Luke Murphy - Dead Man's Hand

“Watters had left his mark on the clients. A few were hobbled in some manner and even though they never admitted it, we assumed the injuries were from Watters. The gamblers were afraid to talk. Watters is more scary than jail. Even the few who still owe money are accounted for.”

Edwards and Morris had interviewed private and public bookies. The general consensus was that no one liked Pitt, but no one felt threatened by his business.

Harper and Elliot showed up before their night shift on Linda Grant. The lead officer got right to her report.

“Linda Grant spends her days in high-end boutiques and her evenings in five-star restaurants getting wasted from the top shelf. She’s made very few phone calls—a couple to friends and family, her attorney and one to Shawn Grant to discuss the terms of the sale.”

Dale wanted more information from this group. “Before I pulled you off the Grant questioning to put you on Watters’ stakeout, how far did you get with Grant’s attorney?”

“Like we said before, Grant had made an appointment to see his lawyer for Tuesday morning. The attorney wouldn’t say what the purpose of the meeting was. When we asked about a divorce, he couldn’t say because as Grant’s lawyer, he also represents Linda Grant. But I don’t think he really knew the purpose of the meeting.”

Was Grant going to his attorney for divorce papers? Did the killer know about the meeting and murder him before the papers were filed and served, which would automatically bring the will into play? Grant’s death made the prenup null and void, while a divorce would cut Linda out of the will completely. His death, twelve hours or so before the appointment with his lawyer, was more than coincidental.

“Okay, team,” said Dale. “Meet back here first thing in the morning. I hope to have something for all of you by then. Good night.”

The group nodded and went home.

He turned to Jimmy. “Well, partner. Our surveillance team has nothing to report either. We’re goin’ nowhere with this one and fast.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“You go home too. Spend some time with that pretty wife of yours. You and she both deserve a night together and a family dinner.”

“What about you? Maybe you should do the same.”

“Don’t tell me what I should do,” Dale snapped, his pulse quickened, but he caught himself.

Jimmy’s wide eyes answered Dale.

“Sorry, I’ll be fine. I’m just gonna finish up some paper work and go home too.”

“All right, buddy. Have a good night.” Jimmy rushed from the office.

Dale was alone in the detective bureau. He needed to get to the “basement.” The crew had turned up nothing useful from Watters’ car, so he hoped they could retrieve something from the bomb that had been planted underneath. Anything.

He knew that spending excessive amounts of time on the job was one of the reasons why Betty had left. This investigation kept expanding at a dizzying speed. In less than forty-eight hours, four people had been murdered. He thought that more people were going to die soon. Because forty-eight hours had passed, his chance to solve Grant’s murder was, by the stats, cut in half. Two weeks without a break came close to a zero rate of success. The clock was ticking very loud. He still suspected two killers. Someone else had killed the police officer with a gun. A knife was close and personal. A gun was remote—it suited another kind of killer.

He had to find a break in the case somewhere. He turned the night lamp off on his and Jimmy’s desks and followed the long, musty hallway down to the basement forensics lab.

The tech looked up from a microscope and checked Dale out over the bifocals perched on the end of his nose. The man’s hair was greasy and disheveled and his white lab coat grimy. The eraser head of a pencil peeked out of his breast pocket and another was tucked behind his right ear. After a deferential nod, he went back to his microscope.

While Dale waited, he checked the dismantled bomb resting on the countertop. The pieces lay strewn about, each numbered and named.

He was inspecting the blasting cap and C-4 when the lab technician finally looked up again. “I’ve been waiting for you to come down.” He smacked on gum and blew a bubble.

“So, tell me about the bomb. And no mumbo jumbo bullshit. You know that I know squat about bombs.”

“Great, another simpleton.”

“Just tell me.”

The techie got up off his stool and walked over to Dale and the bomb. “All right, in layman’s terms. A chunk of plastic explosive had been secured under the driver’s seat, because that was the center of the target—the driver. The C4 had a detonator shoved into it and the detonator wires had been attached to the ignition wires. The bomb was to go off when the car was started. Do I need to slow down?”

Dale considered the explanation. In a sense, it would’ve been the perfect murder—except Watters was long gone and not worried about his car.

The tech continued. “I fed the information through the FBI Bomb Data Center and the ATF’s National Repository, but I couldn’t find a signature match to our bomb.”

“So, what do you think?”

He yawned and removed his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “Well, the fact that plastic explosive was used does tell us that the suspect is an expert bomb maker. You can’t get this stuff over the counter. The setup was elaborate and the bomb hidden so well that it couldn’t have been detected by the naked eye, unless you actually squirmed underneath the car looking for it. It would’ve taken a pro to design and dismantle the explosive weapon. This car was detonated to explode if someone either started or tampered with the vehicle.”

There was nothing in his bio to indicate that Calvin Watters had any special training in the detonation of bombs. Also why would Watters set a bomb under his own car? Someone wanted Watters out of the picture. Why?

“Thanks,” Dale said.

“No problem.”

He was more convinced than ever that Watters was innocent, but he couldn’t prove that any more than he could Sanders’ guilt.

Now, along with the three “perfect” murders, he had to deal with a “perfect” attempted murder.

In the basement he pulled out his cell phone. No signal. He began to climb the stairs and as the signal was restored, he called his partner.

“It’s Dale.”

“Where have you been? I have been trying to reach you.”

He heard the tension in his partner’s voice. “I’ve been in the basement with the lab tech. I can’t get a signal down there.”

“So you haven’t heard?”

“What?”

“There was a press conference this evening outside the Greek. Linda Grant just sold her shares of the casino to Sanders. He’s now part owner.”

“I’m impressed she moved without wasting time. Tomorrow morning check that the deal was legit, but I bet it was.”

He paused for a moment. “And I need you to do one more thing before you settle down for the night. Use your network to see if anyone will give up that an assassin has come to town who knows bombs.”

“Got it.”

Too many questions and not enough answers.

Chapter 28

A tiny jingle gave Calvin a start. His head shot up off the desk, a piece of paper stuck to the side of his mouth from drool.

How long had he been out?

He checked the monitor and through fuzzy eyes saw Rachel at the back door, letting herself in. He jumped from his chair and hustled to meet her.

He spoke before she had closed the door. “Where have you been?” He strode to her and lightly grasped her arm.

Rachel shook it away. “I had to get out.”

“You know we can’t leave. Goddamn it, Rachel! Do you think this is a game? You could have been caught, followed, or even killed.”