Dead Man's Hand

by Luke Murphy

He opened his cell phone and placed an urgent call. “Hey, Duncan, it’s Dale. Have you talked to Grant’s son and daughter yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Good. Listen…” Dale asked them to see what Shawn knew about the will and those arrangements—judge his reaction. Then he hung up.

  Nothing else held their interest, so they took the money and the documents with them and let themselves out.

  They got into the car. When Jimmy was seated, Dale said, “Tomorrow morning, early as possible, we’ve got to go to the bank and open that safe deposit box.”

  “I’ll call Tina to set it up.”

  “No, Jimmy. By the book. We’ll have to get one more warrant today. We are really pressing—but the mayor will help us out if need be, on the quiet.”

  Chapter 16

  From a highly touted NFL prospect to a Vegas murder suspect.

  Calvin was on edge, his nerves strung tight when he got home, but he saw no sign that the cops had already been by. At least that was good.

  He went to his small desk and booted up his computer. It was only a laptop. He kept his real computer system at the safe house.

  That was the other thing that had kept him sane for three years. Daily knee rehab and weights, and daily online study of what his computer could do. Calvin had never been a computer nerd, but in the last three years he’d learned enough to do most of what the stereotypical flannel-shirted overweight geek could do. Establishing and keeping his computer system state of the art had been his only major expense since arriving in Las Vegas. He saved the rest of his earnings for use in his new life whenever it began.

  He had created a psychological profile database of a wide range of people in Vegas, particularly clients, so he could break them down in his collecting work.

  At the back of his mind he’d always thought his gift with computers would be his ticket to his new life. He could show most prospective employers what he’d managed to compile about people and how efficiently he’d used the information. Marketing firms, security businesses—both could use him.

  Now the computer would have to substitute for friends. Although he knew a lot of people on the streets, he only had a handful of true friends who would even consider touching him right now.

  Who could he call?

  He hadn’t spoken to his brother in years, not since he had taken the job with Pitt. His own brother would simply tell Calvin to turn himself in—if he were innocent, he’d be okay. He was not a naïve cop, but he was straight as an arrow.

  The only time Calvin had seen his father since he was little was when Calvin’s name had been mentioned in Sports Illustrated as a possible Heisman Trophy candidate and a sure top draft choice. His money-hungry father surfaced. Calvin told him to get lost again.

  He had three options. One, he could turn himself into authorities. Not promising. Two, he could flee the city, never to return. That meant dumping Rachel, whom he loved. He hated his life in Vegas—but he liked the town itself. Three, he could find out who had tried to frame him and who the real murderer was.

  He grabbed a black duffel bag and filled it with clothing. Except for cash for immediate expenses, he had all his savings locked and stored inside his fortified computer room. The $20,000 he’d gotten from Pitt this morning—that would come with him now.

  With a fresh dip in his mouth, Dale followed the directions his partner had laid out. Jimmy wanted to get home to his family and he didn’t blame him.

  He decided to surprise Pitt at his office and catch him off guard. A personal visit from a homicide detective made an impact, even on street scum like Pitt. He wasn’t even sure that Pitt would still be there. If he was, it would have nothing to do with business.

  He found the office, which was off a crappy alleyway. Neither hinted at the sizeable cash flow Pitt generated.

  He walked in and approached the front desk. No one around. Dale yelled, “Donald Pitt. I’m Detective Dayton, Homicide. I need to talk to you.” He heard nothing, but headed to the back.

  Pitt was seat at a table with someone, eating a late dinner. A rancid odor filled the air.

  The man sitting beside Pitt looked huge, even sitting down.

  “Wow, a real-life detective,” the bookie said, mouth full of food. Pitt chuckled arrogantly and the goon with him joined in. Pitt started to stand.

  Dale extended his hand. “Please, don’t get up. I won’t keep you long.”

  Part of the detective would have liked to grab the bookie by the collar and slam him against the wall. But the steroid freak next to him kept Dale at bay.

