Dead Man's Hand

by Luke Murphy

  Why was this department determined to pin this on an innocent man?

  Chapter 29

  Dale took a few more minutes for another search—until he found an article about Sanders in his baseball days at UNLV. Sanders had been an elite pitcher and had to have a glove made just for him because he was an extreme variety: an ambidextrous pitcher who switched arms when he pitched. Dale saved the article and added it to the file.

  He was going to nail Sanders somehow without losing his own job and pension.

  As he finally strapped his weapon on and turned to go home, he thought he’d grab one more thing, the tape of Linda Grant’s phone calls.

  A few minutes later, he steered the slow-moving vehicle toward his house. As usual on the ride home, he could feel himself starting to crash after an exhausting investigative day. He summed up where he was with the investigation.

  Other than Watters, there were three potential suspects.

  Dale thought about the explicit photographs of Linda Grant and Ace Sanders. He put that together with the Grant prenup as well as Linda Grant’s twelve-percent portion of the estate that had now been sold to Sanders. Dale knew Linda had a motive to kill her husband.

  He cut the headlights and let his car roll into the driveway. He sat and stared at his modest but well-maintained home. His wife had spent hours fussing over the flowers. Would he ever see that again? The yard smelled of fresh-cut grass.

  He stepped inside, where the only sounds were his footsteps and breathing. The sights and sounds had changed. No more of Sammie’s soft moans on the baby monitor, or Betty on the loveseat, screaming out answers at the TV during Wheel of Fortune. He might never again hear Casper the Dachshund snoring as he slept comfortably on the arm of the couch.

  The sounds he had grown accustomed to, that he had taken for granted and had ignored, he might never get back. Those were the things he truly missed, the things that made his house a home.

  He flicked on the front hall light, hoping to see Betty standing there, but all that welcomed him was an unfurnished hallway.

  Even though his stomach grumbled, he didn’t feel like fixing a late-night dinner. He removed his jacket and threw it on the back of the couch.

  He used the bathroom sink to rinse the remains of his last pull of tobacco from his mouth and retreated to the living room couch, where he’d been sleeping since Betty had left. He just couldn’t sleep in their bed, where so many memories lay—the passionate lovemaking, the meaningful pillow talk, the giggling and playing. Those were happy times early in their relationship, so long ago.

  He lay down and closed his eyes, replaying the last argument he’d had with Betty, the conversation that had occurred the last time he’d come home this late.

  He had come home late, real late, expecting Betty to be sleeping. He had unlocked the front door and heard his little dachshund growl and bark.

  “Shut up, Casper,” he whispered, listening for the sounds of footsteps.

  He flicked on the front hall light and Betty was standing in the hallway, in her bathrobe, holding the dog.

  “Where’s Sammy?” he whispered.

  “Sleeping, like everyone should be at this time of night. Where have you been?” she said in a clipped tone.

  “Work.”

  “This late?”

  Dale let out his breath. “Betty, we’ve been over this. You know my job isn’t nine to five. I’m a Las Vegas detective.”

  “So you were at the office?”

  “Yes, I was at the office.”

  “Who were you with?”

  Dale shook his head. He slid his shoes off and hung his jacket in the closet.

  She stepped close to him, stopping him, invading his personal space with a subtle sniff of the air. He was insulted, but he knew what she was smelling for.

  “Were you with her?”

  “Betty, don’t. You know I wasn’t. That was a long time ago. I thought we’d moved past this?” For the first time he noticed the lines at the corner of her eyes. The exhaustion set in her expression.

  She sighed. “I thought so too.” She set the dog on the floor and turned away.

  The dog began sniffing at Dale’s feet, wagging his tail until Dale scooped him up.

  Dale said, “Betty, wait.”

  But when she turned back, Sammie’s cry erupted on the baby monitor.

  “Great!” Betty said.

  “I’ll get him.”

  Betty put out her hand. “Stop, you’ve done enough.” She walked down the hall toward the baby’s room. “And you can sleep on the couch.”

  He slumped his shoulders. He knew he should go after her, apologize, make it right, but he was too tired and she was in no mood for conversation.

  Dale opened his eyes. If he’d only gone after her that night, would it have mattered? Would it have changed things? He didn’t think so or at least he told himself that.

  Betty’s accusations had cut deep.

  He closed his eyes again and thought about that one moment in time, that one moment of vulnerability when he had let his guard down and had given in to temptation. That one impulsive, split-second decision had ruined his marriage.

  It had been a long time ago—back in his rookie year on the force. Dale and Betty had just been married, already in rocky waters, but that seemed to be the case from day one. Marriage had changed everything.

  His first partner, Josie Walker. She had been Dale’s vice.

  They’d been on a sting, following a load of cocaine flown into the city from Panama. They had the private airfield staked out, awaiting the cargo. But somehow the dealers had been tipped off and were waiting.

  All hell broke loose. Lives were lost and more should have been.

  Dale and Josie had been taken hostage inside the tiny private jet. If it hadn’t been for some quick-thinking and swift-acting SWAT members, Dale and Josie would never have made it out.

