowded sidewalk, he zigzagged through pedestrians hurrying to work. He strode through the rotating door into a bustling lobby, where men and women in tailored suits hustled to meetings.
It was 9:12 a.m. He was a bit early.
Oh well. Better to be early than late.
He entered the building and approached the counter, where a short, stocky security guard held a clipboard.
