Luke Murphy - Dead Man's Hand

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean, Dale. This isn’t coming out of the blue.”

A car horn honked.

He glanced toward the door and then back to his wife. “Damn it. Let’s talk about this tonight.”

She slid a white envelope out of her housecoat pocket. “Here. Like usual, I knew you wouldn’t have time to talk. So I took the liberty of writing it all down.” She handed him the letter.

“Don’t do this, Betty.”

“This is a long time coming. We both know it. It’s all there.” She pointed to the letter in his hand. “Read it whenever you want. But you’re not changing my mind.”

“What about Sammie?”

“He’s coming with me.”

A gloomy silence ensued. He hoped the silence would tempt her to say more, but she didn’t. His throat was dry, as if he’d just drunk a glass of desert sand. Unsure of his next move, he knew what he should do, but didn’t have the words.

Betty’s anger was warranted, but he was caught off guard nonetheless. She was right. This was overdue.

He took her hand. “Please, Betty. Just stay. I’ll make it right.” His voice lacked conviction and he knew it.

The horn honked again.

Betty sighed. “Just go. I know that’s where you’d rather be anyway.”

He moved in a trance-like state.

“What the hell took so long?” his long-time partner asked as Dale slid into the passenger seat. “Did Betty want to have one of her talks again?”

Dale still didn’t say anything. Grief consumed him. He felt the bulge in his inside breast pocket, where Betty’s note was lodged.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“Just drive, Jimmy.”

His partner pulled the car out of the driveway.

“What do we have?” Dale asked, still dazed.

“David called it in—a possible match to the Black Orchid case. The boys have him in a silver-and-black ‘69 Camaro on Highway 15.”

Dale felt the adrenaline start pumping. A high-speed chase. Just what I need.

The Black Orchid case involved six prostitutes killed within a three-week span. The killer had brutalized and sexually assaulted his victims. As of now, the only real lead was a local tattoo parlor owner.

Dale unholstered his weapon and checked the clip.

“How do you like your new Kimber Custom Stainless?” Jimmy asked.

“I love it. Better than that old revolver you still carry.”

Jimmy smiled. “Smith & Wesson, baby. But that’s my alternate duty weapon. I have a semi-automatic for my primary handgun, just like the department says we have to. But the S&W is the gun I chose as a recruit over thirty years ago. I trust that gun with my life, literally. It hasn’t let me down yet.”

“That’s true of everything until the first time it lets you down.” Dale thought of the talk he’d just had with Betty. “This isn’t the Wild West, Jimmy. I know they allow us to choose our own firearm, as long as they’re standard factory production, but you need to upgrade, man. An allowance is issued each year to replace our equipment.”

“Hey, it’s been approved by the Firearms Training and Tactical Unit and qualified quarterly.”

Dale laughed at his old-school partner.

“There they are,” Jimmy said, pointing to a row of black and whites following a Camaro. “Hang on.”

With the red-and-blue dome lights rotating on top of the cruiser, he pressed the gas pedal to the floor and they edged to the front of the pack, avoiding the dense morning traffic. Dale saw that the sheriff and FBI had vehicles in the chase too.

Without warning the Camaro veered off the Las Vegas freeway, taking West Flamingo Avenue and heading toward Spring Valley.

Jimmy cursed. “Where’s he going?”

“Turn here. We can cut him off at Palms Casino.”

They took a sharp left and sped down Hotel Rio Drive, breaking off from the pack, the sound of sirens fading.

Dale rubbed his face, trying to recall the shortcut. “Go here.” He pointed.

“Got it!”

Dale picked up the car radio. “Angela, I need the 592 blocked off at South Valley Boulevard heading east.”

As the hotel came into view, Jimmy had the accelerator to the floor. “Come on, you bastard,” he muttered.

Dale grabbed the dashboard. “Let’s not play chicken with this guy.”

The Camaro came to a screeching halt.

Jimmy braked and brought the cruiser face-to-face with the Camaro. The three black and whites had parked behind it, barricading the highway.

Dale let out a grunt. “We got him. Let’s go.”

The smell of burnt rubber filled the dry Nevada air.

Dale drew his gun and aimed at the Camaro’s driver-side window as he approached with caution. He could see the shadow of a man through the tinted windshield.

The engine revved.

“Get out of the car,” he ordered. “We have you surrounded.”

Without warning, the Camaro took off, heading straight toward them.

Dale and Jimmy opened fire. Bullets ricocheted off the grill and shattered the windshield. Dale aimed low, taking out the front passenger tire. The car flipped into a tailspin, end-over-end. They hit the ground as the car continued to roll, landing roof-to-roof on top of their own cruiser.

Dale clambered to his feet and dusted off his pants. With his gun still aimed at the car, he advanced with ease, his partner right behind him. “Cover me, Jimmy.”

He holstered his weapon and pried open the car door, now upside down. The killer hung from the seatbelt, his face bloodied, a deep gash across the top of his head.

Dale bent down and checked for a pulse.

“I’ll call the EMTs,” Jimmy said.

“Forget the EMTs. This guy’s gone.” Dale sprung up and took a deep breath in and out. “Now that’s the way to start a day.”

For a brief moment, he almost forgot his whole world was crumbling around him.

Chapter 3

Doug Grant sat in his private office and rubbed his temples. He hadn’t expected everything to come to a head. He just wanted to be happy, free from the constraints, able to live a normal life. But what would be the consequences?

He went through the usual morning paperwork, feeling older and more alone than he had in years. He was proud of being thorough, a trait learned from his father. At sixty-three, Doug was still very much a working boss. His son, Shawn, now thirty-five and Vice President of Operations, was learning the business from him.

He marveled at how far he’d come: the Greek Hotel and Casino—the second largest and most profitable casino in Las Vegas. He had taken it over when his father, Sherman, had passed away eight years ago. Doug had turned the casino into a multibillion-dollar business and he looked forward to turning over full control to Shawn at the right time. Recent events had moved up his planned date for semi-retirement by years.

He heard the front door to the suite swing open, but he was sure he’d locked it so he wouldn’t be disturbed. He wasn’t expecting visitors and his first appointment downtown wasn’t until this afternoon. He rose to investigate, but before he could, Ace Sanders strode into his office.

The rival casino owner wore a fake tan and cocky grin. Sanders owned and operated two casinos, the Golden Horseshoe and the Midas. Neither was as successful as Doug’s.

Doug frowned. “How did you get in here? That door was locked.”

“Magic.”

Sanders offered his hand, but Doug ignored it.

The man sat on the leather sofa and put his feet up. He had a languid smile. “You know, I really wish you would use your home or casino offices more. It’s a bitch to get down here.”

“That’s the point. Privacy. No interruptions. Obviously it isn’t working.”

Sanders said nothing.