  After the dust had cleared, rather than going home to his new wife, Dale had gone to the bar with his team to celebrate the arrest. A total of $50 million in cocaine had been confiscated, the largest drug bust in LVMPD history.

  Dale still remembered shaking so much that he could barely hold his glass. He and Josie had come that close to death. They’d looked it in the eye and had walked away unscathed. In that moment he had felt a deep connection with his partner—more than just professional.

  The sexual tension between them was palpable.

  She was a beautiful woman, with all the right curves and a cocky go-get attitude. He knew it was wrong, but Dale rode the moment. He had given in and for that he would be forever regretful. Or was he really?

  Josie had felt it too, because she had suggested the motel room.

  As much as Dale didn’t want to admit it, in his heart he knew that it hadn’t been just a one-night stand of meaningless sex with a stranger. It was a night of passionate lovemaking. A deep, heartfelt ride shared between two people who really cared for each other.

  The next day he had felt sick at what he’d done. He told Josie they had made a mistake, he could never leave Betty and that he wanted to make it right with his wife. Betty was the one he truly loved. Had that been a lie?

  Josie said she could no longer be his partner. She had requested a transfer from the department, claiming mental anguish from the experience Dale and she had been through. Dale never saw Josie again.

  He told Betty what had happened, not just to appease his guilty conscience but because he knew it was the right thing to do. Betty didn’t deserve that deception.

  There were only three people who knew about the incident—Dale, Betty and Jo. Dale had thought that night had been dead and buried, that he and Betty had moved on, but you can’t outrun your past.

  Dale sat back up and shook his head. Over the last two days, except for her original call to Sanders, Linda had only spoken to her mother and her attorney. She’d followed Sanders’ orders and not talked to him.

  Dale inserted the first tape. He set the headp
hones over his ears, lay back on the sofa and pressed play.

  He couldn’t let the past slow down his investigation.

  “Do you see anything?”

  Calvin was startled by Rachel’s voice coming from the doorway behind him. He turned and looked at her.

  He shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, looking back at the computer monitor.

  “Do you think someone is really out there, hunting us like animals?”

  He nodded.

  Rachel moved toward him, turned his chair around and sat down on his lap.

  “Why are you up?” he asked. “It’s three o’clock in the morning.”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Is that your mom?” She reached for a famed photograph on his desk. “She’s beautiful.”

  “Yeah, that’s her.”

  “Why do you never talk about yourself, Calvin? I don’t know anything about your family or your childhood. We always talk about me.”

  “There’s not much to say. I’m more interested in you.” He smiled.

  “I’d like to know.”

  “It’s not much of a story—just another ghetto kid from the streets who had a tough upbringing. Just another sappy story made for Oprah. I’m tired of being just a statistic, another cliché.” He smiled again. His childhood had always been a closed book and he wanted to leave it that way. Rachel didn’t need to hear about it.

  Rachel smiled too. “Maybe we could make a movie.”

  His grin broadened. “Yeah and Denzel could play me.”

  She took him by the hand and led him into an adjoining room they were using as their bedroom. They sat down on the cot.

  “Tell me about your mother.”

  He swallowed and took a deep breath. “I was young when she died of cancer. What I do remember of my mother was her voice, how she could soothe me with a whisper. She loved to sing and she would often lullaby me to sleep before leaving for work. She had soft hands and a gentle touch. When she was around, I thought I was invincible. I made a promise to her to someday graduate from college. At that point, I wasn’t sure how that would be possible.”

  “What about your father?”

  He grunted. “What father? He left before I was born—just another deadbeat dad with illegitimate children all over the city. He showed up a few years ago after seeing my picture on the cover of Sports Illustrated. I was a Heisman finalist and possible first overall draft pick. I told him to get lost.”

  “So who took care of you?” She rubbed his arm gently.

  “Mom and Josh.”

  “What’s your brother like?”

  “Pretty successful. My mother would be really proud of him. Josh has made a life for himself. He’s the ‘good’ son, the success story.”

  Rachel moved in behind Calvin as they both sat on the cot. She spread her legs and moved in close, wrapping her legs and arms around him and pressing her face against his back. He could feel her warm breath.

  “Your mother would be proud of you too, Calvin.”

  He stood up, feeling uncomfortable, and swiped away a tear. “When she died, Josh was already at the Police Academy and I was shipped to an orphanage. It was a rough go, but I survived.”

  “You didn’t have anyone?” Her face showed lines of worry.

  “Sure, there were foster families who took me in. I was grateful. Some were good people, others not so much. But no one kept me around long enough to get used to me. It was probably better that way.”

  “That’s not true, Calvin. You’re a good person.”

  He nodded but didn’t say anything.

  Rachel got off the bed and went to him. “Look how far you’ve come.”

  He grinned. “Yeah, look at me—trapped in a shithole, a maniac stalking me and the LVMPD wanting me for murder. What a life!”

  “You know what I mean.” She scowled. “How did you become a USC legend?”

  “Father MacIntosh.”

  “A priest?” She looked surprised.

