by Luke Murphy
Dead Man’s Hand
Luke Murphy
DEAD MAN’S HAND
Copyright © 2012 by Luke Murphy. All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. And any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead (or in any other form), business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
www.authorlukemurphy.com
FIRST EDITION ebook
Imajin Books - www.imajinbooks.com
October 12, 2012
ISBN: 978-1-926997-88-9
Cover designed by Ryan Doan - www.ryandoan.com
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 chu
rning.
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.”
“No! Please…”
Calvin tried to block out the man’s cries. A sudden dizziness overwhelmed him and he grabbed the chair to steady himself. Finish the job. “You know how this works.” He stared at Pierce.
“I promise I’ll pay. Just give me one more day. Please.”
“You knew the rules. You’ve already had an extra week, James. You’re lucky Mr. Pitt is a forgiving man, more forgiving than I am. He’s only counting that week as one day late. But if you aren’t in his office tomorrow morning with all the money, you’ll be seeing me again. Every late day will count as two. And I won’t be so nice next time.”
“I’ll pay.” Pierce sobbed.
Calvin heaved a sigh. “Relax. It’ll all be over soon.”
He leaned over the table. For effect, he took his time as he opened the leather case and removed the tools of his trade. “One day, one joint.”
This was when most of them broke down all the way. And Pierce didn’t disappoint him. A scream boiled from the man’s belly and erupted like a relentless siren.
Calvin ignored Pierce as best he could. There were 206 bones in the human skeleton. A pro had trained him to use them all.
“Hammer or pipe cutter?”
“God, no!”
“Hammer or pipe cutter?” He threw a punch at Pierce’s jaw, sending bloody spit into the air.
“Hammer!” Pierce screamed.
“Finger or toe?”
Pierce squeezed his eyes shut. “Toe.”
Calvin stuffed the dirty rag back into the man’s mouth. He turned and pressed play on the radio resting on the table, turning the volume up a few notches, careful not to bring attention to the house. The pounding, vibrating beat from Metallica not only drowned out his prey’s moans of pain, but the sound took him back to his glory days. He removed a ball-peen hammer from the pouch and moved in on his quarry’s bare feet.
“Toe it is then.”
He got down on one knee and lifted the hammer above his head.
After Pierce had passed out from the pain, Calvin checked the man’s breathing and then entered an adjoining room that could be locked from the inside. On one side, the shelves were piled with canned or packaged food and beverage containers. He had stored several months’ worth of supplies in case he ever came under siege and was trapped.
His complete arsenal hung on the other side. He’d been collecting weapons for three years, purchasing them where he could when he had saved some money. Now the arsenal was almost complete and in his mind, quite impressive. The arsenal had been developed for defensive purposes only.
He had never carried a gun as a collector, but now he selected a weapon for his trip. Something small enough to conceal, but at his ready in case he ran into a nosy cop or former client.
He checked on Pierce again as he left the bomb shelter and moved upstairs to his computer. Once the computer booted up, he hacked into a couple of restricted sites, trying to find any mention of his name by a babbling client or angry competitor. Seeing nothing, he switched over to the LVMPD site to make sure Rachel was staying clean. He checked up on her three times a week. He wouldn’t let her slip up.
He logged off and documented his latest collection, noting the methods that worked with Pierce, as well as times and techniques. All of the information was added to a file that spanned three years.
Shutting down the computer, he returned to the basement. He transported Pierce to the gambler’s blood-red sedan, which Calvin had parked by the river. He knew that within the hour James would wake up and drive home. What would he tell his wife? There was no worry about Pierce ever relaying this incident to anyone else. Calvin was sure of that.
As he drove back to his workshop, he let out a soft groan. “I need out.”
Book One: The Set Up
Chapter 1
“Set, three eighty-five, three eighty-five.”
As was the custom, the rowdy hometown crowd grew quiet in anticipation.
Calvin—USC’s All-American running back—stood behind his quarterback, waiting. His number had been called for a play he’d executed hundreds of times. Most teams were prepared for the play, but none could stop him when he had his eye on a target.