  Pitt must have seen Dale eyeing the other man in the room.

  “This is my associate, Randall.”

  Randall had a thick neck and wide jaw. His muscle shirt showed massive welts on his swollen deltoids. He also had a zipper of stitches down the side of his face.

  Dale looked at Randall and then back at Pitt. “I was wondering if we could talk business.”

  With a quick nod from his boss, the bodyguard took the hint. Randall dropped two meaty hands on the desk and lifted from the chair, his triceps looking like horseshoes when flexed. He stood and stared at Dale, his eyes shining with anger, playing the role to perfection, then turned and left.

  “What do you want, Detective Dayton? As you can see, we’re very busy around here.”

  Dale glanced at the empty fast-food wrappers on the desk and smirked. “Have you seen Calvin Watters today?”

  Pitt picked at some food in his teeth before responding. “Maybe.”

  He was the classic liar.

  “Do I really look that stupid to you?”

  “Save the bullshit. He ain’t here and I ain’t seen him.” His smarmy grin broadened.

  Dale moistened his finger and turned to a fresh page in his notebook. “When was the last time you did?”

  Pitt thought about his answer for only a few seconds. “Well, I seen him early this mornin’ when I sent him on a job, but he didn’t return. I ain’t seen or heard from him since.”

  “Where was this job?”

  “I sent him over to Doug Grant’s personal office. Doug owed me some money and I sent Calvin to collect. But the bastard never came back. He probably took the loot and disappeared. Never should have trusted him for a job that big.”

  Dale laughed at the thought of Pitt calling Grant by his first name, like they were acquaintances.

  Did Pitt make the anonymous call? If he’d set up Watters for murder, then he’d have a cover story already prepared to innocently explain his collector’s presence at the office. Now he knew that Pitt’s cover story was “just a collection.”

  Dale wouldn’t mention the call just yet. He wanted to see how this played out. “Did Grant have a gambling problem?”

  “I’m not saying that.”

  “How much did he owe you?”

  “I’m sorry, Detective, that information is confidential.”

  “I can get a search warrant and go through your papers if that’s what it takes.”

  “Do what you have to do.”

  Dale frowned. “Do you have a recent photo of Watters?”

  The bookie opened up a desk drawer and took out the picture. He handed it over.

  How convenient that Pitt had a current photo of Watters to give him. Dale studied it. He recognized the man in the image, but he actually recalled Calvin in his USC days. “Handsome fella.”

  “We like our collectors to be intimidating. I had Calvin start developing that new, scary look when he began working for me.”

  “I’m gonna keep this.”

  “Sure, help yourself.”

  Dale reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his business card. “Here’s my card. If you hear from Watters, let me know.”

  Pitt took the card, though he didn’t seem too eager to do so. “Don’t worry, you’ll be the first one I call, Detective Dayton, sir.” He gave Dale a toothy grin.

  As Dale turned to leave, the bookie stopped him.

  “Detective.”
Pitt extended his hand. “Here’s my business card. If you find Calvin, get my money back.”

  Dale read the inscription on Pitt’s card and laughed to himself.

  “Donald Pitt and Associates,” he said. “Is that the associate I just met?”

  Chapter 17

  He hadn’t stayed long at the apartment. Since the cops hadn’t yet been there, they would be soon.

  Calvin knew he had one major vulnerability. Even though he tried to keep his relationship with Rachel a secret, people had seen them together. If Calvin’s guess was right and Pitt had set him up, then Rachel was exposed because Pitt knew of her. But Calvin didn’t think that Pitt was smart enough to organize this elaborate setup and was probably working with a partner. If that was the case, then Pitt would surely give this information to whoever was pulling the strings. They’d go after her, even torture Rachel for information. Yet she didn’t know anything. The murder had occurred more than twenty hours ago, so there’d been plenty of time for the bastard to already be on Rachel’s trail. He had to find her.

