Dead Man's Hand

He did one more search of national and local killings with the same MO, but no dice—nothing to do with this pattern that could not be explained by chance.

But he cross-referenced all of those cases anyway. At the national level, as he suspected because the knife- to-throat MO wasn’t unique, he found a total of 124 cases over the last year. But when he dug deeper the suspects were all ruled out for various reasons—they were dead, serving life sentences, paroled or disappeared. The very few who didn’t get crossed off and potentially could be Dale’s killer were very unlikely because the murders happened in Vegas.

He threw the files into his desk and shut down the computer. He was at an investigative dead end.

He looked around the office. The lighting was dim and only a handful of officers remained. He wondered how many of those officers also had empty homes to go to. The divorce rate was high on the force and he didn’t want to be just another statistic. But would he ever be able to make it up to Betty and Sammie?

One last thought about the case struck him. He wandered over to his partner’s messy desk. He found a DVD resting on top of a bundle of files. The label read, “Sugar Bowl.” He popped it into the video player.

He remembered Watters on the football field—graceful and unstoppable. His large frame and long, smooth strides made him the model running back headed for big-league glory. From Jimmy’s notes, Dale read that Watters had run the ball sixty-one times that game for the Trojans, a new NCAA record. So finding a sequence of Watters’ carries wasn’t a challenge.

After the first carry, Dale thought he had picked something out. After the second, he knew for certain. After seven straight carries, it was irrefutable—Watters received the ball from his quarterback the same way each time, cradling the ball with his right arm and using his left to stiff-arm his way through tackles, no matter which side the play was called to run. Watters was as right-handed as right-handed ever got. Someone ambidextrous, at that level of play, would have used that to their advantage.

Why was this department determined to pin this on an innocent man?

Chapter 29

Dale took a few more minutes for another search—until he found an article about Sanders in his baseball days at UNLV. Sanders had been an elite pitcher and had to have a glove made just for him because he was an extreme variety: an ambidextrous pitcher who switched arms when he pitched. Dale saved the article and added it to the file.

He was going to nail Sanders somehow without losing his own job and pension.

As he finally strapped his weapon on and turned to go home, he thought he’d grab one more thing, the tape of Linda Grant’s phone calls.

A few minutes later, he steered the slow-moving vehicle toward his house. As usual on the ride home, he could feel himself starting to crash after an exhausting investigative day. He summed up where he was with the investigation.

Other than Watters, there were three potential suspects.

Dale thought about the explicit photographs of Linda Grant and Ace Sanders. He put that together with the Grant prenup as well as Linda Grant’s twelve-percent portion of the estate that had now been sold to Sanders. Dale knew Linda had a motive to kill her husband.

He cut the headlights and let his car roll into the driveway. He sat and stared at his modest but well- maintained home. His wife had spent hours fussing over the flowers. Would he ever see that again? The yard smelled of fresh-cut grass.

He stepped inside, where the only sounds were his footsteps and breathing. The sights and sounds had changed. No more of Sammie’s soft moans on the baby monitor, or Betty on the loveseat, screaming out answers at the TV during Wheel of Fortune. He might never again hear Casper the Dachshund snoring as he slept comfortably on the arm of the couch.

The sounds he had grown accustomed to, that he had taken for granted and had ignored, he might never get back. Those were the things he truly missed, the things that made his house a home.

He flicked on the front hall light, hoping to see Betty standing there, but all that welcomed him was an unfurnished hallway.

Even though his stomach grumbled, he didn’t feel like fixing a late-night dinner. He removed his jacket and threw it on the back of the couch.

He used the bathroom sink to rinse the remains of his last pull of tobacco from his mouth and retreated to the living room couch, where he’d been sleeping since Betty had left. He just couldn’t sleep in their bed, where so many memories lay—the passionate lovemaking, the meaningful pillow talk, the giggling and playing. Those were happy times early in their relationship, so long ago.

He lay down and closed his eyes, replaying the last argument he’d had with Betty, the conversation that had occurred the last time he’d come home this late.

He had come home late, real late, expecting Betty to be sleeping. He had unlocked the front door and heard his little dachshund growl and bark.

“Shut up, Casper,” he whispered, listening for the sounds of footsteps.

He flicked on the front hall light and Betty was standing in the hallway, in her bathrobe, holding the dog.

“Where’s Sammy?” he whispered.

“Sleeping, like everyone should be at this time of night. Where have you been?” she said in a clipped tone.

“Work.”

“This late?”

Dale let out his breath. “Betty, we’ve been over this. You know my job isn’t nine to five. I’m a Las Vegas detective.”

“So you were at the office?”

“Yes, I was at the office.”

“Who were you with?”

Dale shook his head. He slid his shoes off and hung his jacket in the closet.

She stepped close to him, stopping him, invading his personal space with a subtle sniff of the air. He was insulted, but he knew what she was smelling for.

“Were you with her?”

“Betty, don’t. You know I wasn’t. That was a long time ago. I thought we’d moved past this?” For the first time he noticed the lines at the corner of her eyes. The exhaustion set in her expression.

She sighed. “I thought so too.” She set the dog on the floor and turned away.

The dog began sniffing at Dale’s feet, wagging his tail until Dale scooped him up.

Dale said, “Betty, wait.”

But when she turned back, Sammie’s cry erupted on the baby monitor.

“Great!” Betty said.

“I’ll get him.”

Betty put out her hand. “Stop, you’ve done enough.” She walked down the hall toward the baby’s room. “And you can sleep on the couch.”

He slumped his shoulders. He knew he should go after her, apologize, make it right, but he was too tired and she was in no mood for conversation.

Dale opened his eyes. If he’d only gone after her that night, would it have mattered? Would it have changed things? He didn’t think so or at least he told himself that.

Betty’s accusations had cut deep.

He closed his eyes again and thought about that one moment in time, that one moment of vulnerability when