  Calvin smiled and nodded. “I can’t remember how we met. But I do remember Father Mac taking me in and spending time with me at the local YMCA. That’s when I found weights. I was always tall, but Father Mac helped me gain twenty pounds of muscle my senior year. He taught me about football and hired a tutor for me. When I graduated high school and was offered a football scholarship to USC, I’d never seen him prouder.” His smiled faded. “He died that summer before I had even stepped into my first college classroom.” He looked at Rachel and swallowed. “It seems like everyone in my life, the people who really love me, die. You better get away, Rachel. Quick.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, Calvin. I love you and we’re in this together.” She took him by the hand and led him to the cot. She smiled. “Let me show you just how much.”

  Book Four: All Bets are Down

  Chapter 30

  There hadn’t been much on the phone taps. Linda Grant had made one call to her mother to argue family matters and then had a lengthy conversation with her attorney to discuss the sale of her share of the casino. The talk was for the most part about numbers and there was no mention of Sanders.

  Early on Friday morning, Dale’s investigative squad of the homicide division gathered around the detective’s desk. The conversation was minimal.

  They had exhausted every possible clue and lead and had come up empty. Dale was out of answers and options. He had a lot of motive for Sanders and Linda Grant and a stack of circumstantial evidence, but nothing solid that would stand up in court. That made this current impasse even more frustrating.

  The only ghost of a lead was that Pitt’s killer had been searching for something in the office and hadn’t had time to find it. Perhaps he’d found it, however, and taken it with him.

  For Watters, he didn’t have motive that made sense for Grant’s killing. If Watters hadn’t killed Grant, then he had no apparent reason to kill Pitt. All he knew for sure about Watters was that he’d been in Grant’s office, but with no body and nothing missing.

  Dale was running Craig’s murder as a separate investigation. In every case there was a sacred bond between victim and cop and with Craig, it was even more than that.

  He still suspected that two different killers were involved, but he couldn’t be sure about that either. Even though Grant’s death was his major case, finding the killer of his fellow officer was a personal crusade.

  If he had nothing more, he could only keep the team doing busy work for a few more hours before they’d be pulled for other things, probably all put on catching Watters.

  Jimmy sat down on the edge of Dale’s desk. He read from his notepad. “I just got off the phone with a member from the Investigations Unit of the Nevada Gaming Commissions. She said the deal Sanders signed for the Greek was legit. They investigated it thoroughly and found no illegal evidence to deny the agreement.”

  Dale slapped his partner on the shoulder and got up. His bones felt like they’d aged since the investigation had started. On his way to the break room for a cup of coffee, he was pulled aside by one of his officers.

  “Hey, Dale. Dean and I went to Cruiser’s Bar last night and questioned the employees and a few patrons. Nobody gave us anything. They like Watters much more than they did us.”

  “Thanks, Carl.” Another dead end. Watters wouldn’t show his face.

  He got back to his office and saw his partner waiting. He sat back in his seat, took a sip of the strong coffee and immediately felt better, but only a little.

  Jimmy frowned. “I found out that a first-class assassin flew in on a red-eye Monday.”

  Dale sat up. “Got a description?”

  “That’s why he’s top shelf. Never uses the same ID twice. No meetings—all email and cash payment at drop points.”

  “Great.” Dale thought of at least three people who could hire the mystery man to kill Watters.

  At least he now knew that there was a hit man in Vegas and he was probably after Watters. But
Dale had no idea what the killer looked like or who he was working for. There were too many suspects in this case with legitimate money to afford a high-priced hit man.

  “Jimmy, find me anything on Sanders. With the sergeant restricting access, all we can do is go ‘under’ the law, not break it, but utilize what’s down there.”

  Dale got up. Time to update the sergeant—with nothing. He entered the office where his impatient boss waited.

  “Any word on Watters?” The sergeant still had a hard-on for Watters for all four murders.

  Dale shook his head.

  “Maybe we should change our strategy.”

  That was the opening that Dale had been waiting for. “That’s what I was thinking. I need Watters’ participation to help nail Sanders.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Dale was taken off guard, but he didn’t hesitate. He told his sergeant his new findings: the casino sale and how everything supported his original suspicions. He also told about his suspicions of Sanders hiring an assassin. The sergeant listened, reviewing the mountain of circumstantial evidence they had against Sanders. To Dale, the sergeant seemed to put aside their differences and deliberate.

  When Dale stopped, the sergeant spoke. “Take it upstairs to Flannery. See what he says about Sanders. If he says it’s a go, make the move.”

  Dale grabbed Jimmy’s arm and said, “We’re going upstairs to the DA.”

  Robert Flannery sat at his desk and read over the case file, shaking his head and mumbling. He was a fashion plate who could be mistaken for a trainer at the gym, even though he had a Harvard Law degree.

  With his feet resting on the top of his desk, Flannery chewed the end of a pencil. A 55-inch Panasonic TC-PVT50 television and DVD player were set up in the corner. A blackboard behind Flannery’s head showed a pyramid of circled names, with arrows and lines to connect them.