Luke Murphy - Dead Man's Hand

“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 been 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.

Calvin surveyed the bar. No one seemed suspicious or new. Rachel stayed close to him. No one seemed to notice them and no one cared.

The bartender came back with a grin. “He’ll see you now. Man, will he get a kick out of you.”

Calvin, leading Rachel, walked to the back room.

Mike squeezed out of a wooden chair behind his desk and limped over.

“Hey, Calvin.”

If his new appearance surprised the bar owner, he didn’t show it.

“Hey, Mike.” Calvin shook his hand.

“Rachel.” The man nodded toward the silent woman. “Please, have a seat.”

Calvin and Rachel sat and waited for Mike to do the same.

“I saw the Chargers signed Jenkins. Wasn’t he your backup at USC?”

“Don’t remind me.”

Mike snorted. “The world works in mysterious ways. What can I do for you?”