The Trojans were up by four points with less than three minutes left. All they had to do was eat the clock—kill time—and they would be Sugar Bowl champs again.
The Nebraska Cornhuskers were ranked #1 in the nation on defense, but on this day they had been unable to stop Calvin. He already had 118 yards rushing, but another 42 would give him the new school record, beating the record he had set last year.
If I can turn the corner and get a block, I can spring it for a touchdown.
As the center was about to snap the ball, Calvin saw the captain of the Nebraska defense call an audible and change the defensive positioning.
He scanned the field. His quarterback had missed the change. None of his teammates had seen the audible call. They were frozen, awaiting the snap of the ball. If they went ahead and ran the play, there was a chance that he would not only be tackled immediately, but the whole design of the play would be blown.
The smart move would be to receive the ball, fall to the ground and keep the clock running, giving his team an opportunity to run out the clock. Or he could try to run the play on his own and carry the team on his shoulders.
“Hike!” The quarterback grabbed the ball, turned and held it out.
Calvin received the handoff, securing the ball with both hands. But his fullback missed the critical first block.
Everything after that happened in slow motion.
The Husker defense roared full throttle toward him. He was able to dodge the first defender on natural instinct, but as he was avoiding that player, two Cornhuskers struck him at the same time. One caught him high while the other dove low, cutting him at the knees. The sudden impact twisted his legs into a position the human body was not meant to be in. The excruciating pain, combined with the force of the hit, jarred the ball loose from his numb fingers.
Fueled only by adrenaline, he twisted on the ground and reached for the ball against the football-hungry attackers. When the dust cleared, a Nebraska linebacker held the ball up in victory.
Calvin grabbed his knee and screamed, but that was lost in the clamor of the crowd.
In a pool of sweat, he shot up in bed. “Jesus!”
Pain bolted through his swollen right knee, but the emotional pain from a shattered ego hurt even worse. It was the same pain and nightmare that had visited him many nights over the last four years. He was the only one to blame for USC’s humiliating loss and his own humiliating personal downfall.
Removing the sweat-soaked sheets, he hobbled across the room, dodged the strewn clothes on the floor, stepped into the bathroom and quietly closed the door behind him. He flicked on the light and squinted as the sudden brightness blinded him. Then he reached for the bottle of Percocet, his loyal companion in these isolated, agonizing nights.
He shook three of the blue painkillers into his hand, his steady diet of Percs. When he couldn’t get enough from his doctor, he bought extras from a dealer. He downed the pills, chasing them with a mouthful of water. They would take some time to kick in, but relief was on its way. The drugs, along with his secret hopes and plans, were all that kept him from slipping over the edge.
He used his hands on the vanity to hold his weight and stared into the mirror. At twenty-six, he already had the hair and face of a strang
er.
“You should let your dreadlocks grow long,” his boss suggested. “More intimidating.”
The patchy facial hair was Calvin’s decision. The overall effect was menacing—just right for his line of work.
His sharp brown eyes, which at one time had won him glances from beautiful women in college, were usually hidden behind dark sunglasses. Unseen eyes were intimidating too and when he took them off to stare at a victim, he could use his eyes to look like a madman
He closed them now and shook his head in disgust. “You look like shit. Hell, you are shit.”
The press had certainly thought that, four years ago. Always ready to tear down a hero, they had shown no restraint in attacking him for his egotistic, selfish decision and obvious desire to break his own school record. One minute he was touted as the next Walter Payton, the next he was a door mat for local media.
Looking at him now, no one would believe that back then he was a thousand-yard rusher in the NCAA and welcomed with open arms in every established club in Southern California. Hell, he had been bigger than the mayor of LA.
The sports pages of the various newspapers in the USC area had indeed printed headline stories about him the day after the game, but not the kind he’d imagined when he’d decided to run with the ball.
That the resulting injury had ended his college football career and most importantly, any chances of a pro career didn’t matter to them. By making the wrong, selfish, prideful decision, he’d made himself a target for the press and all USC fans.
“No one to blame but yourself,” he muttered to his haggard reflection.
If he’d just fallen on the ball, taken a knee and stopped the play without trying to be the hero, his life would be different.