  He had to watch the cops and watch his enemy, who at this point knew everything about him while Calvin knew nothing about his enemy.

  He had double pursuers.

  He made a quick stop at a side-street convenience store, found a phone booth and made two calls. First, he called a taxi service he’d never used before. He dialed again.

  “Wanda, it’s Calvin. I need you to give Rachel a message.” He left the message with Rachel’s roommate and hung up.

  He ran into the store and picked out only the necessities for the first few days. Tomorrow, he’d buy enough to last more than a month if he ended up having to stay in his workshop in a state of siege.

  Outside the store, the taxicab was waiting. He exhaled when the driver showed no signs of recognition. As the vehicle pulled out, Calvin scanned for police or a tail.

  As the cab wove its way through the busy Vegas streets, he continued to glance out the back window. He had the driver switch lanes the whole way.

  He stopped by a clothing store: one suit, street clothes, sportswear. He dropped $3,500, but it was a necessity.

  One more stop with the meter ticking.

  “Wait here.”

  He was thankful that the restaurant was open twenty-four hours. He slipped in the back of the almost empty waffle house. All that he wanted to do now was get Rachel safely to the workshop and keep her under constant guard.

  He checked his watch. She was late. He hoped that Wanda had been able to deliver the message. As his concern began to mount, he saw Rachel outside the restaurant. He picked up the phone receiver, using it as a prop to hide from her, and turned his back to the door, watching Rachel out of the corner of his eye. He had specifically warned her not to identify him.

  She stepped inside the restaurant carrying two large, overstuffed knapsacks, made her way to the back and passed by him. She turned and entered the bathroom. He looked around a moment and then followed her.

  Before she could speak, he put his finger to her lips. He checked the stalls and locked the entrance. When he turned around, Rachel jumped into his arms.

  “I missed you so much,” she said, smothering him with kisses.

  “Easy, Rachel, I missed you too. But we don’t have time to talk here.”

  “Okay.” She stepped back.

  Just then there were two hard and two soft knocks. Wanda. He unhooked the door.

  The waitress stuck her head inside. “All clear, Calvin. Rachel wasn’t followed.”

  “Thanks.”

  Calvin and Rachel slipped out the back. His taxi driver hadn’t deserted him.

  They got in the back and didn’t say a word to each other. Once in the workshop, he’d tell her everything.

  Calvin had the driver drop them two blocks away. “Pick me up here in an hour.” He tipped the driver twenty dollars.

  He and Rachel dipped in and out of backyards and made several circles before arriving at the workshop. He dropped the bags on the concrete floor and scoped the old building.

  He had Rachel shave off his long dreadlocks and shaggy facial hair. After she had removed enough with the electric razor, she used a disposable one to finish.

  When the transformation was complete, he looked much as he had in college. But even with a bit of hair loss, Calvin was still too recognizable. He’d need to give the next step some thought.

  “What do you think?”

  Rachel ran her hand along his now-smooth scalp. “I like it,” she said, wiping off the last of the shaving cream.

  “Now it’s your turn.” He helped her dye her hair black and gave her the short version of the situation now. With the hair change, Rachel looked like a different person. He missed her real looks already, but they also cut her long hair into a bob.

  The cab was waiting and the driver did a double take at the new looks but said nothing.

  They headed toward Cruiser’s Bar.

  After stopping at a convenience store for a new tin of chew, Dale ran over his interview with Pitt. Why had the bookie given up Watters just like that? If Watters really was the bookie’s number-one employee, then why was Pitt so eager to help?

  Dale had been expecting lies and deceit but had gotten the complete opposite. It had been too easy, just like Watters’ fingerprints in Grant’s office. That had him on edge.

  He parked in his space at the precinct. When he stepped into the damp, air-conditioned lobby, he felt a chill. He wasn’t sure if it was from this case or the weather. He walked past the few others working after-hours and straight to his desk.

