Dead Man's Hand

by Luke Murphy

  “Winston Coburn III to see Douglas Grant.” Calvin handed his business card to the guard.

  The guard scanned the clipboard. “Yes, Mr. Coburn. I have you down for a nine-thirty appointment. I’ll notify Mr. Grant that you’re here and see if it’s okay to send you up.”

  “No problem.”

  The guard called Grant’s office. He listened for a minute, then hung up. “Mr. Grant isn’t in his office. He probably stepped out for a few minutes. You are a bit early. Would you mind waiting until I’m able to reach him?”

  Calvin’s smile disappeared. He remembered his boss’s words.

  “Listen, uh…” he read the man’s name tag, “Gus. Yes, I mind waiting. Grant knows that I’m flying back to Atlantic City this afternoon, which is why we made an early appointment. I don’t care if he’s there now or not. I’ll wait for him in his office, but absolutely not in this miserable lobby.”

  “But Mr. Coburn,” the man stuttered, looking at his partner. “Do you think Mr. Grant would mind?”

  The partner shook his head. “Nah, he’s okayed it before, plus he made the appointment so he is expecting him.”

  Gus still looked uncertain when Calvin jumped in. “If you don’t get me to an elevator in the next thirty seconds, I’m leaving. And when Grant calls to ask why I missed such an important meeting, I’ll tell him that Gus wouldn’t let me go up.”

  “Fred,” Gus called to another guard who’d just joined him. He explained the issue to the man.

  “Right this way, Mr. Coburn.”

  They took Calvin through the metal detector and used the manual detector to scan his body as fast as they could, without a word. He was probably the only collector in Vegas who had never carried a weapon.

  They escorted him to the nearest open elevator.

  “Please don’t say anything about the delay to Mr. Grant,” Fred mumbled. “We could lose our jobs.”

  “I’ll think about it.” Calvin stepped into the elevator. “Penthouse,” he said to the elevator operator. “Doug Grant’s office.”

  He was pleased with how he’d gotten in. He might be only a bill collector, but he knew how to act with the arrogance of the very wealthy.

  Ace was parked in a modest rental car. He’d been waiting for half an hour in a distant corner of the parking lot where no one would recognize him, but where he could see everyone leaving or entering the building.

  He’d called Pitt twenty minutes before and had confirmed that Watters was on his way and that he’d agreed to wear the hat, sunglasses and coat before he went into the lobby.

  Ace had spotted Watters as soon as he walked down the sidewalk to the front entrance and entered the building. He was impossible to miss and would not be forgotten.

  Killing Grant in his office or transporting him there after his death would have been too risky and probably impossible with the state of the art security system in the complex. Watters was the perfect fall guy, but Ace had to link Watters and Grant somehow and that was the challenge. A guy like Grant wouldn’t be caught a hundred yards from Watters. This was the only way Ace could see connecting Watters and Grant and it could also potentially implicate Pitt. There was no other way to associate Watters with Grant and still lead the cops to connect the dots.

  Earlier, Ace had an informant get him all the information he needed on the LVMPD, because once the Grant homicide investigation began, he’d be following it with interest. He could have dialed the Homicide Division directly, but he wanted to play the concerned, frightened, innocent citizen, one who only knew to call 911 in case of an emergency.

  He waited ten minutes after Watters had entered the building before picking up his untraceable cell phone and dialing the three digits.

  “Hello, 911 emergency.”

  “I need to speak to someone right away,” he said. “A murder is about to occur and the police need to stop it.”

  Ace could tell by the sound of the police officer’s voice that the man was concerned, but the officer remained composed. “Would you repeat that, please?”

  He did.

  “I’m going to transfer you to Homicide. Please hold.”

  The call was picked up in ten seconds. “Detective Hartford, Homicide. You’re claiming someone’s about to be murdered. Who? And where?”

  Ace grinned. “I have reason to believe that Doug Grant is going to be murdered.”

  “Doug Grant, the casino owner? When and by whom?”

