Dead Man's Hand

door or somewhere else where Calvin could easily spot it.

He jumped when the phone rang, then ignored it as he made a beeline toward the mahogany desk. He studied the papers on top—memos, documents, bills, the usual stuff. There was also a framed picture of Grant and his wife from their wedding day. Nothing with Calvin’s or Pitt’s name.

He searched around again and saw no indication of the money. The last thing he wanted was to be caught snooping around in Grant’s office.

The phone continued to ring.

Obviously, no one is here. Hang up already.

No Grant, no money. This last job was getting more suspicious by the minute. And Calvin’s finely tuned sense of danger from his years on the streets was buzzing.

Something’s off here.

Riffling through the papers on Grant’s desk, he heard police sirens in the distance. He jerked upright. They were getting closer.

The phone finally stopped ringing but the sirens grew louder.

Proper procedure he’d been taught was to call immediately when a job failed and await instructions. As badly as he wanted to get out of there, he still had the reputation he’d built.

“Calm down, Calvin,” he told himself. “This is your last job. Do it right and you’re done.”

Using Grant’s desk phone, he dialed an outside line. “Grant’s not here and neither is the money.”

“What do you mean he’s not there?” Pitt sounded worried.

“I’ll tell you again. Grant’s not in his office. You were wrong.”

“He has to be there!”

“Nope. I’m leaving. And I’ve just finished my last job. You’re going to have to get someone else to try to collect. I’m coming back to give you this stupid disguise and pick up a few things.”

“No, wait!” There was a slight pause. “Grant may show up any—”

Calvin hung up. Sirens shrilled outside as though they were maybe a block away. He peered out the window. Sure enough, four police cars were pulling up to the curb, lights flashing. The sirens were cut off in mid-wail.

Okay, this is all too weird. I’m getting out of here. Fuck this.

He headed to the elevator, but hesitated. Were the cops heading up or taking care of business in the lobby? If he took the elevator down to the first floor, some of the officers might be heading up in the elevator, while a couple would take the stairs. He made it a general policy to be invisible to cops as much as he could. Whatever was going in this building, he didn’t want to be a part of.

“Shit!” he muttered.

It would take too long to climb down twenty-five flights of stairs. And it would kill his knee, not to mention that he’d eventually be greeted by the officers.

There was only one thing to do. He’d take the elevator to the third floor. The officers going up the stairs should be well past that point. He’d then get off the elevator and take the back stairs down three flights. He could manage that much.

When he reached the third floor, he got off the elevator and searched for the exit sign. Sunlight filtered in through windows at both ends of the hall as he found the emergency exit and started sprinting down the steps, taking two at a time.

At the bottom floor, his breathing had quickened slightly, his shirt was damp with sweat and his knee throbbed. Cops would be in the lobby, so he went straight to the emergency exit at the back of the building.

Damn.

The door was wired to set off an alarm if opened from the inside. He took less than a minute to disconnect the wires from the alarm, then ran down the back alley without looking back.

Chapter 9

When Dale Dayton arrived at the murder site, nosy spectators were being ringed back by the police, while others drove past, stirring up dust clouds of dry Nevada air. Dozens of police cruisers, along with the emergency medical teams, had responded to the emergency call.

He accelerated past the road block and pulled up to the curb, grabbing his Styrofoam spit cup and exiting the car. As he badged his way past the cops at the front, he noticed four road flares placed around fresh tread marks on the gravel at the side of the road.

He found a junior officer standing nearby and said, “Make sure this area is secured.”

The officer said, “Yeah, thanks. I know how to do my job.” Then he walked away.

Dale scanned the crowd of bystanders herded behind yellow police tape. News traveled fast in Vegas. Angry and scared citizens, as well as the meddlesome media, were always drawn to the scene of a crime.

A familiar group awaited him. Suits.

The lieutenant, Dale’s sergeant, the Clark County sheriff and the mayor huddled behind a strand of tape. It was rare when the lieutenant made an appearance at a crime scene. And Dale had never seen the mayor at one. But this time, the victim was Doug Grant. High profile cases wake up all the supervisors. They would want to talk to him as the lead detective.

Dale frowned. Gotta avoid them if I want to get real police work done.

He followed the recently trampled tracks into the woods and weaved through the thick brush to where Jimmy was waiting, scribbling in a notepad. Slipping a pair of latex gloves over his hands, he knelt down next to the body.

“He’s been identified twice,” Jimmy said. “The deceased is Douglas Grant.”

“Anything else?”

“Chargers lost last night,” Jimmy added with a sarcastic grin.

Dale gave a brief nod, ignoring his partner’s poor attempt at humor. He put his cup on the ground. “Let’s have a look-see, shall we? Larry, did you get a picture? I wanna roll him over.”

“I have ten from this side, all angles,” the crime scene photographer said. “I also got a sketch of the crime scene and some overalls. I’ll go get a couple of angle shots of the roadside tread marks that we can keep on record for any comparisons. Also, I’ll have Eddie craft some molds of the marks.”

Larry left.

Dale rolled Grant onto his back. He let his breath out when he saw the man’s face. Gray eyes stared blankly back at him, the thin face pale and gaunt. Even with slight bruising, there was no mistaking Doug Grant.

He glanced at Jimmy. “Time of death established?”

“Between ten o’clock and midnight last night.”

He studied the gaping slash in the victim’s throat. Smooth edges and sides, plus depth of cut, indicated a very sharp knife pulled hard and fast by a righty.

Vicious.

He lifted Grant’s hands and analyzed the wrinkled palms. “No defensive hand wounds. Grant knew his killer or got jumped. Who the hell would jump him out here?”

He scanned the surrounding area, mentally cataloging everything in view.

He looked up at Jimmy. “Who called it in?”

“Woman jogger.”

Jimmy nudged his head in the direction of an ebony-toned woman in her early twenties. She was clearly shaken and sat on the tailgate of the ambulance while an EMT watched her. Wearing a tight body suit, she had the physique of a seasoned runner.

“Not bad, huh?”

Dale ignored his partner’s remark. “Take him away, guys.”

He had served twelve years, but this was the most prominent murder case he’d been assigned to. He was used to killings in Vegas for drugs or money. This one seemed very personal.

Jimmy studied him, scrunched his eyes and frowned. “Didn’t you wear that suit yesterday? You slept in it,