Luke Murphy: Dead Man's Hand

Dead Man’s Hand

Luke Murphy

Praise for Dead Man’s Hand

“Luke Murphy’s Dead Man’s Hand is a pleasure, a debut novel that doesn’t read like one, but still presents original characters and a fresh new voice.” —Thomas Perry, New York Times bestselling author of Poison Flower

“It’s always a pleasure to welcome a new voice to the ranks of mystery-thriller authors. So welcome Luke Murphy, who delivers plenty of both in his debut novel, Dead Man’s Hand . Give it an evening and you may want to give it the whole night, just to see how it turns out.” —William Martin, New York Times bestselling author of Back Bay and The Lincoln Letter

“Part police procedural, part crime fiction, Dead Man’s Hand is a fast, gritty ride.” —Anne Frasier, USA Today bestselling author of Hush

“Luke Murphy writes in a clean, mean style, as compelling as a switchblade to your throat. Murphy’s the real deal.” —Rick Mofina, award-winning author of Six Seconds

“ Dead Man’s Hand is a pedal-to-the-metal thriller. Luke Murphy pours a load of talent into his first novel, and it takes off on the first page. Vivid characters and wire-taut plotting make Murphy’s novel a five star read. Don’t begin Dead Man’s Hand if you need to do anything else today.” —James Thayer, author of White Star

“What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas? Be glad. Be very glad. Luke Murphy puts on display the seedy underbelly of Sin City, where deceit, treachery, vengeance and the double cross are practiced like an art form. For a tight taut thriller, bet on a Dead Man’s Hand .” —Anthony Bidulka, award-winning author of Dos Equis

“Calvin Watters is an anti-hero you will cheer in this solid debut that poses twisted questions about crime and punishment.” —Julie Kramer, award-winning author of Shunning Sarah

“ Dead Man’s Hand gripped me with terror from the first sentence. Tense! Thrilling! Terrifying! Luke Murphy is a great mood-builder on the order of Dean Koontz!” —Betty Dravis, award-winning author of Six-Pack of Blood

For Mélanie, Addison and Nève—the girls who keep me going.

Acknowledgements

The most important people in my life: my wife Mélanie, my rock and number one supporter. My daughters, Addison and Nève, who didn’t always realize that Daddy had to write, but took my mind off things with frequent games of Ring-Around-The-Rosie.

I’m the first to admit that this novel was not a solo effort. I’ve relied on many generous and intelligent people to turn this book into a reality. I’d like to thank the following people who had a hand in making this novel what it is today. I’m indebted to you all.

(The Conception) I need to thank the creative and very brilliant:

Mrs. Joan Conrod

Mr. John Stevens

Professor Paul McCarthy

(The Touch-ups) A special thanks for those last minute edits and details, as well as the final nod to:

My agent, Ms. Jennifer Lyons

Dr. Robert Clark

(The Research) For their professional expertise, knowledge in their field and valuable information, thanks to:

Ms. Joanna Pozzulo (Institute of Criminology and Criminal Justice)

Keith MacLellan, M.D.

Officer Laura Meltzer (Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department)

Constable Keith Cummings (Ottawa Police Department)

Employees of Treasure Island Hotel in Las Vegas

(The end result) For the final look and read, a special thanks to:

My publisher, Cheryl Tardif, and the editors at Imajin Books.

Any procedural, geographical, or other errors pertaining to this story are of no fault to the names mentioned above, but entirely my own, as at times I took many creative liberties.

And last but not least, I’d like to thank you, the readers. You make it all worthwhile.

Prologue

At exactly 6:15 p.m. on a Sunday, Calvin Watters parked his rusted Ford Taurus across the street from a vacant house. Climbing out, he put on a pair of sunglasses and scanned the neighborhood for any movement or potential hazards.

He moved to the back of the car and opened the dented trunk. It creaked in the still night as it slowly swung up. He pulled out a worn black leather case and slid it under his vest. Then he closed the trunk and headed for the door.

He’d been using the rundown house in the red-light district of Las Vegas as his workshop for three years. It suited his purpose. No interruptions, no inquisitive neighbors. Even the local police avoided the area.

He checked the perimeter again. At six-five and 220 pounds, with tattooed arms and gold chains dangling around his thick, muscular neck, a black man like him just didn’t go unnoticed in Las Vegas.

The street was silent as he approached the house. Weeds sprang from cracks in the sidewalk and shattered liquor bottles blocked the entrance. The barred windows were broken and the screen door had been ripped off its hinges. His sense of smell no longer reacted to the stench of urine and vomit.

Calvin surveyed the area one last time. Extreme caution was one of the reasons he had succeeded in the business for so long. His habits had kept him alive. Satisfied no one had seen him, he trudged his way up the walk.

Even though he was the best in the business and had once enjoyed the adrenaline rush that came with the trade, the next part of the job made his skin crawl. His goal was to save the money he needed to get away, start over, but he didn’t know if he could last on the job long enough. That uncertainty made his life even harder.

He unlocked the door, stepped inside and shut it behind him. Heading for the basement, he took a narrow set of wooden stairs that creaked as he descended into darkness. His dreadlocks scraped cobwebs along the rough ceiling. He flicked the switch and a low-watt bulb cast dim light.

The tiny room had almost no furniture. The bare concrete floor was dirty and stained with dried blood. In the middle of the room, a lone wooden chair—double nailed to the floor—was occupied.

“Hello, James,” Calvin said, his face expressionless.

James Pierce stared at him through bulging, fear-filled eyes.

“Sorry about the bump on the head, but I couldn’t have you conscious when I moved you here.”

When Calvin removed the case from his vest, he saw Pierce’s pant leg moisten.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why your shoes and socks are off and your pant legs rolled up. We’ll get to that.”

He laid the case on a small table, strategically placed next to the chair. “There’s only one way out,” he said, snapping open the lid. He knew his hostage saw one thing when he looked at him—professionally trained brutality.

He checked his watch. Pierce had been there for four hours. The waiting and anticipation alone were more than most men could handle. They often begged for their lives. It was a very effective method.

He stared at Pierce for a long moment and then turned away, his stomach churning.

Get a grip, Calvin! Hurry up and get it over with before you change your mind.

And lose the reputation he’d spent three years building.

He ripped the duct tape from the man’s mouth and pulled out the old rag. “Time for me to collect.”

Pierce gasped, breathing in air greedily. “Please, Calvin. I beg you. Don’t do this.”

“You’re a degenerate gambler, James. Your expensive hobby and inability to pay has put you here. You knew the rules. They were laid out well in advance.”