  Hartford sounded shocked. That was the reaction Ace wanted. It would make the detective more likely to act than stop to think about the credibility of the call.

  “Just listen,” he said, forcing his voice to sound scared. “I’m risking my life by making this call. If people involved find out I’ve reported this information to the police, I’ll be the next dead man.” He didn’t wait for a response. “I have solid information that a man named Calvin Watters is going to murder Doug Grant in his private office in the next few minutes. You need to get patrol cars over there right away.”

  He gave Hartford the address even though he knew he didn’t need to.

  “Watters entered the building three minutes ago. He made an appointment with Grant for nine thirty this morning under false pretenses. He’s using the alias Winston Coburn III and he’ll have a phony business card to show the guards at the front desk. He’s wearing a Panama hat, black sunglasses and a long tan coat. By now, he may already be on the elevator. If you don’t get officers there in time to stop Grant’s murder, I’ll let it be known anonymously that you received this call and because of your delay, you’re to blame for Grant’s death.”

  “Okay. But you have to tell me your—”

  Ace hung up. Then he drove away, smiling.

  Grant’s suite was the only one on the penthouse floor. When Calvin strode out of the elevator, he approached the double front doors and knocked.

  No one answered.

  He tried the doorknob and found the door unlocked.

  Hmmm…I guess Grant really did step out.

  He pushed the doors open and walked in. “Hello? Grant?”

  Silence.

  Since Grant had left the doors unlocked, Calvin could only surmise the man had planned to return soon. Besides, Pitt always had good information as to where the target would be.

  Maybe Grant left the money for me to pick up, to avoid meeting me.

  He passed through a secretary’s room, which connected to a larger carpeted office with a bathroom off to one side. Grant’s office. The aroma of expensive leather and the scent of pipe tobacco filled the air.

  This was the first time that Calvin’s boss had ever been wrong about where a prospect would be. Also, from what he had seen, Grant hadn’t left the money in a package to be picked up. He would have put it near the front door or somewhere else where Calvin could easily spot it.

  He jumped when the phone rang, then ignored it as he made a beeline toward the mahogany desk. He studied the papers on top—memos, documents, bills, the usual stuff. There was also a framed picture of Grant and his wife from their wedding day. Nothing with Calvin’s or Pitt’s name.

  He searched around again and saw no indication of the money. The last thing he wanted was to be caught snooping around in Grant’s office.

  The phone continued to ring.

  Obviously, no one is here. Hang up already.

  No Grant, no money. This last job was getting more suspicious by the minute. And Calvin’s finely tuned sense of danger from his years on the streets was buzzing.

  Something’s off here.

  Riffling through the papers on Grant’s desk, he heard police sirens in the distance. He jerked upright. They were getting closer.

  The phone finally stopped ringing but the sirens grew louder.

  Proper procedure he’d been taught was to call immediately when a job failed and await instructions. As badly as he wanted to get out of there, he still had the reputation he’d built.

  “Calm down, Calvin,” he told himself. “This is
your last job. Do it right and you’re done.”

  Using Grant’s desk phone, he dialed an outside line. “Grant’s not here and neither is the money.”

  “What do you mean he’s not there?” Pitt sounded worried.

  “I’ll tell you again. Grant’s not in his office. You were wrong.”

  “He has to be there!”

  “Nope. I’m leaving. And I’ve just finished my last job. You’re going to have to get someone else to try to collect. I’m coming back to give you this stupid disguise and pick up a few things.”

  “No, wait!” There was a slight pause. “Grant may show up any—”

  Calvin hung up. Sirens shrilled outside as though they were maybe a block away. He peered out the window. Sure enough, four police cars were pulling up to the curb, lights flashing. The sirens were cut off in mid-wail.

  Okay, this is all too weird. I’m getting out of here. Fuck this.

