Luke Murphy - Dead Man's Hand

“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.”