Luke Murphy - Dead Man's Hand

“Sanders’ fingerprints are on file?” He was surprised.

“His fingerprints were required for municipal records when he bought his first casino, a small one called the Midas, years ago.” Jimmy said

At last there was a direct link between Sanders and Grant. If his fingerprints were fresh enough to be lifted, then he’d visited Grant not too long ago.

This opened the case up. In Dale’s mind, Sanders was now on the radar screen as an official suspect for Grant’s murder. That made three. Watters and Sanders now joined Linda Grant.

Jimmy’s voice rose in an excited pitch. “Who cares about Sanders? We have Watters. We have his fingerprints at Grant’s office and let’s face it, Calvin Watters is as lethal as they come.”

“Think about it, Jimmy. Watters’ fingerprints in Grant’s office are just too easy. If he’s committed what’s currently the perfect murder, why would he be so sloppy about leaving his fingerprints in Grant’s office? The real killer would have worn gloves.”

“Sanders didn’t.”

“No. But he had the justification of meeting with Grant as a rival casino owner.” He was about to continue when an officer called from across the room.

“Detectives, Grant’s car was just found parked at the deserted strip mall off the 592. We searched and dusted the front, back and trunk. The only prints pulled belonged to Grant and there wasn’t a trace of evidence inside or out.” The cop emphasized his last sentence as if he couldn’t believe it.

Dale could believe it though. With each passing second, this murderer seemed more efficient.

“The 592?” He turned to Jimmy. “That’s pretty far from where his body was found.” He faced the officer again. “What about the tread marks at the murder site? Do they match the tires on Grant’s car?”

“Forensics thinks they’ll match.”

“Let me know as soon as you get a final report.”

The officer nodded and left.

“What do you wanna do?” Jimmy asked.

“Run Watters’ social to get an address. How does he look in the arrest files?”

“About the same as when he was a football star, but that was almost four years ago. Not at all like the man that the security guards described to us or what we saw on the video.”

“He’s the only suspect we can move on now. So let’s act on the basis that the man who was arrested after he destroyed his football career is the same man who came to see Grant this morning. Get an address. I need to make a call.”

When Jimmy left, Dale checked the team list and dialed an outside line.

“Elliot,” the voice answered.

“It’s Dale. What have you and Harper found out?”

“Not much, sir.” His voice sounded frustrated. “Grant had a number of acquaintances but no one very close. The few good friends he did have don’t know of any enemies, except for Sanders. His name keeps coming up. Grant was well liked and respected. The friends that we talked to all have solid alibis.”

“What happened when you called his attorney?”

“We had a brief discussion with him. Grant had made an appointment to see him this morning, but the attorney wouldn’t say what the purpose of the meeting was.”

“Stop what you’re doing. I need you to stake out a possible suspect.”

As if on cue, Jimmy came into the office and dropped a paper on Dale’s desk.

He read the address over the phone. He told the officers to proceed as if Watters was armed and to check in on a regular basis.

Dale hung up. “Let’s go.” He jumped up and grabbed the coat from the back of his chair. “We’re going back to the office complex to check that safe. Call Mark and tell him we’ll pick him up on the way. And let’s keep Watters’ name out of the papers. We don’t want to scare him off. He’s our only fresh lead.”

“Lead? Dale, he’s our killer.”

Dale smiled at Jimmy. “Now who’s jumping to conclusions?”

Chapter 14

Late in the evening, Calvin took his car downtown for a bite to eat. He hadn’t felt this good, this free, in a long time. The prospect of starting a new life had put a jump in his stride. He parked at the curb, dropped coins in the meter and crossed the street to where a blind African American street vendor sat on a stool.

“Hey, Jarvis!”

The man smiled around his toothpick. “Hey, Calvin, how’s my football star?”

“Not shining,” he replied with a grin.

“Calvin, you been sayin’ that same thing for the past two years. Somethin’ good must be gonna happen to you soon.”

“Actually, Jarvis, my old friend. Things are starting to look up.”

Jarvis took out the toothpick from pearly white teeth. “That’s what I like to hear. You’re a good friend, Calvin.”

“You’re easy to talk to, Jarvis, and always the first with rational advice. You also know a lot of people and came through for me when I needed you. What’s with the new facial hair?”

The man rubbed the tuft of hair under his lower lip and above his chin. “Are you mocking my soul patch?”

Calvin chuckled. “I’ll miss you, Jarvis.”

“You leavin’ us, Calvin?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Well, good luck, my friend.”

Calvin grabbed a USA Today and tucked it under his arm. He pulled two singles from his pocket and stuffed them inside the blind man’s pocket. “Keep the change, old man.”

“Much obliged.”

He entered Ed’s Diner.

“Hey, Calvin!” The cook and owner nodded to Calvin from the back.

“Evenin’, Ed.”

He ordered a cheeseburger with the works. Skipping the front page of the paper, he went straight to the sports section. He sipped at his coffee, enjoying the quiet.

He saw a picture of Toby Jenkins, his former roommate at college, on the front sports page. Jenkins had been Calvin’s USC teammate and his backup. The only time Jenkins had seen the field was when the Trojans had a big lead and wanted to rest Calvin. Jenkins, half the player that Calvin had been, had just signed a three-year contract for twenty-four million.

If Calvin had done what was best for his team, he would have been the one to sign that contract.

He was thumbing through the rest of the section when he heard the news on the TV. He glanced up. “Can you turn that up, Doris?”

He approached the counter.

The newscaster did a stand-up on the edge of a wooded area. “Doug Grant, owner and operator of the Greek Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas, was brutally killed and left for dead in the backwoods of Las Vegas late last night. Local police will not offer any details now and say this is an ongoing investigation they cannot compromise.”

Next came a short clip of the mayor, praising Grant as a model citizen and pledging that the killer would be brought to justice.

Calvin returned to his booth in a trance. Maybe the police were already at his apartment. He had opened the doors, used the phone and searched the papers on Grant’s desk. His prints were all over the office. He’d be the primary suspect—tailor-made as a violent killer and an African American one to boot.

The waitress dropped his meal in front of him.

“I’ve lost my appetite, Doris.”

The waitress laughed. “Yeah, right. Calvin Watters will not inhale his food in three minutes.”

“Just bring me the bill, please.”

Her smile disappeared. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

He dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the table and walked out like a zombie.

The sky had darkened. He pulled the hood over his head, jammed his hands into his pockets and hurried toward his car. He’d taken only ten steps when he was stopped by a voice at his back.

“Hey, Calvin, wait up.”

He saw Ed jogging down the sidewalk toward him.