  He headed to the elevator, but hesitated. Were the cops heading up or taking care of business in the lobby? If he took the elevator down to the first floor, some of the officers might be heading up in the elevator, while a couple would take the stairs. He made it a general policy to be invisible to cops as much as he could. Whatever was going in this building, he didn’t want to be a part of.

  “Shit!” he muttered.

  It would take too long to climb down twenty-five flights of stairs. And it would kill his knee, not to mention that he’d eventually be greeted by the officers.

  There was only one thing to do. He’d take the elevator to the third floor. The officers going up the stairs should be well past that point. He’d then get off the elevator and take the back stairs down three flights. He could manage that much.

  When he reached the third floor, he got off the elevator and searched for the exit sign. Sunlight filtered in through windows at both ends of the hall as he found the emergency exit and started sprinting down the steps, taking two at a time.

  At the bottom floor, his breathing had quickened slightly, his shirt was damp with sweat and his knee throbbed. Cops would be in the lobby, so he went straight to the emergency exit at the back of the building.

  Damn.

  The door was wired to set off an alarm if opened from the inside. He took less than a minute to disconnect the wires from the alarm, then ran down the back alley without looking back.

  Chapter 9

  When Dale Dayton arrived at the murder site, nosy spectators were being ringed back by the police, while others drove past, stirring up dust clouds of dry Nevada air. Dozens of police cruisers, along with the emergency medical teams, had responded to the emergency call.

  He accelerated past the road block and pulled up to the curb, grabbing his Styrofoam spit cup and exiting the car. As he badged his way past the cops at the front, he noticed four road flares placed around fresh tread marks on the gravel at the side of the road.

  He found a junior officer standing nearby and said, “Make sure this area is secured.”

  The officer said, “Yeah, thanks. I know how to do my job.” Then he walked away.

  Dale scanned the crowd of bystanders herded behind yellow police tape. News traveled fast in Vegas. Angry and scared citizens, as well as the meddlesome media, were always drawn to the scene of a crime.

  A familiar group awaited him. Suits.

  The lieutenant, Dale’s sergeant, the Clark County sheriff and the mayor huddled behind a strand of tape. It was rare when the lieutenant made an appearance at a crime scene. And Dale had never seen the mayor at one. But this time, the victim was Doug Grant. High profile cases wake up all the supervisors. They would want to talk to him as the lead detective.

  Dale frowned. Gotta avoid them if I want to get real police work done.

  He followed the recently trampled tracks into the woods and weaved through the thick brush to where Jimmy was waiting, scribbling in a notepad. Slipping a pair of latex gloves over his hands, he knelt down next to the body.

  “He’s been identified twice,” Jimmy said. “The deceased is Douglas Grant.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Chargers lost last night,” Jimmy added with a sarcastic grin.

  Dale gave a brief nod, ignoring his partner’s poor attempt at humor. He put his cup on the ground. “Let’s have a look-see, shall we? Larry, did you get a picture? I wanna roll him over.”

  “I have ten from this side, all angles,” the crime scene photographer said. “I also got a sketch of the crime scene and some overalls. I’ll go get a couple of angle shots of the roadside tread marks that we can keep on record for any comparisons. Also, I’ll have Eddie craft some molds of the marks.”

  Larry left.

  Dale rolled Grant onto his back. He let his breath out when he saw the man’s face. Gray eyes stared blankly back at him, the thin face pale and gaunt. Even with slight bruising, there was no mistaking Doug Grant.

  He glanced at Jimmy. “Time of death established?”

  “Between ten o’clock and midnight last night.”

  He studied the gaping slash in the victim’s throat. Smooth edges and sides, plus depth of cut, indicated a very sharp knife pulled hard and fast by a righty.

  Vicious.

  He lifted Grant’s hands and analyzed the wrinkled palms. “No defensive hand wounds. Grant knew his killer or got jumped. Who the hell would jump him out here?”

  He scanned the surrounding area, mentally cataloging everything in view.

  He looked up at Jimmy. “Who called it in?”

  “Woman jogger.”