  After booting up his computer, he ran Watters’ name through the Nevada Crime Index (NCI) database and at the national FBI level (NCIC).

  Had Watters known Grant or had he been in any direct contact with the casino owner prior to his death? Because of fingerprints, Dale knew that Watters was in Grant’s office the morning after Grant was murdered, sent there by his boss. But why the phony disguise and fake name?

  When the computer beeped, he searched the website of the USC Trojans. He researched team lists from five years back and clicked on Calvin Watters’ name.

  Even though the disguise had been elaborate, the pictures on the USC site made it obvious that the visitor to Grant’s private office could have been Watters. By now, Watters could be anywhere—Canada, Mexico or even off the American continent. If he was guilty it was highly unlikely, but a remote possibility, that he was still in Vegas.

  Dale ripped off the sheet and left the office. He threw the two color pictures onto the front desk counter and ordered a city-wide APB. All he could do was get the photo across the state, to the FBI and to Canadian and Mexican police. No Interpol stuff—not yet.

  He went back to his office to study the crime scene photos again. As he sat back down and removed the magnifying glass from his desk, he was interrupted.

  “Excuse me, Detective Dayton?”

  “What is it, Craig?”

  “I have a copy of the phone records.” The young man, the relative rookie he’d taken onto the case, held up a stack of computer printer paper.

  The detective waved him into the office. “Just set them on my desk.”

  The phone records dated to three months back, with the local calls separated from the long-distance calls. Craig had spent hours on this. Short on time, Dale skimmed over the copies.

  On first glance, most of Sanders’ calls could be accounted for—other casinos, strip clubs, 900 numbers. Dale recognized these from their 702 area code. But there was one unusual call, a 504 area code. He couldn’t place it off-hand. He would have to look it up.

  He moved Sanders’ reports to the side and shuffled the pages to Calvin Watters’ phone records. Watters had called L.A. once—his brother?—and that was it. He made few calls of any kind.

  From their home, work and cell phones, Doug, Linda and Shawn Grant had only made a handful of calls out of state. Three of the seven calls were to Atlantic City, where Dale assumed calls had b
een placed to rival casino owners. Two calls were to Boston and another two were made to Memphis, where Linda Grant had been born and raised and still had family.

  Then he saw the obvious. One call was made from Grant’s private office after his time of death—to Pitt. The scheduled appointment guest list from Grant’s office complex indicated that Watters’ assumed alias was the only name on the list.

  Interesting.

  “I believe I’ve seen that number before. That lyin’ son of a bitch!”

  He checked the clock at the bottom of the computer screen. Go home to an empty house or follow a lead while it was hot?

  Not much of a decision.

  He grabbed the stack of papers and left his office.

  “Tommy, I need you to cross-reference every single phone number in here.”

  The man looked at the enormous stack of papers and then looked up at Dale.

  Before he could speak, Dale did. “I know, I know. Just think of it as overtime.”

  Chapter 18

  Calvin could now only deal with people he trusted—or who were too afraid of him to contact the cops. He needed to make vital decisions about whom he could rely on and who might backstab him by turning him in.

  Cruiser’s Bar was a local watering hole for bikers and prostitutes. Those who would recognize him there were not likely to help the police.

  “Keep the cab running,” he told the driver.

  “It’s your dollar.”

  Calvin and Rachel walked past the Harleys and beat-up pickup trucks to the door. Inside, he approached the sticky bar. The sounds of chatter, ‘80s rock music and pool balls clicking together engulfed him. A biker covered in tattoos wiped his hands and walked over.

  “What, Mack?”

  As the bartender got closer, his eyes widened. “Calvin.” He chuckled. “Is that you?”

  “Hey, Bernie. I need to talk to Mike.”

  “Man! I didn’t recognized you.” The man snorted with delight.

  “Yeah, this is a new look for me.”

  “I’ll let Mike know you’re here. Hold on.” The bulky bartender entered a back room.