Luke Murphy - Dead Man's Hand

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.