  Jimmy nudged his head in the direction of an ebony-toned woman in her early twenties. She was clearly shaken and sat on the tailgate of the ambulance while an EMT watched her. Wearing a tight body suit, she had the physique of a seasoned runner.

  “Not bad, huh?”

  Dale ignored his partner’s remark. “Take him away, guys.”

  He had served twelve years, but this was the most prominent murder case he’d been assigned to. He was used to killings in Vegas for drugs or money. This one seemed very personal.

  Jimmy studied him, scrunched his eyes and frowned. “Didn’t you wear that suit yesterday? You slept in it, right?”

  “Fuck off.”

  Jimmy chuckled. “I told you that you were too old to have a kid.”

  “I’m forty-six. That’s not too old.”

  “It doesn’t seem like such a good idea now, does it? Trying to placate Betty.”

  Dale didn’t respond. It had been two days since Betty’s announcement and he hadn’t told anyone, not even his partner, that his wife had left him.

  After inserting a fresh wad of Copenhagen snuff between his lip and gums, he moved out of the way as two uniformed men moved in with a gurney. They secured the body on the stretcher and hauled it away.

  Dale walked around the crime scene, ignoring everyone in his path.

  Jimmy turned to a young, uniformed patrolman. “Watch this.”

  As if on cue, Dale said, “The murder happened here.”

  “What makes you say that?” Jimmy asked.

  He pulled out the pen that had been resting behind his ear, using it as a pointer. “The clumps of blood and the spatter.” He indicated the blotches of red on the ground. “There is no trace of blood anywhere else. No indication of a body being dragged. Grant walked out here on his own volition.”

  “He could have been carried?”

  “No chance. If he were carried, the extra weight would’ve forced the footprints farther into the ground.” He slipped the pen back behind his ear. “We know where the footsteps ended. Let’s find out where they began.”

  He picked up his cup and spit into it.

  Dale was glad he had a case like this to take his mind off his personal life. He thought of Betty. She had given up on his round-the-clock work routine.

  Right now, that’s all he had to keep him sane.

  With Doug Grant a victim, Dale would be conducting a homicide investigation bigger than any he’d exp
erienced before. With the mayor and the sergeant watching, he’d have to run it by the book.

  He was looking forward to the challenge but not the supervision. There would be pressure on the department and that meant his boss would be looking for quick answers. He’d have to prioritize this case over his other assignments.

  Dale had never met Grant personally, but as so many others had, he’d heard many stories about him and his father and son over the years.

  He turned to his partner. “Let’s get to work.”

  Calvin was sweating when he made it back to Pitt’s office. He mopped his face and neck with his T-shirt.

  Dixie smirked. “Hey, a black Elton John.”

  He whipped off the sunglasses and hat and shrugged out of the coat. With a nod, he said, “You can have these.”

  The office door was open, so Calvin quietly stepped inside. Pitt was sitting in his chair, facing away from the door. He leaned back in the chair and interlocked his fingers behind his head.

  “Hey,” Calvin said.

  Startled, Pitt unclasped his hands and spun the chair around. His eyes flared when he saw Calvin leaning against the doorway, but he said nothing. .

  Staring, he clambered to his feet. “H-how could you…how could Grant not have been there?”

  It was obvious he’d wanted to say something else.

  “Why are you so surprised?” Calvin asked.

  “He was supposed to be there.” Pitt sat back down, a faraway look in his eyes. “I want my money.”

  “Money always is your first priority.” He watched the man, suspicion growing with every minute. “I told you, Don. You’re gonna have to find someone else to get it. We agreed that my last job was collecting from Grant. I went there. When I left without finding Grant or the money, I’d finished the job. It’s over now. I’m walking outta here.”

  “Not without giving me back that $10,000 I paid you in advance yesterday.”

  “I consider that final payment for the work I did today. You don’t like it, try to collect from me.” He widened his stance.

  With a groan, Pitt sat back in his chair. “I’m too tired to fight with you. Keep the money. Just go.”